Page 55 of Of Angels & Absolution

“You may.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding, not moving. Now that I’ve said it aloud, I can’t do it. Not while he’s watching.

But then,he’s watching.

He’s waiting.

I can’t let him down. I remind myself of that brief, momentary swell of power I felt, as if I were holding all the cards for once when I knelt at my brother’s feet, when he couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

I lift one knee and then the other, tugging my velvet skirt free. My bare knees press into the warm leather cushion of the kneeler, and I shiver when the cool air meets my thighs, bare above my knee socks. I slip a hand up, under the skirt, and then down, into my panties.

Father Salvatore doesn’t move.

“Like this, Father?” I ask, my throat thick.

“Does that feel good?”

I nod, then bite my lip so I don’t make any embarrassing noises. We’re so close I can see the ring of blue-black around his irises, and that his dark eyes that look inky are actually the deepest, darkest shade of brown, like the bitter, one hundred precent cacao Manson brought Annabel Lee.

The father’s gaze emboldens me somehow, as if I’m daring him to stop me. I move my fingers, exploring myself in a slow, methodical way I’ve never done before. The skin is soft and damp, a strange feeling as I finger apart the layers. Inside and lower, I find something different, a secret pocket of wet heat just big enough for my fingertip. I gasp, and Father’s eyes flare.

“What is it, lamb?” he asks, his voice so low I feel the rumble more than hear it.

“It’s… Wet,” I say, a shudder of bliss rolling through me.

Our eyes meet again, and I hold his gaze while I slide my finger up and down my slit, gasping again when I hit a spot that feels so good it makes my hips jerk back, as if they know it’s too much pleasure, more than I deserve. My other hand wraps around the top of the bench seat in front of me, gripping tight, keeping me anchored. I bite my lip and try again. Father Salvatore’s gaze fuses to my mouth with a blazing heat, watching my teeth cut into my lip. When our eyes meet again, a searing hot electricity charges the air between us, and arousal drenches my fingers in a rush.

I gasp again, and his fingers close over mine on the seat, holding me in place. My breath comes quicker, in ragged, panting gasps. “Father,” I manage, then lose the rest of the thought.

“What are you thinking about, lamb?” he prompts, his voice so seductive my thighs quake, yearning to open for him, to wrap around his hips as he lays me down on a pew and teaches me the holiness of our bodies together.

“You,” I breathe.

“Mercy…”

“Help me,” I blurt before I can stop myself, before he can stop me.

“Let me see,” he says, his thumb stroking across my hand.

“What?”

“Show me your other hand.”

I don’t want to stop, but I reluctantly withdraw my other hand from my panties and hold it up for him to inspect. I drop my gaze, my pulse suddenly racing, sure he’ll scold me or slap my hand for what it’s done. Instead, he draws it close, inhaling a long, slow breath. His eyes fall closed for a second, just like Saint’s did when he smelled me, and in some flash of daring, I remember how I drew my brother in after that, and I tip my finger forward, dragging it across the priest’s lower lip.

He jerks back, his eyes snapping open, a thunderous frown darkening his brow.

“I’m sorry,” I cry, trying to pull away, to bolt from the church and never return.

He holds me fast, his grip on my wrist like a cuff, harder than the ropes the boys used to tie me to the cross.

“There’s no need to apologize,” he says. “What do you want, Mercy Soules?”

“I—I don’t know,” I blurt out, desperate and humiliated.

“You do,” he says gently, reaching over the back of the pew to bring my other hand back to my lower belly. “Tell me. What do you need?”

“You,” I admit, my cheeks flaming. “You do it. Please, Father. I can’t.”

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