Page 3 of Sinning for Santa

“What ails you this evening?” he asks, and I clear my throat before I begin.

“I went back, Father.”

“When did this happen?” he asks, his calm tone not scolding, yet I know if I could see his face, he’d surely look disappointed.

“Tonight,” I admit. “And Sunday night.”

“Two nights since last week?” he asks, and this time I can hear the surprise in his tone.

“And Friday night,” I rush out, feeling the shame heat my entire body.

“I see. What is it that you think keeps drawing you back?”

“My thoughts,” I admit quietly. “They are so impure, Father. They are getting worse and I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Indulging,” I admit.

Father Peters clears his throat, and not for the first time do I wonder if he’s at a loss with me and my disturbing desires.

“Temptation is acknowledged by God, because resisting it can bring about strong personal growth, however, just as we discussed last week, the Lord does not wish us to face temptations that are beyond our ability to resist. I’m concerned that place may be beyond your ability, and that if you keep giving in to your temptation to go there, especially given your upcoming nuptials, that you will eventually give in to the temptation to indulge.”

“Yes, Father. I cannot explain why I returned,” I say, but the truth is, I know why I returned.

I’m curious.

Intrigued.

Wanting.

“What feelings were evoked when you went there?” he asks, and my thoughts return to the club, the dark atmosphere, the masks, and the acts committed.

Although humiliating, I’m about to explain about my need and arousal when shouting out in the church forces my confession to end abruptly.

“What on earth?” Father Peters mutters right as I hear him open his door, so I quickly stand and do the same.

“Get down!”

The deep command comes a second before I realise there are two men standing across the other side of the church, pointing large guns in my direction as the man that was sitting in the front pew runs towards me.

A gasp lodges in my throat and my eyes widen, Father Peters in my peripheral holding his hands out in front of him right before the man from the pew slams into me, sending us back into the booth.

A scream escapes me as loud gunfire echoes out in the church, bullets slamming into the booth door as the man shuts us into the tiny space.

Oh my Lord. We are going to die.

“Fuck,” he hisses, pressing me against the back wall with his tall, firm body, his hands still gripping my shoulders in the tight space. “Do me a favour, love. Reach around to my back pocket and pull out my phone.”

What? Why would he be asking me that right now?

“We’re going to die,” I whimper against his chest, my fingers gripping the front of his shirt like he’s my lifeline.

“The doors are bulletproof. We’re safe in here.” His breath fans over the top of my head, and I risk a glance up to see a smirk pulling at his lips.

Why the hell is he smiling?

We are about to die.

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