Fingertips graze the pulse point of my throat. It’spounding.
“Heart rate escalates.”
My mouth has gone dry.
His breath whispers over my skin. “Arousal is easy to read.”
A knuckle caresses the contour of my cheek. I’m frozen but burning. Waiting. Unsure of his next move.
“Tell me,” he purrs. “When you’re alone at night, do you close your eyes and imagine he’s with you? That the hands running over your body belong to him? That it’s his fingers pleasuring you until you can’t hold off anymore— coming so fucking hard you never want it to end?”
My skin is too tight. My thighs press together. What he’s implying is a sin, one drilled into me asshameful. Disgusting even. But the idea of indulging in this fantasy…
I shiver.
Then he’s gone; a cold vacancy.
Sitting on his heels, a cruel smirk curves his lips. He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t have to. Hecan see the truth.
I haven’t.
But he’s planted the seed and the roots are burrowing deep.
Fifteen
SEBA
“‘But every man is tempted,when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed,’ James 1:14 KJV. A revealing verse about our flawed nature. And we are indeed flawed. So flawed that we must resist the temptations of the flesh and repent. Because we’re born in sin and it’s too easy to give in to impure urges. Giving in will only lead us further from salvation….”
Pastor Sinclair’s sermon replays at full volume in my head despite Mass ending a while ago. I can't rise from the kneeler. My fingers, clasped on the pew, strangle each other as war wages within.
Temptations surround me, pulling me in two directions.
A girl whose deep brown eyes x-ray through me while her gentle hands wield a sledgehammer to my walls. All it takes is one of her laughs to crumble my resolve.
The other… a tormentor. Acurse. I’m plagued by the reactions of my body to the sounds I hear through my bedroom wall. Tortured by gasps and moans that I strain desperately to ignore. Night after night, I wake up coated in sweat and the evidence of unwanted fantasies. My sanity hangs in tattered shreds, clinging to the only thing I hope can rid me of this disease.
Prayer.
Except confessing to this secret makes it real, even if only to myself and God. So the prayers lodge in my throat.
I’m disgusted with myself.
Fucking furious.
And it’s tearing me apart.
A heavy hand grasps my shoulder.
My head snaps up.
“Apologies, son.” Pastor Sinclair smiles down at me. “I hate to disturb a man in conversation with our Lord, but we’re preparing for the final mass of the day. Might I suggest the chapel for some privacy?”
How long have I been here? My knees ache and my feet are numb.
I clear my throat. “Thanks, but I should probably be getting home.”
He squeezes my shoulder, the warmth of his palm burning through my shirt. The cesspool of sin squirms like worms beneath my skin. His knowing eyes— windows for God himself— assess me. I’m too afraid, too guilt-ridden to break his concerned stare.
