Page 101 of The Sinner and the Gunslinger
Zeke shuts her down with a warning look.
Lies. Secrets.
I’m already losing a battle of wills against my insatiable desires, but now I feel like everyone here is working against me. My girls always had my back.Always. Never once did I feel this unwanted and isolated.
“Congratulations,” I grind out as footsteps thunder inside the abbey behind me. The door slams open, and Tawny runs out, eyes wide and full of her stupid, innocent optimism. Thea is next with her glowing fucking stick. But I can’t stand here a moment longer. I jog down the steps, push past a bewildered Tawny, and start walking.
Somewhere.
Anywhere.
My feet keep moving until I find myself halfway to the church at the back of the estate. I stop. I can’t go there. I refuse to. It’s whereHeis—and he’s the source of my insanity. I told Leila just how much of my mind he occupies, and—argh!
Forcing myself to breathe and dispel my anger, I try and think logically. I’m the only Sinner who hasn’t taken the sacrament of reconciliation since Team Saint arrived. Father has been on my case. Every cell in my body wants me to go there, to him, to confess, to purge these feelings from my soul.
But I turn back toward the abbey, taking another bite of my apple. A sour taste hits me. Bile rises in my gullet, I spit and look down, revolted. The apple is rotten to the core.
Horror floods me.
Is that an omen? Am I rotten inside? Is that why I’m the only one here who battles with her inner demons daily?
Before I know it, I’m barging into the church—then I lurch to a stop. It’s empty... and so quiet that I hear leaves brush against the stained-glass windows outside. A soft light glows from the open door of the special room set up for Sinner reconciliation. The Sin Bin, as we’ve called it, is carved into the door. I’m drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
By the time I shuffle inside the room, I’m already rippling with untapped arousal. My body reacts before I see him. It’s like the awareness of his presence is a living, breathing succubus in the air between us.
The lightbulb in the center confessional cubicle is on, indicating the sacrament of reconciliation is in session. He waits inside. Just beyond that wooden door. He’s here every night, listening to sin, granting absolution.
Fuck this. Fuck Leila for taking my chain cilices. Fuck thinking I’m a dirty whore whose only purpose in life is to drag men to hell with me.
I pace beside the confessional, flapping my hands. I can’t do it. I can’t face his judgment.
I spin and head toward the exit. But that old dark friend of mine, the insatiable lust, rears its ugly head before I’m two steps away. I turn back.
I have to. I can do this.
Don’t want to be rotten to the core.
If I don’t confess, I’ll burst from my skin. I don’t trust myself or my urges. Confession is the only thing that keeps me grounded. That and pain. Penance gives me focus. It doesn’t work if I do it on my own. As Leila witnessed, I go too far. There is no line. I need someone to guide me, and Father Francisco McHottie is the right man.
Stop it.I smack my head. He’s a regular man. A devout catholic with fuckable lips I want to sit on.
A frustrated whimper shoots from my lips, and tears burn my eyes. I’m ready to pull my hair out. I can’t stop. Can’t bottle this up anymore.
“Are you coming in?” Father’s deep, Italian-accented voice rumbles from inside the confessional. The baritone tickles my skin like a feather.
Of course he heard me. Probably knew I was here the entire time, beating myself up. Damn it. I have nowhere to hide now. It’s either face my shame or spiral into the lusty pits of hell.
And he hasn’t seen me yet. His door is closed. I can still do this anonymously.
I yank open the wooden door and stumble inside. Turning, I sit on the tiny wooden bench and watch the privacy door close, darkening the cabin until the only light comes from a crack above the door and a ray through the window of lattice to my right. Just enough illumination that I can see my fingers, legs, and dust motes dancing in the air. And the kneeler beneath the lattice in case I want to get down and face my judgment.
The priest sits behind a thin wall separating us, ready to actin persona Christi. Through the lattice, I see the curve of black-robed knees, and a scarred, tattooed fist thumbing a set of rosary beads. The crucifix inked beneath the knuckle of one finger catches my eye.Fuck me.Those hands are hot. I imagine seeing that finger sliding in and out of my pussy, that tattoo disappearing into me. I squeeze my thighs to ease the ache, but I’m already wet. He’s a mafia enforcer turned exorcist, and for some reason, that’s my crack. He let God act through him even before he took his vows.
Those large hands would have seen their fair share of death. Danger. Blood. Throats. I bite my bottom lip to stifle a moan. Why the fuck was I born like this? I screw my eyes shut, hating myself.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says.
I shake my head. I’m afraid that if I speak, I’ll embarrass myself. For the past few weeks, I’ve been fantasizing about him. Because I can’t have him. He’s untouchable.Bad, Mercy.I slap my head.
