Page 62 of Forgive Me Father

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Reaching into his glovebox, Roman pulls out a wet wipe, keeping me nestled in his lap, his hands gently preventing me from covering my breasts. He carefully wipes my mouth, ensuring no trace of vomit remains on my skin. He moves the loose hair that’s fallen into my face behind my ear, and moves to brush his thumb along my jawline, the touch sending a shiver down my spine. My head feels heavy, my eyes struggle to stay open.

After wiping down the inside of his car with Luca’s hoodie, he tosses it out the window, then rolls it up, sealing us off from the world. His gaze never leaves me as he runs a finger over my scars, his touch surprisingly tender despite the hunger in his eyes.

Slipping his hand down to my bathing suit bottoms, he finds the evidence of my desire still lingering as he glides his fingers through the wetness between my folds.

“Like I said, beautiful,” He murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “I’m the only one who gets to touch you like this... the only one who’ll make you feel this way.”

He brings his fingers to his lips, licking them with a devious smirk. My body instinctively leans forward, collapsing into him as exhaustion takes over, my head coming to rest in the crook of his neck.

“I know I said I didn’t want gentle,” I whisper, barely able to keep my eyes open. “But can you please just—”

Without a word, Roman shifts me to the passenger seat, pulling off his hoodie and draping it over me. He props up the middle armrest and tugs me back toward him, resting my head in his lap. His fingers gently thread through my hair, lulling me closer to sleep.

I hear the sound of the car turn on, the hum of the engine coaxing me closer to unconsciousness.

“You’re going to ruin me, Eden,” Roman whispers, his fingers tapping the steering wheel. “And I fear I’m going to love every second of it.”

That’s the last thing I remember before I drift into nothingness.

1 Corinthians 13:4–8a "Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth."

Chapter 17

Roman

Two Hours Prior

Despair is the only word that captures a bar at this hour.

Walking inside, the place is anything but classy. The bar reeks of stale beer and desperation, a suffocating mix that clings to your clothes the moment you step inside. The walls are stained with years of neglect, yellowed with cigarette smoke, despite the “NO SMOKING” sign hanging over the bar. Flickering neon signs, some letters burnt out, cast an eerie, uneven glow across the room, barely cutting through the dim lighting.

A few patrons—mostly men—are slumped over their drinks, lost in their own misery, while a couple of women dressed in too-tight clothes and heavy makeup hover nearby, their smiles tired and hollow. It’s the kind of place where dreams come to die, where hope is a foreign concept, and where the darkness in a person’s soul is reflected in every shadowed corner.

The cross around my neck feels like a weight, a constant reminder of the moral battle I fought just to walk through thedoor. Thirty minutes—thirty agonizing minutes—spent in the car, staring at that damn "Open" sign, wondering if I should even be here. I could feel the cross pressing into my chest with every shallow breath, like it was trying to keep me anchored, to pull me back from the brink.

But it wasn’t enough.

I was still reeling from what happened with Eden. The way she looked at me in the church, her eyes wide with a mix of desire and disappointment, as if she expected more from me, as if she thought I could be the man she needed me to be. And for a brief, blasphemous moment, I wanted to be. I wanted to forsake my vows, to let the world fall away and lose myself in her entirely. But then that familiar pang of guilt hit—God’s reminder of the promise I made, the ring on my finger a shackle that binds me to a life I willingly chose.

When she left, I was paralyzed by the conflict between what I wanted and what I knew I couldn’t have. I could still taste her on my lips and feel the ghost of her warmth in my hands. It was enough to drive a man mad. No prayer could silence the screaming thoughts, no scripture could drown out the memory of her skin against mine.

I sat there in the car, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, torn between the man I am supposed to be and the man I felt myself becoming. This place—this grim, hollow dive—wasn’t just a bar. It was a sanctuary for lost souls, a purgatory where men like me come to face their demons when the weight of the world becomes too much to bear.

No other encounter in my life has driven me back to a place as grim as this. The thought of Eden—how she looked at me,how she left me—was too much to bear. I needed to drown it out, to silence the incessant, pounding regret in my head, even if only for a few hours. The priest in me should have resisted, should have turned the car around and gone back to the rectory, but the man—the sinner—knew there was no turning back. Not tonight.

“Wanna drink, pretty boy?” The bartender’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I didn’t even realize I’d made my way to the bar.

“Scotch, on the rocks,” I reply automatically, reaching for my ID.

“You’re good,” She smiles, eyeing me up and down. “You’re the new priest, right? Took over for Kevin? I saw you at Mass.”

Perfect. My bartender is also one of my parishioners.

I nod, handing her my card. She opens a tab and gets to work on my drink.

I take a seat, the weight of the day settling into my bones. Around me, the air hums with the low murmur of conversation, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of raucous laughter. The women nearby hover just close enough to make their interest clear, their gazes lingering, assessing. Any other man might find their attention flattering, might indulge in the fantasy of losing himself in a stranger's touch for a night, but not me.