“Now, Honor.”
As if I could resist his demands. As if I wanted to resist.
I didn’t renounce my faith, and I couldn’t destroy my soul, but every moment I denied that most inescapable fault of my wicked flesh, I ached in absolute agony.
He ordered it from me. He listened. He watched. He waited.
And I surrendered to sin.
I needed nothing more than the circle of my fingers over the soft cotton of my panties. His soft, hushed breathing fueled me. I brushed hard against myself, pinching my eyes shut so I could hide from the confessional, the Bible, the bench where I should have knelt before my priest and begged for forgiveness.
Instead of begging for him.
I didn’t say the words, the prayer never touched my lips, but I thought it.
I wanted it.
Every flick and circle and strike of that sensitive, overwhelmed secret cradled me in a pleasure and fear and a hope that once I had succumbed, I could be free of this. I could have my deliverance. Forgiveness.
Pleasure.
Passion.
Desire.
I didn’t mean to whimper, but Father Raphael soothed my quiet mew with a soft and comforting hush—so confident and commanding I would have silenced forever if it meant earning another moment of pleasure within his shadow.
My body tensed without the shackles of morality. I surrendered to his scent of sandalwood, the quiet authority in his voice, and his perfectly still, vigilant silhouette watching as I bucked against my fingers.
I wasn’t practiced at this, but my hips arched and instinct overwhelmed me. A shudder struck me. Then another. The heat crippled my body, and I held my breath as everything silenced in my own moment of weakness.
“Now, my angel.”
I came.
Panting. Silent.
Shaking.
What had I done? I shifted, the heat coursing through me in a release of all tension and pain.
Except one.
Shame.
Father Raphael spoke with a grave authority. “Honor, I will forgive this moment, but you must—”
“No.”
I couldn’t stand. My legs trembled, weak and wobbly. I crashed against the confessional door. The door slammed against the wooden frame, and the echo clattered through the empty sanctuary.
I burst into the pews, my sweat turning to chills. What precious relief I stole was now bathed in dread.
He followed. I knew he would. I felt him approach.
“Honor.” Father Raphael called to me, strict and severe.
I wasn’t prepared to face him. I stared away, down, at anything but the black cassock that draped his form. He stood in that perfect, holy darkness, unbroken in black robes save for the hint of white at his collar.
I didn’t dare look at his face, share his stare, or stay within his presence.
“Honor, you will be absolved,” he said. “It is my decision, my choice to forgive you for the sins I have caused.”
“You don’t understand.”
I backed away from him, still clenched, still aching from a relief I could no longer give myself.
Not when it wanted more.
Not when my body craved him.
“My angel, I will lead you from this temptation.”
“You can’t.”
Father Raphael stepped too close. I pushed from him, stepping away, blinking tears and hating the truth of why I came here tonight.
It wasn’t to absolve myself.
Just the opposite.
“Father, I didn’t confess because I had impure thoughts…” I whispered. “I confessed because I liked them. Because I want to have them. Because I want you in those fantasies.”
“Honor—”
“Forgive me, Father.”
I didn’t let him reach for me.
I ran from the church.
His imagined shadow followed me home and lingered in my thoughts, my heart.
And in my bed.
Chapter Two – Raphael
No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man - 1 Corinthians 10:13.
I breathed the passage, lived the scripture, and revered it as truth.
Those words were the only reason I hadn’t succumbed to temptation long ago, to forces less dangerous and more unworthy than Honor Thomas.
I hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten. My cold shower did little to alleviate the strain which shook my body and nearly destroyed my vows.
I closed my eyes. I still saw her, heard her, felt her.
Honor’s beauty was not simply found in the sable richness of her skin, though I imagined she was as lovely as Solomon’s dark Shulamite woman. My angel was worthy of song and praise, poem and touch, from the ebony twist of her curls to the feminine tease of her hips. Her silken skin hid within modest skirts and blouses, and the innocence of her eyes widened the almond roundness into the playful glimmer of something more…something virginal.
And so very dangerous.
I’d left the confessional after she ran from the church, but I’d stayed all night in the sanctuary to pray. It hadn’t helped. I ached to hear the twisted and forbidden words which reluctantly tumbled from her lips…lips which deserved the grace of a kiss, not the foul venom of sin.