Page 14 of Sire
Sure, I was going to hell anyway, but not for this.
Not for wanting her.
“Okay, thanks.” She reaches for the handle of her suitcase, all the clothes and toiletries my mom bought her, but half of me isn’t depraved. I beat her to it and, like a gentleman, set it on the bed for her. “How can I thank you?”
Banish these damned thoughts from my mind. The ones imagining my tongue licking your wet, virgin pussy.
“You don’t need to thank me. Just—” I wave to the simple white room. White paint. White sheets. White linen headboard. Jesus, Jesus. It’s like you knew a virgin would move in with me. “Just keep it clean.”
Because, clearly, my mind isn’t.
“But I have to thank you somehow. I’ll earn my keep.” She glances at the hardwood floor, laughing, “Do your pet dust bunnies have names?”
I see one hopping by. “Yeah, sorry about that. I really only sleep and eat here. I try to keep it clean, but?—”
“Perfect. I’ll cook and clean for you and?—”
“I don’t need a maid.”
“But you need to eat.”You.“So let me cook, and I can babysit the kids at the church, too.”
“You like kids? Aren’t you practically one yourself?”
That’s a cute scowl she makes at my sarcasm. “I love kids and no. I’ll be twenty this September eighth.”
A smile smacks my face, a chuckle erupting from my throat.
“What did I say?” Her eyes widen. “Why are you laughing?”
“I’m not laughing.”
I am. It’s rare, and I’m laughing at God.
September 8. Really? The Virgin Mary’s birthday?
Okay, God, sign received. I haven’t stopped thinking about her since she took my breath away the night I met her, and she has a holy birthday.
Got it. Build a shrine for Wren Chapel and worship her forever. Copy that.
Question is … if I fuck her, too, will I explode into flames? Probably. But why do I suspect loving her would be worth burning in hell?
“No, you’re laughing at me.” A smile plays with her luscious lips. “So, be careful when you do because you’re cracking that tattoo by your eye.”
“That’s not a crack. It’s a wrinkle. I’m forty-three and I’m laughing because only youth look forward to their next birthday.”
“Forty-three?” She scoffs, “You look so young. I pegged you for thirty or so.”
Fuck, don’t saypeg.
Don’t say anything that makes me regret being a holy man—half the time.
“I’m way past thirty, and you’re all set.” I turn toward the door. “Unpack and join me in the kitchen. We’ll make a grocery list for tomorrow and … whatever.”
Just get me out of her new bedroom. Get me away from her smelling like pure soap and sin.
No one has ever done this to me. Not my adoring parishioners, throwing themselves at me. Not a hot woman at a coffee shop, twirling her hair. Not a flirting young man, buying me a drink at a bar.
No one, in years, has ever tempted me like Wren Chapel has…
