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.
Vanished.
SEVEN
Tressa
A mushroom cloud of dust rose up around me as I plopped a half-full box of files on an old card table. I was perched in the attic of the rectory of St. Michael’s the next morning, dozens of boxes of holiness stacked along the walls. I flipped the lid on the box, my mind pulling me from the present into a wildly aroused fantasy where Father Bastien’s hands trailed across my body, causing a riot of raw sensation to surge…
My mind shifted when my gaze focused on the Polaroid that sat atop the pile of old photos. A dark smattering of five-o’clock shadow, broad shoulders, and softly defined lips curved into the slightest smile.
If I didn’t know better, it looked like it could be Bastien, only a decade or more before, in what looked like Cuba, sweeping fields of green as far as the landscape spanned. I flipped the photo in my hand, searching for a name or a date, and found neither. I set the photo aside, digging deeper into the box and finding more photos of what looked like Bastien at seminary, black cassock and snow-white collar kissing his throat.
Digging down deeper, I found more albums, a quick perusal revealing what looked to be older pictures of a family, warm cocoa skin and striking dark eyes that resonated in just the same way as someone else I knew.
This must be Bastien’s box of family things.
I thought of him now, probably sitting diligently behind the office desk downstairs, accounting papers strewn across the top. He was the hardest working and most determined man I’d ever known. When he wasn’t writing liturgies or catechisms or studying passages that might appeal to his flock, he was doing his best to get the business side of things at St. Michael’s in better shape than it had been.
Apparently, Father Martin, the priest who’d come before, hadn’t kept up with paperwork as he was supposed to, leaving a stack of documents dating back years that hadn’t been properly filed.
I ran a fingertip along the edge of the faded photo, a faint smile trailing my lips as I thought of a younger Bastien, tight rebel smile pulling at the corners of his lips as he learned to devote his life to something far bigger than himself. Noble to the core. I didn’t know how he did it, my independent streak running far too deep to allow me to commit to anything much beyond an upcoming semester of classes.
And even that hadn’t been working out so well lately.
I shuddered, memories rolling back to the moment the dean of the department had informed me that cutbacks meant the annual scholarship awarded to lower-income students who excelled within their chosen field would be cut.
My scholarship revoked.
My education pulled out from under me.
My future extinguished.
I hadn’t cried on the walk back to my tiny apartment, the one I definitely would not be able to afford to pay for without the quarterly check that should have been coming next month.
The one that would no longer be dropped in the mail for me.
I’d refused to cry.
