Bastien leaned closer then, one arm crossing the distance between us before the corner of his frown twitched in stubborn pleasure. “Every fiber of my being is begging me to pull you into that confessional, and every fiber of your being here tells me you want me to.”
The pad of his thumb whispered down the hollow of my throat, the soft neckline of my shirt pushed aside by the flesh of his fingertip stroking my skin. Streaks of fire cut through me, his touch, his words, leaving scars far deeper than either of us could have dreamed.
Scars that would far outlast our time here.
“Tressa…” Arousal thickened his accent, his other hand slipping out of view before the gentle moving of his hips clued me in that he was touching himself.
Oh God.
Father Bastien was pleasing himself, his other hand—no,a fingertip—on me.
A quiet groan escaped my lips, embarrassment immediately reddening my cheeks before Bastien’s eyes flashed open.
A softboomripped us from our silent bubble, Bastien’s eyes widening as he glanced to the stained-glass window above us then to my lips. He gnashed his teeth and bolted from the pew.
“Forgive me. I can’t even begin to apologize for my behavior.” His tall frame was already retreating from my vision.
“No,” I uttered.
But it was too late.
He was already gone.
His smile.
His warmth.
My very sun and stars, vanished.
