Page 19 of Hotter 'N Hell

“I’m sorry. But you googled if that man could fuck or not?” He gave me a side-eye. “You know what you’re doing. Don’t lie. You’re flashing them dimples, batting those pretty blues at the man, and showing him leg and cleavage. Working his ass up, making him so damn horny that he can’t remember who the Lord is.”

My nails bit into my palms as I fisted my hands in my lap. I didn’t need to hear this. The thought that Father Jude could be attracted to me, that I made him hard, that he might possibly jerk off to thoughts of me…was getting to me.

I had to get that out of my head. Focus on something else. Threads of Love and Hope—I would focus on it. On what I was going to do to make my life have a point. A purpose. I wasn’t going to lust after a priest.

Seven

Jude

What was he? Some model for a surfboard company? Had he even gone to college? Why was I obsessing over this?

I tossed the to-go box into the trash and drank the rest of my sweet tea. I had barely tasted my fettuccini. I didn’t remember eating it. My fixation on that girl and the guy sitting with her, who she’d called her friend, was ridiculous. I did not care. I barely knew her.

Yes, she had been the cause of countless cold showers the past two weeks. There had been days that I had needed three of them. I hated cold water. But keeping my hand off my dick when I started thinking about her was almost impossible. The few times I had given in and pumped it just a little and almost given myself blue balls were my weakest moments. Those had required much longer cold showers and some ice thrown in.

Staring out the window as I sat in the leather chair behind thedesk in my office, I could see Vapiano. They hadn’t left yet. How long did it take to eat? How interesting could a conversation with Surfer Ken be? He’d even had that cocky, full-of-himself smirk.

I had to stop. I didn’t know the guy. She had said he was her friend, and she needed one of those right now. She was dealing with a world of pain and hurt. I just didn’t see how that dude was going to help her. I could though. I was a priest. I had been trained in this.

Running a hand through my hair in frustration, I continued to watch the door of the Italian restaurant. Why, I wasn’t sure. What did it matter how long they stayed? What was I hoping to see? Them high-five and go their separate ways? I rolled my eyes at my own stupidity and started to turn when the platinum-blonde hair hit the sunlight.

My eyes were glued on Saylor Rice, as if her every move were important. This was sick. I needed counseling. Blue eyes and dimples should not have this strong of a pull on me.

She hugged him, but it wasn’t clingy. It was friendly. He didn’t try and grab her butt, which was something I’d honestly thought the guy would do. Stepping back, he said something, then threw his head back and laughed as he walked away. She didn’t go with him. The relief that came with that was not good.

I should stop watching her. There was no reason to do this. It was creepy.

Saylor looked both ways, then ran across the road.

You coming to see me, Dimples?

The immediate jolt of joy was back again, as was the stiffening of my cock.

Down, boy. Please, for the love of God, go down.

Not only was she giving me permanent wood, but I was now giving her a pet name. Fantastic.

She opened the passenger door of the pearl-colored Bentleyshe’d driven and took out something before closing it. Straightening her knee-length linen skirt and the sleeveless pink top she was wearing, she put what I could now see was a binder under her arm and then turned and walked up onto the sidewalk, then right into the front door of Threads of Love and Hope.

What was she doing there? I sat and contemplated turning back around and doing what I was supposed to be doing, which was work on my homilies for the rest of the week, instead of going over there to see her…again.

It was curiosity. She drove a Bentley and wore designer clothing. She didn’t need to get anything inside there. The binder she had been carrying—that was also interesting. As the priest, I should probably go see what was going on. See if she needed my help.

NO.

As the priest, I should sit here and write my homilies and not go chasing after a female who made my cock hard.

I stared down at my pen and battled with myself for several minutes. I couldn’t concentrate. I wasn’t going to be able to concentrate until I knew what Saylor was doing at the free clothes closet.

Standing up, I admitted defeat and headed for the door. I would be quick. Appease my concern and then return to do my job. I told Kevin, the office manager, that I’d return soon, and if Father Heisler—the parish’s parochial vicar—arrived, then he could tell him to go on into my office.

Eight

Saylor

Sister Mena wasn’t the friendliest person I’d ever met, but she wasn’t rude either. She wore a tight bun, and although she had very few wrinkles on her face, her hair was gray. The long-sleeved tan button-up top and khaki slacks she wore appeared as if she might need to go shopping for some items in here herself. I wasn’t sure whose sister she was or why she wanted to be called that, but I did it anyway.

The entire place was worse than the photos. Boxes and boxes of clothes with sizes written in marker on poster board taped to the front cluttered the place. The smell of unwashed laundry penetrated the air, and the piles of shoes weren’t helping the stench. Some of them didn’t need to be anywhere but a dump. I had a feeling the same could go for some of the clothes as well.

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