Page 95 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

“Ha!” I jab a finger at his chest. “You’re a fucking hypocrite.” Another jab. “It’s not God. It’s not your vows.” Scorn drips from my tongue. “You’re just a scaredy cat who⁠—”

Lips crash into mine and hold. The dagger slips from my hand, clattering on the tiles. Another tinkle follows—the belt. Cisco’s eyes widen, and glance down at our joined, unmoving lips. He’s shocked. I’m shocked. He did that—is doing that—kissing me.

Because he wants to.

And now he’s clamping his big hands on my head, pinning me in place, and pushing his tongue into my mouth. The deep and low groan he makes rattles in his chest.

Cisco doesn’t stop there. He kisses me hard, soft, deep, quick. He explores every part of my mouth with his tongue, licking my lower lip, along my teeth, plunging in deep, and around as if he’s staking his claim.

I’ve never been kissed like this.

I feel it with my whole body, in the way he pushes against me, how he pants and grunts as if he can’t get enough of me, in the way his fingers thread into my hair, explore my neck, curl around my nape.

It’s hot, passionate. Emotional. Overwhelming.

He’s inside me even when he is not.

Fuck me, I am found.

I pull back. At least, I try to. Cisco’s grip tightens, and every line of muscle on his body goes rigid.

“We should stop,” I pant out.

“No,” he clips. Just like that, he kisses me again until I force a break.

“You’re not thinking clearly.” I gesture at his erection. “This is some kind of side effect from your curse.” He bites my lower lip. “Whatever it is.” He licks my lip. “Which we should probably talk about.”

He growls, deep in his throat like a wolf. “Do not do this now.”

“People are waiting for us. Anyone could walk in. The children.”

“Stop it.”

“You promised you’d take confession tonight. The nuns are counting on you to be a priest.”

He lets go and steps back, fury emanating off his skin.

“You are making your bullshit again.” He raises his brows. “I know. I see.”

“If that’s what you need to think, then fine.” I play the victim card and grab my clothes. “I’ll dress in my room.”

Shit. I close my eyes. I have no bedroom to return to.

“I saw you, Mercy.” His breathing is loud and ragged behind me. “I saw you from the belfry.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

I swipe the dagger and shoes. When I straighten, he gives my bruised thighs a pointed look.

“The other night,” he grinds out. “At your bedroom window. I saw you touch yourself. Saw you wrap your fingers around your legs and squeeze.”

Something ugly twists my face. “You watched me?”

He stares at me, tense and holding his ground, but fidgeting.

“Yes,” he admits. “I did. So I know how you feel, even if you pretend you don’t.”

A thousand thoughts race through my mind. Cutting retorts, cruel and hurtful ones like, Did you get off? Did you like what you saw? Did you fuck your fist while I looked at the church and fingered myself, wishing it was you?