Priest (Priest, #1)

by Sierra Simone

“No penance, but I do have a small assignment,”

“It’s to think about your life. You have strong faith but no direction. Other than the Church, what gives you passion in life? Why do you get out of bed in the morning? What gives your daily activities and thoughts meaning?”

‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned’?”

I need to know that everything will be okay. Didn’t we all? Wasn’t that the unspoken cry of our broken souls?

“I don’t know if everything will be okay. It may not be. You may think you are at the lowest point now and then look up one day and see that it’s gotten so much worse.”

“You may not ever be able to get out of bed in the morning with that security. That moment of okay may never come. All you can do is try to find a new balance, a new starting point. Find whatever love is left in your life and hold on to it tightly. And one day, things will have gotten less gray, less dull. One day, you might find that you have a life again. A life that makes you happy.”

I thought about my mystery penitent all day. I thought about her as I prepared my homily for Sunday’s Mass. I thought about her as I ran the men’s Bible study and as I prayed my nightly prayers. I thought about that glimpse of dark hair, that throaty

voice. Something about her…what was it? It’s not like I’d been a corpse since taking the robe—I was still very much a man. A man who’d liked fucking a lot before he’d heard the call.

I fell asleep with the rosary beads clenched in my fist, as if they were an amulet to ward off unwanted thoughts.

but let me tell you, Father, good deeds don’t warm your bed at night, and I’m filled with this awful kind of despair because I can’t have both and I want both.

I want a good life, and I want passion and romance. But I was raised to see one as a waste and the other as distasteful, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop feeling like “Poppy Danforth” has become synonymous with waste and distaste, even though I’ve done everything I possibly can to escape that feeling…

Not the wolf who had woken up this morning grinding his hips into the mattress because he’d had a very intense dream with Poppy and her carnal sins in a starring role.

Guilt is a sign from your conscience that you’ve strayed from the Lord. Confess your sin to God openly and sincerely. Ask for forgiveness and the strength to overcome the temptation should it arise again.

the best decisions were the ones with the most short-term unhappiness.

Was she insane? Did she think that my uncontrollable hard-ons around her were a sign of dislike?

believe in God, Poppy, but I also believe that spirituality isn’t for everybody. You may find what you’re looking for in a profession you’re passionate about, or in travel, or in a family, or in any other number of things. Or you may find that another religion fits you better. I don’t want you to feel pressured to explore the Catholic Church for any reason other than genuine interest or curiosity.”

“And what about an unbelievably hot priest? Is that a sound reason for exploring the Church?”

“but I was also heartbroken over my life…and

and it hadn’t even happened yet.

Dirty, filthy girl.

“I liked how it felt. Having men watch me with hooded eyes, wanting me and only me—not my education or my pedigree or my family’s connections. But even more than that, on this raw, primal level, I loved the way the men responded to my body. I loved that I made them hard.”

“But it wasn’t the same, getting myself off,” she said. “I wanted to be fucked, fucked and used. I wanted to be filled with someone’s dick. I wanted to have fingers in my mouth and in my cunt. In my ass.”

“What’s that sin called? I know it has to be one. Is it just lust…or is it something worse? What kind of prayer should I pray for that one? And what if I don’t feel bad about what I’ve done, the things I wanted to do? Even now, even after what happened last month, I still want it. I still feel lonely. I still want to be fucked. Which is confusing as hell because I have no idea about anything else I want out of my life.”

There wasn’t time to feel guilty or question my motives or for anything remotely resembling thought. I didn’t even pull my slacks down any farther than it took to free my dick, and then I was jacking myself hard and fast, nothing in my mind but release.

Luckily, she took the chair opposite me before I lost all control and broke my vows in front of everyone in the coffee shop.

si vis amari, ama? ‘If you wish to be loved, love’?

“Father Bell?”

“Hello, Poppy,”

“How did it feel? It felt amazing. Like he was claiming me from the inside out, and when he came inside of me, it felt like he was marking me as his property, and it was his climax that made me orgasm again. I can’t help it—a guy coming is the hottest

fucking thing, especially when I can feel it inside of me…”

but I was willing to accept sex in lieu of love because I wanted that just as much as I wanted the romance, and

That I’d rather have sex without love than have no sex at all? So what do I do now? How do I carry the shame of all this while at the same time knowing it’s a fundamental part of who I am?”

I stopped seeing a penitent. I stopped seeing a child of God. I stopped seeing a lost lamb in need of a shepherd.

“Poppy,” I said dangerously, “did you come here without underwear?”

I knelt down behind her and spread her legs, spread them so that her cunt was gloriously bared to me. “My little lamb,” I whispered. “You are so very, very wet right now.”

“God wouldn’t punish me for just one taste.”

I traced my way from her clit to her cunt with my tongue and (forgive me, my God) but no communion wine, no salvation had ever tasted sweeter than this, and one taste would not be enough.

All I could breathe and taste was her, and then I looked up and saw the crucifix at the front of the church—a tragic, agonized god hanging in sacrifice—and my heart lurched.

What the hell was I doing? Anybody could walk in right now, walk in

the front door, and see their priest with a woman bent over the piano, kneeling as if he were praying to her cunt, kneeling with his face buried in her ass. What would they think? After I had worked so hard to repair this town’s hurt, ...

What does an oath mean to me if only three years after swearing chastity, I’m shoving my tongue up a woman’s wet cunt?

“But I won’t lie. It makes me hard as fuck knowing that I was the first man to taste you.”

“We won’t have sex,” she promised. “No sex, and then it’s not really breaking any rules, right?”

Her mouth parted and her cheeks reddened and then she was lying on the carpet, her hand on her cunt. I stood over her, fisting my cock, giving in to it all, giving in to everything, as long as it ended in her covered in my climax.

I wanted to. I wanted to, I wanted to, I wanted to. I wanted to fuck this woman more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life.

But even if I was, holy fuck, I was not stopping.

the way it was just our arousal lubricating us and nothing else, and God, I wanted to marry this woman or collar her or cage her; I wanted to own her, make her, take her; I wanted us on this old carpet forever, with her hair coming undone and her nipples hard and her naughty pussy milking my dick for everything it was worth.

And at that moment—at the peak of my high, at the peak of her greedy triumph—our eyes locked and we surged past every barrier—stranger and stranger, priest and penitent, Tyler and Poppy. We were simply male and female, as God had made us, Adam and Eve, in the most elemental and fundamental form.

“Will it drive you wild,” she asked after a moment, “knowing that I’ll be touching myself, just inches from you, every time I come in to confess?”

I wanted to do it again. I wanted Poppy again. And