Her lips parted, and a breathy sigh awakened the sinner within me. Her body pressed against mine, so soft and beautiful, graceful and holy that the erection pressing through my trousers desecrated her with dark urges.
I wanted this woman. In my arms. In my bed. Forever murmuring a soft prayer and offering forgiveness in a kiss to my aching lips.
Every nibble of her flesh tasted of candied apples and victory.
Would she taste as delicious pressed within my sheets? Would every inch of her skin shiver in goose bumps as it had now?
Her lips parted more, granting me that singular joy of flicking a curious tongue against hers. She groaned, and the quiet, throaty murmur echoed in the adoration chapel.
The praises I would sing to this woman from now on…
I imagined how the rest of her would feel, explored with my kiss, my lips, my tongue. Her silken skin would heat like fire. Her graceful neck would pulse where I pressed my mouth. I’d bite the hollow of her throat, and I’d earn another breathy cry. Her breasts would heave in gasping, wanting waves. I imagined cupping her, offering a sable brown nipple to my lips.
If only…
I’d worship this woman. Ease my kiss lower and lower until I explored the soft path to the waiting crest between her legs, the Heaven which begged for its own adoration.
A kiss.
A lick.
A sin turned to beauty.
Her fingers tangled in my cassock, and the rosary beads cut into my skin. My soul screamed. I managed only a bitter and resigned grunt.
I pushed her away before my thoughts burrowed within a slickness that taunted my dreams.
She panted, torn from my body, shocked and confused.
My heart cracked, but it continued to beat.
The guilt of the kiss faded, cast away as I recognized the strength simmering between our bodies. I stood tall. Honor adjusted her blouse. Her lips were swollen and puffy from my ravaging…and yet she met my gaze with every determination I expected.
My angel.
She would best this temptation with me.
Or I would break us both in licentious arrogance.
“I stopped myself this time,” I said. “Are you strong enough to deny yourself?”
Honor didn’t smile. Her eyes widened with a naïve ignorance I envied.
“Yes,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“As you said, Father…” She seized a breath to end her shuddered gasps. “The consequences are too damning to fail. I can resist you, and I will deny myself.”
I took her hand. Her pulse raced, but she accepted this challenge with grace.
“My perfect angel…”
I touched her face, stroked her cheek, tangled my fingers in her hair. Then I pulled away, just to prove that I could.
She licked her lips, and I kissed her again, gently and softly. Her tongue met mine. She mewed, but she broke the kiss.
Pride would be her undoing.
If it hadn’t already conquered me.
“We have work to do,” I whispered. “I will teach you to resist this temptation, to defy sin, and to shield your faith from the most dangerous threat to your innocence.”
“The devil?”
“Me.”
I shook my head, memorizing the crook of her nose, the dramatic arch of her brows, the almond curve of her eyes.
This woman would be the death of me.
And I prayed I’d wake in Heaven.
Chapter Seven – Honor
The lights were out when I got home after the choir audition.
After the kiss.
It wasn’t late—St. Cecilia’s didn’t exactly have a thriving night life…despite what thoughts lingered in my mind of Father Raphael and his private sermon.
After I returned to the nave and earned my spot into the special choir, I schemed with Alyssa and Samantha about a three-piece harmony. Once it got late, I’d grabbed my bags and computers and headed home.
Not in any particular hurry.
It didn’t feel like home anymore…because it wasn’t. We lost the house after Dad died, despite his life insurance policy covering the remainder of the mortgage. Mom had used the money for other expenses. It was the polite way to phrase our misfortune to the few family members and friends Mom hadn’t driven away.
Her new apartment was small, and my bedroom a corner of the living room. Mom had offered me her room when I moved back, but it was just as tiny and leaked around the window. Even closed, the room had a bad draft. Mom didn’t care—said it helped the hot flashes. So many things in my life changing, and all of them at once, she had joked.
She forgot to lock the door.
The neighborhood couldn’t even be trusted to have a communal mailbox without extra locks. I’d have to remind her to be careful.
I edged inside and forced the door closed behind me, lifting the handle so it wouldn’t grind against the peeling linoleum. The lock clicked.