Page 18 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

My body wakes up before my brain does. Of course it does.

Cisco closes the door with an easy flick of his wrist. Oblivious to me crouched between stacked boxes, he leans forward, head bowed, splayed hands braced on the door.

“Father! Oh Father, where art thou?” Outside, Tawny’s sugary voice takes on a pleading tone. “I need you to taste test these cookies for evil. Please?” A pause. “Where are you? I saw you come in here.” Another pause. “I’m starving.”

A grumbled curse travels across the room.

Oh yeah, he’s got that priest act on lockdown. He has everyone fooled with his fake compassion, rich Italian purr, and that stupidly sexy scarred upper lip. But I see him.

Nice try, priest.

I move fast, silent, gliding through the room until I’m right behind him, breathing on the back of his tattooed neck, smelling soap and incense on his skin.

His head jerks up. Tension wraps his posture, drawing every muscle tight from his head down his muscular back, to where his hands fist against the door. For a split second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Maybe he thinks I’m a demon, about to rip his soul out through his asshole.

A smile tugs at my lips as I whisper into his ear, “You always creep around like this, Padre, or just when you’re hiding from Tawny’s baking?”

Cisco turns so fast that I have to step back or risk us going down in a tangle of limbs. Before I recover, he covers my mouth with his giant hand. He grabs my waist, and suddenly the world is spinning. When it stops, our positions are reversed. Already deprived of my usual stress release therapy, every nerve ending in my body is on edge. So when the priest presses his warm body into mine, trapping me against the door, my executive functioning turns to mush.

I lift my gaze to his and expect to find violence, to finally see the real man buried beneath that tighty-whitey collar. Instead, I’m met with panic, and it throws me, completely wiping out twenty years of automatic tactical response training.

He shakes his head at me, eyes wide. “Please.”

I should be shoving him off me. Instead, I’m not thinking at all. My body is. There’s no instinct for self-defense. No care. Just the feminine urge to hook my leg around his hip and pull the heat of his body into mine.

“Father!” Tawny’s voice grows louder as she nears the reliquary again. “I promise this is the last batch! Where are you?”

“Wha—” I try to speak, but his hand presses harder over my mouth.

I flatten my palms on his shoulders. Damn, he’s tense. Muscles are corded beneath. My fingers prod a little more. Fuck me, he’s ripped beneath this shirt. No wonder it looks snug.

“Shh.” Cisco continues to release quiet, guttural pleas in Italian. Something like, “Please, please, please, shh.”

I nod once, like a good little Sinner, and let the priest press against me harder.

Logic slowly filters back, and I narrow my eyes. This act of his seems very convincing. What if he does need my help? Stranger things have happened. Thea slept next to Prue for half a night before realizing Prue was possessed by a demon.

He doesn’t appear to be possessed, though. And that Beatific Vision sense Mary Magdalene’s Gospel gave me isn’t throwing an alarm. This must be all Cisco.

It’s almost entertaining. I’ll give him to the count of thirty to explain, then it’s gloves off.

Outside, Tawny’s voice pitches up, then down, like a whiny siren losing power. Her footsteps fade, and then it’s silent.

Still, we linger.

Still, his pulse rattles in my blood.

Finally, he eases off but doesn’t step away. The impression his body left on mine is hot and electric, like the aftershock of a punch. I tilt my chin, daring him to move first. Instead, he stares into my eyes. It’s more unnerving than his touch.

I raise my brows, about to say … something, but then his gaze darts down and notices my yoga shirt has ridden up my stomach, revealing a flash of abdomen. He dares to flush crimson in the cheeks. The ex-con priest with tattoos blushes. It takes all my self-control to calmly tug the hem down and take my time smoothing the fabric.

His blush deepens as his gaze tracks my hand. Watching him unravel is the most delicious drug. A part of me wants to dig further, to play with him some more. For a man who supposedly has a dangerous, violent criminal past, I’m not sure if I’m convinced. Surely this bashfulness isn’t what a decade of celibacy creates. Wait … maybe it’s more like two decades if I count his time in prison.

How sad.

Also … kind of hot.

No! The priest is not hot. He’s an asshole who betrayed us. My lips purse, and his eyes flick down to the corner of my mouth, then back up.