His rosary beads are still wrapped around one hand, and they press against my hip as he holds me steady.
“Forgive me,” he whispers, pulling back and thrusting deeper. “Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.”
I don’t know if he’s praying to God or to me. Maybe both.
We move together, finding a rhythm that’s both desperate and reverent.
His desk creaks beneath us, papers falling, a lamp teetering dangerously. I don’t care.
Nothing exists except the slide of his body into mine, the way his hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, the dark verses he murmurs between kisses.
“The spirit is willing,” he groans, his pace increasing, “but the flesh is weak.”
“Adrian.” I’m close, so close, my body tightening around him. “Please.”
He reaches between us, his thumb finding the bundle of nerves that makes me cry out.
The sound echoes through his office, too loud, too revealing, but I can’t stop.
He swallows my moans with his mouth, his movements becoming erratic as he chases his own release.
When I shatter, it’s with his name on my lips and his rosary beads pressed between us like a brand.
He follows moments later, his body going rigid, a sound torn from his throat that’s half prayer, half curse.
We stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, our bodies still joined. Reality creeps back in slowly, bringing guilt and fear and the weight of what we’ve just done.
Adrian pulls away first, his expression already shuttering. He reaches for his cassock, and I watch him transform back into Father Cross before my eyes.
Every button fastened.
Every line crisp.
The man who just worshipped my body with his hands and mouth and cock disappearing behind priestly armor.
I slide off his desk on unsteady legs, finding my dress, pulling it on with trembling hands. The zipper catches, and I struggle with it, my fingers clumsy.
“Charlie.” His voice is carefully controlled now, all the rough edges smoothed away. “We need to talk about?—”
“Don’t.” I finally get the zipper up and adjust my cardigan. “Please don’t.”
Of course this won’t last, I think, backing toward the door. Men like him don’t keep girls like me. This is a mistake he’ll spend the rest of his life pretending never happened.
I turn and flee before he can say anything else, before he can tell me this was wrong, that it can never happen again, that I need to leave.
The hallway is dark and cool after the heat of his office. I’m adjusting my dress again, trying to calm my racing heart, when I realize I’m not alone.
Deacon Marcus Reyes leans against the wall, tattooed arms crossed, dark eyes knowing. He’s seen everything. Or heard enough.
His expression is unreadable, but when our eyes meet, something dangerous passes between them.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move.
Just watches me with an intensity that makes my skin burn all over again.
4
MARCUS
