Page 13 of Praise Me: Priest

Something must be wrong with me.

Who gets paid to tempt a priest from his calling?

Who wants that priest to touch her naked body in reverence and praise her?

A whore.

A swallow gets stuck in my throat, the horizon blurring in front of me—

“Farrah,” says a voice, coming from behind me.

Rune.

I swipe the moisture from my eyes, turning my head to look up at him and…oh my, he’s incredible in the morning light, his vivid green eyes serious, his hair being pulled this way and that in the wind, his extra-large hands folded in front of him, a rosary twining through his fingers. He’s wearing a black robe this morning, that white collar resting against his jugular.

The picture of holiness. And all I can think about are his kisses.

How they made me feel like I’d been set on fire. How happily I’d perish in that blaze.

“Farrah,” he says, frowning. “You’re upset.”

“The sunrise is just so beautiful,” I say, haltingly.

A beat passes. “You’re crying over the sunrise?”

He sounds skeptical and honestly, I don’t have the strength right now to lie. Not after the whoppers I told last night. So I simply stare straight ahead, letting the wind dry my face, trying desperately to keep my breathing even when Rune takes a seat on the bench beside me, his attention zeroed in on me. “Now tell me the truth.”

“The truth from me?” I say with muffled sarcasm. “That would be a first.”

Rune’s head tips forward briefly. “You regret our actions last night. That’s why you’re crying.”

“No,” I whisper, fussing with the hem of my worn, mint green morning dress. “I’m crying because I don’t regret them.”

He attempts to take a slow, measured breath, but it’s as rocky as I feel. “Continue.”

I close my eyes, because looking at him makes me feel achy between my thighs, in the furthest down regions of my belly. In the middle of my chest. “After my parents died from an illness when I was a toddler, my aunt raised me. She did as fine a job as possible, considering her limited resources. She taught me to read and write. The difference between right and wrong. We’ve stolen to eat on occasion and found ways to make coin that some would consider lowly. But through all of it, I managed to believe I was…good. But I’m not. I’m not good at all.”

“What?” He’s visibly perplexed. Maybe even outraged. “Not…good?Farrah—”

“One time, Mr. Tandy said my hair is red for a reason. I was born to be a man’s plaything. After last night, I’m starting to wonder if he was right.”

“He wasnotright, that bastard. You are better than good, Farrah. Your spirit is a wild and beautiful thing.” He slams a fist to his chest. “It’s me who has corrupted you.”

“You were fine being pious and celibate until I came along.”

“I could say the same to you,” he says, reaching out to cup my face, the coolness of the rosary beads pressing to my jawline, cheek, and I can’t help leaning into his hold. Absorbing his touch like a flower soaking up the rain. “You are a decade younger than me, sweetheart. Eighteen. You will not blame yourself when I’m the one who should know better.Bebetter.”

“But, I…”

His thumb slips into the corner of my mouth, sending a shock wave of shivers down my calves to my toes. “You what?”

“I liked being corrupted. I didn’t want it to end.” I turn my face slightly, looking him in the eye while razing the pad of his thumb with my teeth. “I’m a whore, Father.”

“No, you arenot,” he says choppily, obviously trying to focus, but distracted by my lips. How they kiss his thumb, allowing it to dip into my mouth and fish around. “You aremagnificent. I will hear no contradictions.”

“But I like being that to you,” I whisper, pressing my knees together. “A little whore. Only for you.”

His green eyes are eclipsed by black.

---