Page 19 of Audacity

Athena

By the time we’ve finished our main course, my thong is soaked through. It’s partly the topic of our dinner conversation that’s done it, naturally. Recounting all the things that get me off the most in this unique role of mine turns me on every time, and I can only hope he’s been listening as attentively as he seemed to be. Not sure I’ve ever met a guy who’s as good and patient and thorough a listener as Fr Gabriel, although calling him that isnothelpful to my current state of arousal.

I was brought up in a firmly atheist household, even if it was one that could fully appreciate the glory of Renaissance-era religious art. So I’ve spent very little time dwelling on priests or priest kinks or anything of that ilk aside from occasional musings on what a waste enforced celibacy is foranyone.

But give me a truly good man at war with his inner demons and I am a puddle on the floor. So watching Gabriel get quietly, steadily, involuntarily turned on by our conversation has been a truly exquisite sight to behold. It’s hot as fuck when a guy is trying to uphold his morals while you bash them down, piece by piece, until they’re useless rubble on the floor.

Right now, Gabriel Sullivan is that guy, surrounded by the pointless debris ofhisethics and totally defenceless againstmylack of them. And I want him like this. I want him so addled with desire, so tightly wound by the awful, relentless needs I’ve stirred up that he’ll be unleashed when I get him upstairs.

He smiles tightly at me when the server has cleared away our plates. It’s the smile of a man whose blood flow has vacated the top half of his body. ‘Would you like to see the dessert menu?’

I’m the only dessert menu this guy is going to need this evening.

‘I’m fine. Why don’t we continue this conversation upstairs?’

Gabriel has fine blue eyes, like the true Irishman he is, but right now they’re practically all pupil. ‘Are you sure? You don’t—wouldn’t you like some time to think about it?’

‘Believe me, I’ve had all the time I need. I’m perfectly sure. I want you to take me for a spin, Gabriel.’

He closes his eyes for a second. Gathering his inner strength? Praying to a God he almost certainly still converses with? I’d feel bad for the guy if I didn’t know for sure that his evening is about to get a whole lot better.

When he opens them, there’s a level of intent in their blue-black depths that he hasn’t allowed himself until now. He’s been the perfect gentleman, but it looks to me like he’s about to turn full predator. I shiver a little.

‘Apparently I should ask you for a safeword,’ he says, his voice strangled.

I smile at him. ‘Minerva.’

‘Minerva.’ He tries it on for size, but the halting way he says its syllables tells me he’s missing the context.

‘Minerva is the Roman equivalent of the goddess Athena,’ I tell him, and his face brightens.

‘Got it. I’m not so strong on my polytheistic gods.’

‘I wouldn’t expect you to be.’

‘I can recite the names of Roman Catholic saints and martyrs ad nauseam, though,’ he says. ‘In fact, I’ve been reciting some of them in my head tonight in a vain attempt at staving off my—well. I’m sure you can imagine. Let’s get you upstairs.’

He keeps a chivalrous hand on the small of my back as we walk through the beautifully festive hotel lobby to the lift. Around us, gold- and red-decked Christmas trees stand like sentinels, while fairy lights twinkle softly from wreaths and garlands.

I like the light weight of Gabriel’s touch, and I fucking adore the anticipation that’s coursing through me. I love that we look like a well-heeled couple, retiring to our suite, and that no one but us knows this esteemed gentleman is paying me five figures so he can rampage all over my body.

So far, we’ve talked dirty but played nicely. The gloves are about to come off—alongside every other scrap of clothing—and I’ll get to see what this guy is capable of.

I really, really hope Catholics are as kinky and depraved as they’re supposed to be—especially ones who have years of self-denial and shame and guilt to make up for.

We’re not the only ones in the lift. Gabriel positions himself behind me in the back corner and puts his hands on the dip of my waist before sliding them down to bracket my hips and tugging me back against him. It’s an assured move, a possessive one, even, and it feels so good after having only had handshakes and cheek kisses. He scoops my hair out of the way and dips his head so he can bury his face in the side of my neck.

He inhales hard.

‘Those fucking photographs,’ he growls in my ear, low enough so only I can hear. ‘Have you any idea what they did to me?’

I giggle and push back against what is definitely a semi. ‘I have some idea, yes.’

One of his hands slides around so he can palm my stomach, gluing us together. I’ve never understood why, but having a man’s large hand splayed across my stomach, even through clothing, has always given me enormous pleasure. It feels anchoring and safe and, in this case, ominous in the sexiest possible way. Already, this feels less like an audition and more like a scorching one night stand with a tall, dark and hot-as-hell stranger.

‘They gave me an idea,’ he whispers enigmatically, and then we’re excusing ourselves and easing our way out of the lift.

Gabriel swipes the keycard and holds the door open before following me into the suite. It’s a beautiful space, all plush fabrics in neutral shades. The lamps are lit, and the bed is turned down. Clusters of candles in votives are lit, too, their fragrance heady. Jasmine, maybe.

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