I didn’t seek my rosaries as I ripped her shirt from her body.
I didn’t beg forgiveness as my fingers wrenched the button from her jeans.
I growled, staring at her. She stood half-nude and breathless from my kiss, the assault against her body, her heart, and her innocence. My hands curled around her, forcing her soft curves close to me. It wasn’t enough.
I picked her up, trapping her in my arms.
Honor called my name. I silenced her with a kiss before hauling her through the house, beyond the safety of the living room, the memories of the kitchen, and into the darkness of my bedroom.
I threw her on the bed.
My hands began with the top button of my cassock, freeing the collar.
No hesitation. No remorse.
No forgiveness for this sin.
I dropped the collar upon the ground as my voice lowered in dark, sinful warning.
“You’re wrong, my angel. With you? I have no control.”
Chapter Thirteen – Honor
Was he a different man without the collar?
No.
Father Raphael wasn’t just the cassock and the collar, the Mass and the confessionals.
He was a righteous man. A messenger of God.
The most dangerous threat to both our souls.
And I fell upon his bed, half-naked, trapped between right and wrong, obedience and disgrace, sin and salvation. Our kiss tormented me with hellfire. The separation of our bodies froze me.
Father Raphael twisted the buttons of his cassock, every movement blessed with a ritualistic passion, a slowness that trapped me within his gaze. He stared at me, and his fierce eyes darkened with lust. The buttons unfastened under his fingers.
Ten, eleven, twelve…
I knew his robes had thirty-three, one for each year of our Lord’s life.
A black t-shirt hugged his muscles beneath. My mouth dried.
I should have stopped him. I should have spoken, screamed, done anything to break the silent spell which captured our souls and tangled us in a bed of sin.
The robe fell from his broad shoulders.
He kicked it across the room. His fingers tangled in the hem of the t-shirt. It stretched as it tugged over his head.
The Bible said we were created in God’s image.
He proved it.
Thick muscles rolled over his body, strengthened through hard work and toil. His abs flexed, a deliberate and impressive pack of strength that intimidated and protected. His trim waist angled into the black trousers, and the thick V of definition aimed lower. It captured my attention, forced me to look and wonder and lust for what hid in his pants.
I remembered what lurked in that secret. The thickness had swelled and pulsed, agonized by a self-imposed abstinence. It pervaded my thoughts with everything impure, unjust, and treacherous.
I drew my gaze to his. It was wrong to worship anyone, anything, any ideal that wasn’t our Lord. But this man deserved to be an idol. He was a graven image of sexuality, power, and complete and total dominance.
He was no David…he was pure Goliath. Strength. Stamina.
Fearlessness.
He had a tattoo—a decorative cross. It spanned his right pec, over his heart. Latin inscribed on the inside. I recognized the words.
In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti…
Father Raphael watched as I shuddered in seduction upon his bed. His blankets and pillows smelled of cedar, sandalwood, and him.
He once preached that Mass was intended to be a full-bodied experience, complete with all senses. We were to breathe the incense, witness the awe of the church, hear the words of the priest, taste the body and blood, feel the holy spirit.
And I did.
Father Raphael’s scent filled me. His words enthralled me. His body delighted me.
I longed to taste him once more. The tease of his lips numbed my body to everything but heat, desire, and a fading shade of doubt which disappeared with his collar.
“The serpent deceived Eve by his cunning…” He warned with scripture. “Your mind is led astray.”
“Are we deceived?” I didn’t recognize the verse. “Have I misled you, Father?”
“Take off your clothes.”
I did as I was ordered. My bra had already fallen. I unhooked it, casting it away. I drew onto my knees. Facing him. Wanting him. My breasts bared for his pleasure, and the goose bumps chasing his stare centered on my nipples. They hardened and budded.
My panties were next. I trembled as I hooked my fingers in the soft material. My breath lost in a whimper, but he brushed my hair behind my back, offering more of my darkened skin for his inspection.
His worship.
His lips met mine, and I sunk into his kiss. He pulled away before I could offer more, before I could take my fill and give a timid flick of my tongue.
His hand wove over my curves, tickling my heated flesh. He tangled in my panties, tugging them down, down, down. He tugged the silk from my body.