Page 65 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

My pulse spikes.

The doorknob turns, and a flutter lodges between my ribs.

Mercy walks into the room, bringing warmth. The sun I lost.

She closes the door, rests her spine against the wood, and then stares at me with expressive eyes that somehow make me ache instead of flutter.

In that black Sinner battle gear, she wears her hoodie open and sagging off her shoulders. My lips press with the stifled urge to fix it. Her tank top is more of a suggestion than a garment, clinging to her curves like a second skin, thin enough to reveal the imprint of her lace bra.

My fingers curl into fists.

“So.” My voice is hoarse. “You finally decided I’m worth your time.”

Her only reaction is a slight uptick of her eyebrow.

“You made me wait,” I say. “Again.”

“Poor diddums.”

“I do not know this word.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“You interrogated the others when I should have come first.”

A smile touches her plump, glossy lips, and all I want to do is bite them. Make them bleed. I should be able to control myself around her, but no matter how stalwart my resolve when she is not nearby, when she is … when we share the same air … I can’t stop wanting her.

This is why I prefer the sanctuary of the confessional for conversations I cannot control. A physical barrier between us is safer.

For her.

Mercy pushes off the door and strolls toward me, hips swaying hypnotically until she sees what I’ve laid out on the bed.

“You redecorating, Padre? Or is this your way of asking for a product demo?”

Padre. Again?

“Call me Father.” I hold her gaze, refusing to take the bait.

She ignores me and picks up the blue, glittery one. “You want a lesson? Might help with all that tension.”

My breathing shallows, fists flexing. “Put it down.”

She does, but not before trailing elegant fingers along its length, watching me follow the movement. A spark of heat kindles within my body.

It’s all theater, all contest, but I savor it. Because under the desire, something colder is itching inside me: the certainty that if we let down our defenses, one of us is going to destroy the other.

“I should have come first, Mercy.”

“I’ve always found that men who insist on coming first have the least to offer.” Blue eyes clash with mine. “I prefer for a man to come last. It ensures he’s … focused.”

I close the distance, suddenly right there in her space. The air grows heavy with tension. She lifts her gaze to mine, and it simmers.

“You play games,” I grind out. “But you need to understand: Here, I am not your enemy.”

I’m so close I can count the freckles on her bare shoulder. Eight large, but at least thirty small. I did not see those from the belfry.

Mercy drags her gaze over me from head to toe, making my pulse thrum. “Father Francisco Angelotti—Francisco. Is that even your real name?”