Page 33 of Audacity

Who is this she-devil who, with a few expertly crafted sentences, has taken all that I know to be true and noble and sacred and turned it into something that is quite literally intoxicating, but whose poison I am apparently powerless to resist?

How can she take what was, for me, the single biggest privilege of the priesthood—the God-given ability to turn bread into flesh and wine into blood,Christ’sblood—and set it alight, torching it so it burns in my veins like the basest kind of addiction and smokes out every last drop of good sense, of propriety?

And how the actual fuck will I withstand her unholy charms if, at eight-thirty on a Monday morning, she already has me incapable of doing anything but accepting this infernal little proposition with indecent verve?

Forget Jack Nicholson and his well-meaning soundbites.

This woman makes me want to be a far, farworseman.

When I speak, I barely recognise my own voice.

‘Do it.’

CHAPTER 15

Athena

Is there anything more gratifying than arousing a decent man so thoroughly that he turns feral before your eyes?

I think not.

I suspect, from the shocked and even dismayed expression on his face, that he has quite literally never had this thought before I planted it, that he never sullied the responsibility of his former vocation with impure thoughts about his flock.

But Iknow, from the heat in his eyes and the set of his jaw and the bulge in his trousers that he has well and truly taken my little fantasy and run with it.

Whether he likes it or not, he’s back in his vestments just now, standing at an altar rail with a golden dish of sanctified wafers, while before him a russet-haired enchantress extorts him with her mouth to besmirch his vows and take his pleasure.

Do it.

Amen to that, Father Gabriel.

I’ve been looking forward to this since my audition, and I’ll bet he has, too. After all, he told me to save this treat for my first morning, didn’t he? And I’m nothing if not obedient.

I unbuckle and unbutton him before drawing his zipper down, slowly, slowly. The fabric of his trousers strains as histhumbs drag over my jaw, his fingers flexing on my neck and in my hair. I won’t be happy until they’re digging into my skin and holding my head in a vice so he can fuck my mouth.

His breathing is ragged as I shove his trousers around his ankles and edge the waistband of his grey boxer briefs down. Oh, sweet Jesus, there he is, and my mouth is watering already. He’s fucking huge, just like I remember: hard and male and angry, his lovely straight cock so engorged it’s shiny.

I lick my lips.

Before I put my mouth on him, I want to make sure he is absolutely in this little fantasy with me. I hold my hand out, palm up, supporting his cock, and he shivers at the contact. I can smell him, clean and musky. He smells of soap and skin and box-fresh, unsated arousal.

‘Imagine it,’ I whisper. ‘Just like I told you. I’ll be waiting for my Holy Communion. That’s your signal to do whatever you like to me,Father.’

With that, I let my eyes drift closed and I open my mouth and slide my tongue out, and I wait, an invitation made flesh, mere centimetres from his lovely dick. I can feel the pleasing silkiness of my tongue’s underside against the soft pad of my lower lip. I hope what he sees is equally alluring, because I can lead the horse to water, but I can’t make him shove his cock in my mouth.

I may be the temptress masquerading as a fuckable penitent, but this doesn’t work unless he makes the proactive decision to violate me in the coarsest way.

His breathing is already ragged as he contemplates this buffet of temptation, and I wonder if he’s more concerned about indulging in a deeply transgressive fantasy or fucking his actual new assistant’s mouth in her first ten minutes on the job.

I hope it’s both.

He’ll realise, in about five minutes flat, that when it comes to me, nothing lies on the other side of acting on his basest instincts but sheer ecstasy.

Then he withdraws one hand, brushing the crown of his dick over the very tip of my extended tongue with the most featherlight touch, almost as if he’s allowing himself to answer his most burning question:what would it feel like?There’s no precum quite yet, but that gossamer swipe feels like a threat, and I want him to jam the whole fucking thing so deep inside me that I can barely breathe.

He groans audibly—a good man, a still-holy man, driven to darkness by the promise of a warm, wet mouth. Still, it feels to me that he needs a little shove over the edge and into the abyss.

‘Give me what I deserve, Father,’ I whisper hoarsely. ‘Please. I’m only asking you for what I deserve.’

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