Sinner (Priest, #2)

by Sierra Simone

“a girl can work and go to school at the same ...

“But the kind of job where you have to cha...

I study he...

“Are you sure it’s not for witness protection? L...

“I’m super...

she ...

“It’s just a very unu...

“Are you going to tell me abou...

She tilts her head, ...

“...

she decides...

“Not right now at...

“No f...

I ac...

“That was clickbait-y and you know it. Plus I still don’t kno...

“M...

she replies after ...

“You can call m...

I give her a skepti...

“That sounds...

She shrugs, and the movement makes her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the back of my neck, and it feels so fucking good I want to purr. I’ve been in bed with gorgeous women, experienced women, more than one woman at a time, and somehow the play of Mary’s fingers through the short hair at the nape of my neck is more intense, more stirring, than anything I can remember ever feeling. I pull her in a little closer as the music sweeps into a softer, more melancholy song; ...

“I haven’t danced like this...

Mary admits as we step easily arou...

“You’re too young to soun...

I tell her. She gives me a...

“It’s ...

“That you haven’t danced like this in years or that you’re too yo...

“B...

she says, still with that...

“Both are...

I urge her into a small spin, selfishly wanting to see the flare and wrap of her dress along her body, and when I see it, I have to trap the growl rumbling in my chest. God, those hips. That waist. Those small, high tits, braless and palm-sized under her dress. I yank her back into me, sliding my hand slowly across her back, teasing my fingers along the straps crisscrossing her spine. She shudders at my touch, her lips partin...

“M...

I ru...

“S...

she sighs, and she says it like she’s been waiting to say it; she says it without hesitation, without worry, without the usual clumsiness of someone saying a name they’ve just learned. And the sound of my name on her lips unlocks a deep, heady need, something famil...

“Do you still want th...

I ask her in a low voice. All of her seems ready now, there’s no fear anywhere in her face, but I want to make certain. I want her to want this as much as I do. I want her to burn with needing my mouth on hers. She blinks up at me, her eyes pure liquid heat, and when I run m...

“I wan...

she whi...

“Kiss...

I bend my head down, pulling her flush against my body so that every tight curve of hers is smashed against the muscled length of me, and I am about to replace my finger with my lips, about to finally taste her, about to kiss her until she can’t stand on her own two feet anymore…when a jarring bar of flattened pop music ricochets through the air. And ...

Her eyes are warm and worried and her lips are pulled into a little frown that I’ll forever regret not being able to kiss off her face.

something vulnerable and very young in her face, and fuck if it doesn’t pull at every corner of my lust and also at the bizarrely intense protectiveness I feel toward her.

I take her hand and raise the back of it to my lips. It wouldn’t be right taking a real kiss before I dash off—something about it feels sleazy, even to me—but this, well, I can’t resist this. The silky brush of her skin against my lips, the smell of something light and floral. Roses, maybe. Fuck. Fuck. It really hits me that this is the last time I might ever see this woman, the one woman I’ve met in years that I desperately want to see more of, and there’s nothing I can do about it. She’s too young and she’s not offering me any way to contact her anyway—and I have to get the fuck out of here and up to the hospital. I drop her hand with more reluctance than I’ve ever felt over anything in my life, and I take a step back.

It was a long fucking night, and not the good kind…except for the part with Mary, because I could have spent a thousand long nights with her. Which means I’m going straight to hell. Thirty-six-year-old men like me have no business wanting to see a college student’s pussy. Wanting to lick and rub her until she’s wet and mewling, wanting to split her legs open and mount her. Wanting to fuck and thrust and grind until she’s come so many times under me that she’s forgotten her name—and her fake name. And now I’m hard, which is great, just fucking great.

“And they were going to send their boss or whatever to meet you, but I guess one of the sisters is sick, so they’re sending a nun intern to meet with you.” “A nun intern?” Valdman looks impatient. “You know, like she’s not a nun yet, but she’s a nun-in-training or something. I don’t know—you’re the one with the priest brother, right?” “Postulant,” I say, surprised I still know the word. “She must be a postulant.” And then I add, “And he’s not a priest anymore.” His brow furrows. “But that must mean your whole family is Catholic, right? That you’re Catholic?” “They used to be, and I haven’t been Catholic since college,” I say, and something in the tone of my voice makes Valdman shut up about it. “Ah, okay. Well, anyway, the training nun offered to come here, but I think you better go to her. Makes for a better first impression. She’s expecting you around ten at the shelter.” I glance at the clock. Thirty minutes from now I’m going to be shaking hands with a nun. What the fuck happened to my day? “What’s the postulant’s name?” I ask as I stand. Might as well go in having as much information as possible. Valdman glances at his computer screen. “Um, it’s Iverson.” My blood jumps up a degree in temperature. Chill out, Sean. There’s probably lots of Catholics with the last name Iverson in Kansas City. Valdman squints at whatever notes Trent the Secretary left him in the call memo. “Zenobia,” he pronounces. “Zenobia Iverson.” “Zenny,” I correct automatically. Valdman looks up at ...

meet Elijah’s little sister and cajole her into calling off the press dogs. Easy peasy, right?

Little Zenny-bug is a nun? Little Zenny-bug is a nun who reported my financial firm to the press?

I picture Zenny as I remember her best—as Zenny-bug, young and dimpled, with hair in pigtails that ended in little dandelion-shaped puffs.

I hear a door open somewhere I can’t see, I hear footsteps on the linoleum, and suddenly, I’m suffused with huge amounts of confidence. Optimism. Because this is baby Zenny, baby Zenny who likes Jurassic Park and who brought me a book once just so I wouldn’t be bored. This is the same baby Zenny I had to push in the swings at the park and guard my popcorn from during family movie nights. This is my best friend’s little sister, and this is going to be so easy. She’ll see her old friend Sean and realize that this was all a misunderstanding, a simple mix-up, and then she’ll step aside and let me clean this up. Like I said before, easy peasy. The footsteps get closer and I take a step back from the window, already pinning my best big-brotherly smile on my face as Zenny comes into view. Except. Except. Shit. It’s not Zenny at all. It’s Mary.