Page 133 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

My need for her thundered in my veins with a vengeance, furious at being denied all day—all week. Dio. Has it been that long? Stealing a private moment with her has been hard.

I am busy, yes. But I am also a little afraid. I had thought after the curse left me that my hunger for her in the bedroom would abate, or at least dim to a manageable level.

But I want her more.

I think about taking her all the time, in every way, in every place. I want her in the bedroom. I want her in the shower. In the garden. During Mass. Confession. Meals. I want her basically every minute of my existence.

I am not afraid of the hunger, but I know that I can’t be quiet. I don’t want to be. I don’t want her to be. I want to fuck her so hard that we make holes in the wall from the banging bedposts.

I don’t want to think about the people in the room next to ours. I don’t want to think about the children sleeping down the hall.

I can’t live like this.

So came up with a plan.

But now we’re here, and Mercy’s plump behind sways at my eye level, practically begging to be bitten—I’m suddenly nervous, and a thousand worries flit through my mind.

What will she think of the Pope’s offer?

What will she think of mine?

What will she think of my gifts?

Is my surprise stupid?

Did I go overboard?

Dio, the gifts. There are boxes of them. I tug my collar again and swallow the lump forming in my throat.

Every nerve ending goes numb when she opens the trapdoor to the belfry, sticks her head up through the hatch, and gasps.

“Cisco!”

“Let me explain⁠—”

“Oh, my God!” She scrambles up before I can stop her, shoes falling on my head. “When did you have time to do all this—oh, shit. Babe, is this what I think it is?”

I hear her cross the floor above me as I collect her shoes and toss them up after her.

My heart is pounding a million miles an hour. The basket is slipping from my sweaty palms. The Pope’s letter burns a hole in my back pocket and in the other, something much smaller, gold, and circular.

Her head pops through the trap door, red scarf haloed by golden sun rays filtering through the louvers.

“You all right there, Padre? You look kind of ill.”

I clear my throat. “Is good.”

“Is good?” Her brows arch at my slip into broken English.

A flush of embarrassment creeps up my neck, and I mutter a string of curse words under my breath.

“Love it when you talk dirty to me.” She winks.

My cock twitches.

Mercy reaches down for the basket. “Come on. You’re missing the sunset.”

I let her take it, and then lever myself up through the hatch, closing the trap door behind me. I take a steadying breath and say a silent prayer of gratitude. The stench of urine and whiskey is still hidden beneath the faint scent of bleach I used to clean yesterday. At least, there’s that.