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I wish I didn’t need sex to feel the same level of satisfaction I did last night. I wish I didn’t crave the scent of a woman and nails digging into my flesh—basic human appetites that a man of my position has no business indulging. I hate that Ivy gives off some magnetic attraction that turns me weak and somehow powerless against my desires. And I wish my body didn’t hum with some annoying thrill at the thought of her lying helpless beneath me, but it does. It begs for more of her. So much more than the tempting little sample she offered me in that office.
This perverse and wrecking covetousness threatens everything I stand for, and still, my body refuses to relinquish this insatiable appetite for her. It refuses to forget the way her full and heavy breasts pressed against the fabric of her shirt, sketching the perfect shape of her pert nipples. The prop of her calf in three-inch heels that I can almost feel scoring down my back, painting a line of excruciating delight. The hem of her skirt riding up quivering thighs, while she offers me a small glimpse of my ruin. Wearing down my tightly-leashed restraint.
Damn this woman.
“And sex?” The mindless question tumbles from my lips before I can stop it.
Both eyes shoot to mine with an incredulous look—a cross between repulsion and surprise.
“Children. I assume you plan to have children that will be baptized through the church.”
The look of disgust withers to something more bashful, and Melissa blushes. “Of course. We’re hoping to start a family right away.”
“Very good.” I release a held breath, frustrated with myself. Much bigger issues weigh down on me, like how long it might take for the police to come snooping around, looking for answers, seeing as one of the caretakers finally reported Chuck Beatty missing a couple days ago. How long will Camila keep her silence about who came for her that night?
And why the hell did my dead wife have a lawyer’s contact information tucked inside her phone case, where I ordinarily wouldn’t have stumbled upon it.
I don’t need to be thinking about Ivy, or how much I want to pin her to that wall and watch her face all screwed up with ecstasy as she screams my name. No, that’s definitely the last thing that should be spinning inside my head right now, but she’s like an ice pick jabbing against my skull. A needling agony that won’t leave me be. One not even prayer can cast out of me, because she’s so firmly rooted in my mind, which is why I can’t reconcile these sins. Not yet, and certainly not with Ruiz, who has been nothing short of a mentor these past few years.
Priests like Ruiz, who were born ready to serve God, have no concept of what it’s like, how good it feels to be buried inside a woman, watching her face twist in pleasure. A man who’s never tasted an apple is only bound by his own curiosity, while a man who’s indulged in the delicious fruit is enslaved to the tart flavor that lingers on his tongue. Ruiz couldn’t possibly understand this affliction because he’s never had a woman like Ivy, whose coy demeanor and voluptuous curves trigger some sort of muscle memory, awakening this dormant lust. Forgetting the taste of her poison, after having licked it from her most forbidden places, is like trying to forget how to breathe. Impossible.
I crave more of it. More of her.
The meeting rolls on, as we finalize dates and expectations, and when it’s over, my thoughts of Ivy have once again commanded my body. I need distraction. Something to erase the visuals of her skirt hiked up, offering herself to me like a sacrifice. ‘Fucks sake, every muscle in my body is tense and trembling, desperate to find a quiet place to release. Balls heavy and aching, I squeeze them to temper this torment, and groan with the small bit of attention.
I’m due to make my rounds at two of the local nursing homes this afternoon, and the last thing I need is to offer the body of Christ with a hard-on poking through my slacks.
I head back to the rectory for a cold shower and a quick bite. Along the path, I catch Father Ruiz staring off toward the back of the church.
“Damon, can I talk to you for a second?” he asks in a heavy Spanish accent.
“Of course.”
“About a week ago, I heard a loud clatter. It startled me right out of my bed. I saw you in the backyard. ” As he goes on, I feel my pulse quicken, and my skin prickles on a rush of adrenaline. “You had a shovel. And you were digging a hole.”
Mind racing for an excuse, a reason I would’ve been in the backyard after nine o’clock, I cast my gaze away, hoping he can’t see the panic bubbling to the surface.
He turns to me, his brows set with disappointment. “Have you ever seen me sleepwalk before?”
Confusion slaps me in the face as I stare back at him, trying to tease out what he’s asking me. “I’m sorry, what?”
“By the time my brain finally caught up to what I was seeing, there was nothing there. You weren’t digging, and the only hole was the one the septic company dug a week before. I realized in that very moment that I must have been asleep. Then just last night, I woke to find myself standing in the kitchen with a half eaten orange. And it made me wonder, how long have I been doing this? How long have I walked around in my sleep?”
“I’ve … never seen you sleepwalk.”
“It’s the strangest thing.” On a laugh, he shakes his head and pats my shoulder. “Whatever would you be digging a hole for in the backyard?”
“A grave?”
He laughs harder, while mine lacks mirth, and he continues on toward the church. “Oh, one more thing, Damon. LaRonda asked me to let you know that they found the missing girl. She apparently discussed her with you.”
“Yes, we did talk about her. I’m happy to hear she’s home. I found that story to be very troubling.”
“As did I. Her mother asked us to bless the apartment for protection.”
“I didn’t … I wasn’t aware they were Catholic.”
“They’re not. LaRonda suggested it. I thought, since you had a hand in helping the child—”
