Page 11 of Step-Sinner

But, I don’t.

“Twelve minutes late.” He nods, looking at his wrist where I see the hint of blue tattoos showing just under the cuff of his white shirt.

That view makes my toes curl. Just a little.

He’s out of the suit he wore at the airport and instead is wearing a floor length black robe with black fabric buttons down the front, a gold cord draped over his shoulders and a different sort of white collar that shows off his Adam’s apple and a bit more of the ink that is hidden below his neckline.

“It’s your first day, I’m sure you are tired and out of sorts. But, being punctual is important, Kitty. It shows you value your own time and that you respect mine.”

I swallow against the tightness in my throat.

I should have changed my underwearat least.

So I could ruin another pair?

“Well, it’s not like you have a line of wayward youth beating down your office door. Your schedule seems open.” I click my tongue on the roof of my mouth.

Stay in control. Keep the defenses up.

He stands from behind his desk and I swear, my ovariesflex.

“Come,” he says, ignoring my snarky comment as he extends his arm toward the session room he pointed out when he showed me around earlier. “You brought the notebook and pen like you were told. Pleases me.”

Pleases me.

Why does that hit me in the center of my chest? Why do I care if he’s pleased or not?

Slick warmth spreads between my thighs, and I make a mental note to ask where the laundry facilities are, because I’m going to be doing a lot of panty washing if this nonsense keeps up.

As we enter the adjacent room, his body radiates heat. I feel it as I pass by on my way to the worn velvet sofa, across from a Mini Cooper sized cut stone fireplace where a small stack of logs is crackling and sparking, making this room warmer than the chill of the hallways and office.

“Sit where you like,” he says as the door clicks closed behind me, then out of the corner of my eye I see him move closer, like a floating phantom with his robe brushing the tips of his black shoes on each smooth step.

I decide on the sofa. It looks soft and there’s a few pillows. I decide I need to make sure I’m not powerless in this whole deal, so as Father Martin turns his back, grabbing a wrought iron poker and tending to the fire for a moment, I tap on my phone screen, swiping on the audio recording app, then stuff the phone half hidden behind one of the pillows.

I’m not sure what my plan is here, but making sure I have some collateral seems smart.

His black eyes grab mine as he turns, the hem of his robe widening in a draping circle.

He takes his time as he heads for the little sitting area in front of the fireplace, lowering himself into a carved wooden chair with red velvet cushions that match the sofa, then crosses his legs, drumming his fingers on the carved lionheads that roar at me from the ends of the armrests.

I hold the journal up from my lap as I lower my butt toward the sofa next to the phone, hidden behind its pillow. “So, what’s this for? Am I here to takedic-tation?”

My forwardness spills from me in a mix of spite and hopefulness. I nip at my lip, taking in the sight of him in the throne-like chair. Light from the window behind gives him an ethereal glow as he shifts in the seat, a grimace of discomfort lashing across his stone-cut face. I thrust my chest forward, nearly missing the sofa as I sit, more focused on his lap than where my butt is going. I fall forward, dropping the journal and pen as I squeak andright myself with my hand on the edge of a thick wooden table, crossing my ankles like I intended to do a bend and snap but failed miserably.

When I look, he’s leaning forward, concern brimming in his eyes. “Are you okay, Kitty?”

He’s halfway off the chair as I gather up the journal and pen, waving him off, holding it like a shield between us. “I’m good,” I manage, averting my eyes because every time I take him in, I feel like I’m falling.

Which, I almost did.

He settles back into the chair as my gaze skitters over the hardness of his jawline then down the front of his black robe. Do priests wear anything underneath? He raises his hands, pressing the palms together and rubbing them as his elbows rest behind the lion heads. As he considers me, my knees press together in an attempt to stem the tide of desire I seem helpless to control.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

I squint on a huff. “You asked me that in the car already.”

“I’d like you to tell me again.”

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