Sinner (Priest, #2)

by Sierra Simone

She’s stunning; she’s incredible. She’s the kind of beautiful that inspires songs and paintings and wars.

“And I do want to get to know you better. I want to know if you scream or if you moan when you come; I want to know if you prefer my mouth or my hands; I want to know if you like it deep and slow or fast and hard.”

I used to believe in God like I believed in cancer. That is, I knew both existed in a kind of distant, academic sense, but they were concepts that applied to other people; they were personally irrelevant to Sean Bell’s life.

Then cancer tore through my family with wind and knives and teeth, thundering and massive, and it ceased to be academic; it stopped being distant. It became real and terrible, more vengeful and omnipresent than any deity, and our lives became reoriented around its rituals; its communion of morphine lollipops and antinausea meds; its hymns of vaporizers and daytime television.

“There’s no agenda for life; there’s no itinerary; there’s no strategic plan,” Tyler continues. “Everything can go perfectly…until it doesn’t, and there’s nothing we can do to change it. There’s nothing you can do to change it. Don’t you see that?”

“Jesus Christ.” She laughs again. “Well, yes. He is kind of the point.”

“I’ve wanted to fuck you since the moment I saw you today,” I say, watching her blanch with surprise at my blunt lewdness. “I can’t stop thinking about pushing that jumper up to your waist and nuzzling into your cunt until my face smells like you. I want to bite your tits through that white shirt. I want to see that cross necklace sliding around your collarbone as I find out if you prefer two fingers or three.”

“Has Elijah told you how many women I’ve fucked? How many women I’ve made come? It’s a big number, Zenny, because I love to fuck. I love to make women come. I love to see their snug little cunts. I love to taste them and push my big cock into them until they stretch. I love having my hands full of their hair while I fuck their mouths. I love feeling a girl’s ass clench around my finger as I tongue her clit.”

My body responds before my mind, my heart hammering quick and my memories whirring like a merry-go-round, bringing up half-forgotten feelings. Feelings of magic and mystery and more-ness, as if this girl holds inside her a larger universe than the one I live in, as if she speaks a language I only hear in dreams I pretend I don’t dream.

And then she says “Sean” in this way like she’s said it to herself before. Like she’s murmured it into her pillow, like she’s doodled it in notebooks, like she’s imagined what it would be like to breathe my own name back into my lips. “Sean,” she says again and the heel of her palm hits my belt and it’s over, it’s done, my control is snapped like a cord. I groan. And yank her into a searing, burning kiss.

The moment her lips touch mine, I’m lost. To myself, to her, to any memory of what is right or true or necessary. Ecstasy. That’s what it’s called when saints experience spiritual euphoria, and I’m no saint, that’s for fucking sure, but this…this is ecstasy.

“The important thing is having a life with meaning. She seems to find that with the Catholic Church.”

Not begging to see her pussy like a thirsty man just craving the sight of water. I’m a responsible human, and while I recognize that I’m what some people might call sinful and others might call an asshole, I would never force myself on a woman. I am more than capable of keeping my hands and eyes and words to myself; I’m more than capable of being around someone I desire and still acting ethically and professionally. But that’s not the problem—the problem is that Zenny asks for things and once she asks, I can’t trust myself to say no.