The pink of her tongue stirred me. I had tasted it. Teased it. What I wouldn’t have given to feel that tongue upon my body…
“Father…” She nearly turned away before confessing to her sins and delights.
Unacceptable.
I gripped her hips and held her in place. We both stiffened as I threaded an arm over her midsection. She went still.
This woman was burning alive.
She fit within perfectly against my body. My hips pressed against her lovely curves. I could no longer hide my shameful erection, but the hardness shocked her, stole her voice and her strength.
Her legs wobbled, and I captured her before she collapsed into me. Honor permitted my lecherous touch as I kept her standing.
I pressed my hand against her thigh, amazed by the stretch of the denim over her perfect legs. I palmed the jeans, wishing I could feel her soft skin. Her head fell back against my shoulder.
Was this the path to Heaven or my first descent into hell?
I’d never touched anyone like this before—her body so tightly pressed against mine, the beautiful swell of her thighs tucked against my swelling cock.
Honor moved only to wiggle against me.
Shameful, blessed shimmies.
“Father…” She kept her eyes forward, upon the crucifix. My sorrowful, lusting angel. “This. This is what I’ve thought about.”
“An embrace?”
“No. No, it’s more than that.” She mewed, a pitiful and aching sound begging for a release. I had no idea if she longed to be free of my hands or released from the peaking desperation of her body. “I imagined this, Father. But without clothes. You behind me. Over me. Touching me.”
My body racked with pain as I strained to imagine that wondrous moment too. She bent, back arched, the curve of her hips inviting me to lose myself within the beautiful folds of her virgin slit.
I stepped us forward, pressing against her back to lower her onto my desk.
Her breathing stopped.
So did mine.
This was more beautiful, more powerful, more precious than anything I’d imagined before.
She waited, timidly, her legs pressed together but her body presented to me.
This was why they called it mounting—that animalistic declaration when a man overwhelmed with lust gorged himself on the surrender of another person.
I leaned over her, grateful for the barrier of her jeans and my robes. She groaned, eyes closed, lip bitten as I trailed my hands over her arms. Her hips accidentally—or purposefully—bumped as I covered her hands with mine.
Her palms flattened against the desk. She arched for me. I kicked her feet to spread her legs.
And she became…vulnerable. Waiting. Wanting.
Irresistible. Dangerous.
The destruction of my faith.
“Did you imagine this, my angel?” I breathed over her ear. “This moment?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And what was it we did?”
“Everything, Father.”
“Tell me.”
“I imagined…I wanted…you to take me.”
My innocent Honor, willing to bend over, to be straddled, to be overpowered by her priest…
…And yet she couldn’t speak that profane word.
I wouldn’t say it either.
That foul, raw expression had no place in my dignity…and it was far too tempting to indulge in it. Giving it life meant giving it cause to corrupt me.
More than I had already been corrupted.
“Was it like this, Honor? With me behind you?”
“Yes. And other ways. Beneath you. Me over you.”
“These are the wicked thoughts you’ve suffered for over a month?”
“Forgive me, Father.”
The shiver built from the base of my spine. The tremble when she called my name, the reverence in her voice. I wanted to hear it. I wanted her cry it aloud. To call my holy title as I rammed within her, giving life and meaning to her sinful precognition.
I arched, pressing against her. She groaned.
Music. A choir of angels.
My fingers tightened over her hips. She breathed, sighed, wiggled.
Forward. To get away. Her breathless words shadowed with indecision.
“Father, we should stop.”
Stop.
The desire burned in me. I could stop. I could also enjoy the soft swell of her flesh pressing into the hard demands of mine.
“I can’t…” Honor clenched her eyes shut. “This feels too good.”
My little angel, overwhelmed and undone by a simple press of my hips.
If only she might have felt more. A touch. A lick.
The true taking of her willing body.
I moved again. The tightness of my robe and pants aided the strain against my wretched flesh. I could give myself pleasure with a simple movement. The natural position of her body offered a channel for me to rut.
How much greater would it feel without her jeans…