Page 7 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

The black veil and white wimple frame her face, drawing attention to her natural beauty. Blue eyes are bluer. Dark eyelashes are longer. Skin is dewy and lickable. Freckles previously hidden by makeup are now visible. And those lips, Dio mio, those lips. They’re plump, rosy, and oh-so biteable. The little beauty spot at the corner of her mouth disappears. My gaze flicks up to her narrowed eyes as she watches me.

She shuffles forward in the line. “Perhaps we need to find somewhere private before we visit the Vatican.”

An image of last night flashes in my head—her on the oratory desk, thighs parted for my cock sliding through her pink, glistening folds. Hunger roars through my blood, and I have to clamp it down hard.

“What for?” I manage to say, tugging my collar.

“We haven’t had much time to talk, just you and me.” A single brow on her forehead arches. “About what we’re walking into.”

“That’s because you slept almost the entire way.”

“Trust me,” she drawls. “Mercy after a plane ride without sleep is as bad as Mercy without sex.”

The old lady behind her must speak English because she gasps. Without skipping a beat, Mercy turns to her and smiles gently. “Peace be with you, my child.”

The customs officer calls me forward, sparing me the need to comment on Mercy’s suggestion. The truth is, I don’t want to talk about what’s inside me, or what I am. I don’t want to speculate or hypothesize. I just want to get into the Vatican, smooth things over with my superiors, and find that missing sword hilt so we can deal with the Paolo situation and then go home.

Dealing with the Paolo situation is part of the Vatican situation, which is part of my curse situation. This is where it all tangles into a knot, and I’d rather stop thinking about it.

“Buongiorno, Padre.”

I tense and wait for it. I can almost feel Mercy’s smugness rolling into my back. We are in Italy, and a stranger has called me Padre. I can just imagine her retort when we are alone again. The title is more of a preference for me, and—I exhale and hand my passport to the officer—I suppose that’s Mercy’s point.

“Buongiorno,” I greet. “Tutto bene?”

It’s a fair point. I’ll give Mercy that.

But I don’t want her calling me Padre. I don’t want her calling me Don.

As the officer waxes on about the recent heatwave, I hear Mercy’s soft, wicked huff of a laugh. I turn and find her at the next checkpoint, flirting with the young male customs officer. She leans in, flatters him with her words, and lingers a little too long on his hand as she exchanges her passport.

Her moves are so subtle that, to a regular person, she doesn’t come across as flirting. She’s simply an attractive, charismatic nun.

But I know her. I know that touch.

The old lady behind me makes another scornful sound.

Okay, maybe Mercy is not being so subtle.

Maybe I want to choke that young man.

Logically, I know the act is part of her job. It’s a diversion tactic to endear him to her cause in case of an issue with her fake passport. Or an issue like Wesley’s spell failing to hide the holster housing a dangerous weapon between her shoulder blades. We made it through security, but that doesn’t mean the spell is foolproof.

She is a good operative.

But I hate that man looking at her like he wants to eat her, and I hate that I am not allowed to eat him first.

“Padre? Scusi, Padre?”

I whip my head back around to my officer, who is holding out my passport.

I snatch it, grip tight enough to indent the cover.

“You’ll have to excuse him.” Mercy, having already been approved, is now at my side. “He’s been in America so long that he’s forgotten how to smile in his own language. Isn’t that right, Padre?”

I don’t look at her. I can’t. If I do, I’ll look at her mouth. Then I’ll think about all the ways I can fill it.

“Grazie.” I nod curtly to the officer.