Page 86 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

He might act like he’s okay taking hits, but he’s not. He’ll fight me soon enough. He must. Because if he doesn’t, then he’s telling the truth, and I don’t know what to do with men who tell the truth. I have no playbook for that. I have weapons for hunger, for hate, and for hypocrisy, but I don’t have a single weapon for tenderness.

I snap my hand out, aiming for the same vulnerable spot. He deflects, just in time.

“Instinct?” I scoff. “I think not.”

Fire flashes in his eyes, but it’s nothing compared to the inferno of righteousness blazing inside of me. He said it himself in his room—he likes to judge. This is all for show. He’s a liar like the rest of them, and now I get to peel him apart in front of the entire abbey and finally, finally breathe.

“You men are all the same,” I grind out.

With that, I go at him hard. Strike after strike. Any time he deflects or blocks, I aim for the opening. Each time I add another dig at his integrity, pointing out his hypocrisy.

“What’s the matter, Padre? Did I find the bruise?”

Strike.

“You said no limits. You said give it to you. Is this how you swallow it? With your hands up?”

Strike. He deflects.

“You called yourself a filter. A function. Funny … I didn’t think functions got hard when taking confession.”

That lands. His head snaps back and blood sprays, but I don’t hold back. I go in for the kill. I pummel him fast enough, hard enough that his instincts force him to pull me into a boxer’s hug.

Now I’m close enough to whisper, “Tell me, Father—when you knelt in that pew after I left the booth, were you praying for me? Or were you praying because of me?”

He thrusts me off him. The board tips, and we both have to pause to rebalance. Fucker. He did that on purpose. He knew I was gaining traction.

Eyes wild, he wipes his mouth, sees blood, and then spits.

Desire blooms low in my belly. The priest is so goddamn hot when he’s ruffled. That competitive streak of his is dying to get out. Such a shame. He would have been such a good fuck.

“Ninety seconds!” Raven shouts.

I drop and spin, swinging my leg to sweep him off his feet. He and I careen to the side, but I grab his shirt and roll us just enough to stop from falling overboard.

“I’m not done destroying you yet,” I snarl in his ear and then nimbly bounce to my feet, adjusting my weight to flow with the balance board.

“Good.” He laughs loudly, pushing to his feet. Hair messed up, shirt untucked, white collar crooked. He lowers his volume, just for me. “You are beautiful when you want to destroy something.”

“So are you.”

I didn’t mean to say that, so I jab him in the eye socket. His head snaps back, but he holds his balance.

Fists up, I lean back and kick high. He captures my ankle beside his head and holds.

I hold too, bent back at the hips, balanced on one leg. I feel his trembling down to my bones. He’s close. One more push and I’ll see the truth.

Cisco’s eyes follow the line of my leg to my open thighs, rapidly darken, then slowly drag up to my face. Intense, hungry eyes lock with mine, and his grip tightens to a cruel vice on my ankle. My lungs heave in a sharp intake of breath. This is not the same man who stepped onto the board with me. I’m not even sure it’s a man in there.

“Sixty seconds!”

Cheering escalates. Roars. The Sinners are the loudest, egging me on, wanting me to stop holding back and to make the priest eat his holy words.

“Hear that, Padre?” I yank my ankle, but his grip holds tight. “They want me to give you a mouthful. But you’re not ready for that.”

“Try me.” Guttural. Deep. Rough.

His fingers flex on my ankle. It’s the kind of reflex I’m trained to read, a tell that lets me know he’s about to let me go, not hurt me.