Page 6 of The Priest

Police station, no doubt. There we go, there’s my answer. Turn around and run. I might want Valerie’s pussy smothering my face, but this is getting too hot, even for me.

“What time?” I ask. My logical mind is right, but it lost control as soon as I saw Valerie’s perfect body pinned up and soaking wet. “Oh, and what’s your name? Seems odd to come to your home when I don’t know what to call you.”

“Game starts at six, so we’ll be meeting at five. And the name’s Brett. Brett Garett,” he says. We shake hands while he gives me his address, and the pair start walking out of the church.

All the while, I’m glued in place, watching Valerie’s swaying step carry her perfect ass out the door.

Fuckedis an understatement. But if I’m lucky, I won’t be the only one getting fucked tonight.

4

VALERIE

How can I do this without a care in the world and a grin on my face?

Maybe Dad’s right. Father Murphy could be a convert. A criminal turned priest to save his soul, and here I am, testing his faith harder than anything that’s come before. He hasn’t taken those golden eyes off me since he entered our home. They’re deep, dark pools, burning holes into my skin with the way they scan my body. I can’t help that it’s another hot night, and I get to wear my short shorts and a crop top.

It’s all on display for you, Father, even if it does crumble that iron will of yours.

“It’s a shame Abigail couldn’t make it tonight,” Dad says, running a hand through his peppered brown hair. “It would’ve given Val something to do.”

“Oh, no, don’t mind me.” I smile. Given the options of hanging out with Mayor Bob’s holier-than-thou daughter or leering at Father Reed Murphy, I got the best of my options.

Dad’s words fall on deaf ears to both Bob Hoskins and Father Murphy. Bob’s entire focus is on the screen, where young men throw and kick the ball over the field, and Reed Murphy’s mind is probably exactly where I want his face to be…

Between my thighs.

“And anyway, I’ve got duties to handle. The salad and sides aren’t going to make themselves.” I jump out of my chair and shuffle past my dad, Bob, and two of his buddies from the force.

“Can I give you a hand in the kitchen?” Reed gets up and follows me toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

“You’re choosing kitchen duty over the game?” Dad asks, almost dumbfounded that someone wouldn’t enjoy America’s national pastime.

“Baseball and ice hockey are where it’s at for me,” Reed says. “I grew up on the Canadian border, you see.”

“Then, by all means…” Dad shakes his can in the air, and the last few drops splash against the sides. “Mind fetching another while you’re up?”

“Not at all. I’ll bring a round for the table.”

“There he is,” Phil Montague, the youngest of Dad’s friends, says. He shoots Father Murphy with finger guns, and the two of us slip into the kitchen.

Reed stops at the kitchen island and rests his palms flat on it. His golden eyes drink me in the same way he downed a chalice full of communion wine. Longing, desperate, hungry.

Damn, he’s handsome. Blue jeans and a black shirt fit him better than pastoral robes and white collars.

“I hope you haven’t forgotten what I told you.” He breaks away from the counter and opens the fridge, grabbing a ring pack of beers. He pulls one out for himself and sets it on the counter.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that tongue of yours since the booth.” We’re talking casually, as if it’s another normal chat about the weather. I’m preparing knives and the chopping board while he fetches booze. It almost feels…normal.

I don’t even blush at the thought anymore. His reciprocation in God’s temple was enough for me to know we’re two different bodies that share a single mind.

“Then take off your pants and panties, kick them aside, and spread your legs. I’m eating something tonight, and it sure as shit isn’t going to be poorly barbecued meat.” Reed’s tone is firm. Commanding.

Yup, I was wrong. I don’t blush at my own silly thoughts, but hearing someone demand something so vulgar sends me over the edge.

“Hurry back,” I say. If it were different circumstances, I’d put on some cutesy voice. I’d whine, act out, and play my own sexual games. But I can’t. Neither of us can. Our words need to sound like mumbles in the kitchen so no one catches on to what we’re up to.

No matter how badly I want to break him, the way I know he’s going to break me.

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