Sinner (Priest, #2)

by Sierra Simone

I provide and source additional funding for charities across the Metro area—charities like the shelter belonging to the Servants of the Good Shepherd—and what I do actually helps people. Can you imagine? Sean Bell, philanthropist? But it’s no less likely than Sean Bell, husband. Or Sean Bell, father. And all of those things are blessedly, happily true.

I’m already relentless when it comes to Zenobia Iverson, my best friend’s younger sister and the woman I stole away from God last year, but our wedding rehearsal made me into a madman.

“You need to come, don’t you, baby? Just real fast, just to take the edge off until tomorrow night. Just until I can take my time with my new wife and give her everything I’ve been saving for her.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” she says with a laugh. “But I got it, Daddy,” she adds with a coy smile as she spins away. Lust hits me in the stomach like a cannonball. “Daddy? Really?” She’s never called me Daddy before. I didn’t even know that was a thing she wanted to call me. And now I need to find out how fast I can make her use that word again, if I can make her say it to me over and over.

He finally pulls the hand between my legs free and then presses those fingers to my lips. “Open.” I open and taste myself—rich, creamy—and then I suck his fingers clean, like I know he wants. His blue eyes are nearly black in the shadows of the church as he watches. “Turn around,” he says. His voice is rough. Dangerous. Ten minutes between my legs and the wayward angel has fallen even further into hell. “Elbows on the ledge, knees apart. I want to see what I can fuck.”

(And just between us: I get a sick thrill from knowing I made him like this. Slick, successful Sean Bell with all his millions—turned mindless and feral just by looking at me.)

Sean’s face next to mine in the water. He’s bending over me now, bracing his hands next to my elbows and his knees planted on the insides of mine, pushing them farther apart. He’s covering me, claiming me, and his face in the water is haunted with lust as our gazes meet in the reflection. “Pretty Zenny,” he says, voice filled with praise and whatever praise’s hornier cousin is. “Gorgeous girl. Perfect girl. God, you make me an animal.”

“That’s it, baby,” he grunts. “Come for Daddy.”

She doesn’t have her veil, and maybe God wanted it that way, because veiling all this luminous, resplendent beauty would be a sin. A denial of God’s creation. She’s meant to be seen, she’s meant to awe. She’s meant to bring me to my knees.