Page 103 of The Sinner and the Gunslinger
“No!” I shake my head, picking absently at the lattice. “But I’m hard to say no to. I find ways of getting what I need, even if that means someone wakes up with regrets... or... my steam comes out as violence.”
“Mercy,” he suddenly clips. “Put your hands on your lap.”
The sharp authority in his tone is a bolt of heat to my clit. My fingers slide down the lattice, and I place my hands demurely on my lap.
“Where I can see them.”
I slide them to cup my knees.
“Molto bene.” Very good.
No.Notgood. That voice. That dominance. I’m heating up inside, panting in this suffocating space.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I mutter, squirming.
“Yes, you can.” His tone is hard, yet I don’t think cruel. It’s difficult to tell when I can’t see his face. “You will come to this confessional every night,si?”
“Um. Oh-kay.” I scoff. Whatever, Mr. Bossy. Every night is a bit much.
“Notum. Say yes, Father.”
My humor dies beneath the control in his voice. All I can manage is a breathy, “Yes, Father.”
“With regular confession and council, I can help you.” He audibly swallows. “For now, that is your penance.”
“That’s it?” I frown.
“Unless you have more to confess?”
“I don’t think so.” I tap my lip. “I think I’m good. I was a little rude to Leila just now, but she’ll forgive me. Anything else is clutching at straws.”
“So... no killing. No steam explosions of violence.”
I scrunch my nose at the lattice. “That hasn’t happened in averylong time. It’s not like I walk around stabbing people or cutting off dicks. Apart from demons, I haven’t hurt a soul since my last confession.”
He prays for my absolution in Latin, and then says, “You may go.”
I get up to leave, hesitate, then sit back down. “That’s really it?”
“Si.”
“You’re not going to tell me there’s a special place in hell for women like me?”
“No.”
“No flogging, or kneeling until I bleed, or begging Christ to forgive my sins?”
He pauses. “Mercy. Desire is not sin. Adultery,si. This is why you have penance. But for your... urges. This is natural. This is normal.”
I sit back, frowning. “Okay.”
When I don’t move, he reminds me, “You may go.”
“Okay!” I jump to my feet and open the door. When I walk out, I feel lighter. I still have the same dark whispers bouncing around my head. But I don’t feel bad about them. Not really.
The light in the confessional goes off, and Father’s door opens. He sees me and freezes. I’m caught in the snare of his captivating brown eyes. Long, dark lashes surround them. He’s both rugged and dangerous, yet somehow handsome and pretty. His skin is a beautiful golden-hued olive, like he spent his childhood sunbathing by the ocean.
We stare awkwardly at each other. I can’t help noticing his short brown hair is ruffled, as though he’s scrubbed it in frustration. Every instinct in my body begs me to look south, to check out those kissable lips, and then keep heading south. Is his fist still clenching the beads? Is he disheveled down there too? Is his robe crinkled at the groin from all the rubbing he’s done through the fabric? Was he as turned on as I was, or was it just me doing my thing?
