I let go of her hand and shut the laptop closed, standing abruptly. "Sorry. It's none of my business."

"You're a spiritual advisor," she said, peering up at me. "Isn't everything your business?"

I was too busy pushing my stuff into my laptop bag to answer, desperate to leave, trying to convince myself that it was okay, it was fine, I had just comforted her, I had basically done nothing more than hold her hand, which I wouldn't think twice about doing with any other parishioner.

It was fine.

But when I turned around, Poppy was standing next to me with her own bag all packed up. "Can I walk with you back to the church?" she asked. "My house is on the same block."

Of course it was.

"Sure," I said, hoping I sounded normal and not like a priest trying to fight an erection in public. "No problem."

We stepped out into the heavy May heat, crossing the street. The silence between us felt odd, laden with whatever strange moment had just happened, and so I spoke, trying to stave off the fantasies that continued to crowd at the edge of my mind.

"How long have you lived here?"

"Not long," she said. "I just closed on the house two weeks ago, actually. Once the owner of the club I worked at found out I had an MBA and a lot of experience, he asked me to come on board as a marketing and financial consultant, which I could do remotely and which pays-well, it pays a lot. And then last month, when he found me..."

Her voice broke and she squinted at the sidewalk, as if examining something. I wasn't sure exactly what had upset her, but I gave her a moment to collect herself.

We walked several feet before she continued. "So now I make good money, working for a nice guy, and I have the freedom of starting over in a sweet little town. It's what I had wanted before Sterling came to the club."

Sterling. I recognized that name from our conversation about her past, and d.a.m.n it all if it didn't trigger a ridiculous spike of jealousy, as if there were any universe in which I'd be allowed to feel possessive of Poppy Danforth.

We reached the church.

"It was nice to run into you, Father," she said with another one of those small smiles, making as if to keep walking.

"Which one is your house?" I was stalling. I knew I was, but I couldn't help it. I needed just one more glimpse of those red lips, one more word in that breathy voice.

"That one." She pointed to a house across the park, a snug bungalow with a large tree in the front yard and an overgrown garden in back. I would be able to see it from the rectory. I would be able to see if her lights were on, if her car was in the driveway, if she was moving through her kitchen early in the morning making her coffee.

That didn't seem like it would be a very healthy opportunity for me to have.

"Well, if you need any help moving furniture around or anything..."

s.h.i.t. Why did I offer that? As if being alone with her, in her house, was a great thing for me to do.

But then her face lit up and my stomach constricted at the sight. Because she was beautiful all the time, but happy? Happy, she was f.u.c.king radiant.

"That would be amazing," she said. "I don't know anybody here and my friends in the city are all so far away...yes, I will definitely let you know if I need help."

"Okay," I said, still captivated by her smile and her suddenly lively eyes. "Any time."

She leaned forward, pushing up on her toes, and I had no idea what she was doing until I felt her soft lips press against my cheek. I froze, every detail, every sensation etching itself into my soul, imprinting itself while she imprinted my skin with her crimson lipstick.

"Thank you," she murmured, her words and her breath near my ear, and then she bit her lip and turned away, walking towards her house.

And I went inside the rectory for another twenty-minute cold shower.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't both dreading and looking forward to Monday's confession hours with equal measure. I'd spent Ma.s.s on Sunday searching the pews for Poppy, and when I didn't see her, a brief balloon of hope and despair had risen in my mind. Maybe she was gone, maybe her brief flirtation with religion had flamed out, and maybe this un-winnable test of my self-control was over.

Maybe she was done with me, I would think, and the balloon would fill with relief.

Maybe she was done with me, I would think again, and this time the balloon held only pain.

And so when Rowan finally left the booth that Monday and someone else slipped inside, the balloon burst with a vengeance, and my pulse began to race (with trepidation or arousal, I didn't know.) "Father Bell?" a low voice asked.

"h.e.l.lo, Poppy," I said, trying to pretend that her voice didn't go straight to my d.i.c.k.

She let out a laugh, small and relieved, and the sound conjured up her smile from Friday, the way she'd beamed at me when I'd offered to help her settle into her house.

"I don't know what I expected. It's just-it feels too good to be true sometimes. I left Kansas City looking for a new start, some meaning in my pointless life, and then here's this unbelievably handsome priest, practically in my backyard, willing to listen to all of my problems."

"It's my job," I said gruffly, trying to ignore the boyish jolt of happiness that came when she called me handsome. "I'm here for everyone."

"Yes, I know. But right now, 'everyone' includes me and I can't tell you how grateful I am for that."

Tell her you can't do it, my conscience demanded, thinking of the other day in my office. Help her find someone else-anyone else-to confess to.

Yes. I should do that. Because she was making it clear that she trusted me, all while I was betraying that trust over and over again in my mind. (In lots of different positions. On every surface in my house.) But just as I'd resolved to bite the proverbial bullet and tell her how it had to be, she said, "Are you ready?" and then no other words came to mind except: "Yes."

Poppy Things went on like that for about a year and half. Between helping Mark with the business end of things and the dancing, I was making almost as much money as I would have at one of those offices in New York. I loved that I got to dance, loved it. Even if it wasn't ballet or jazz, it was still my body and rhythm and music. And I loved how much s.e.x there was in the job-even if no one was having s.e.x there, it still hung everywhere, this fog of desire, and I couldn't get enough of it.

But I was lonely. The men at the club kept begging to take me home, offering way more than one night stands, offering penthouses and yachts and stipends, but I refused to be a mistress. I may love s.e.x, but I also have a mind and a soul. I want to have a husband one day and kids and grandkids and the whole thing...I couldn't bear to have any subst.i.tute for it, no matter how good it might make me feel temporarily.

But the trade-off for my self-respect was a cold bed and an over-used vibrator, and it was starting to wear thin. Not to mention all the things I just talked about-the husband and the kids and all that. I began to miss my old life. Not the monotony or the hypocrisy, but the guarantee at least. If I had stayed, I would've never been alone. I would have been married by now, possibly pregnant. And what if I'd made the wrong decision? What if I'd ruined my chances at a happy life, because let's face it, what man is going to marry a stripper-no matter where she came from or who she is?

And that was when Sterling came to the club.

Sterling Haverford III. Yes, I know it's a ridiculous name, but where we came from, it was par for the course (especially if your estate had its own golf course.) I was doodling Mrs. Sterling Haverford in my flimsily locked diaries ever since I could remember. He was my first kiss, my first cigarette, my first o.r.g.a.s.m. Of course, I know now that I wasn't his first anything, and that even while he was dating me, he was f.u.c.king other girls. But at the time, I was convinced we were getting married. That he loved me.

I was convinced of it right up until my parents got the invitation to his wedding. To Penelope f.u.c.king Middleton.

We'd been off and on, for sure, but I thought it was the distance and how dedicated I was to school and charity, and f.u.c.k, I'm crying now, I'm so sorry. I'm not even sad about it, I'm just p.i.s.sed still, that I'd given so much time to this a.s.shole, and then when I was feeling so low about everything, he had the nerve to show up at the club.

I a.s.sumed he was in town for a business meeting and that maybe a potential client had brought him to the club for a little extra wooing-not an uncommon scenario where I worked, especially when it came to the private rooms in the back. And of all the girls that could have been working that particular room that night, it was me.

It was f.u.c.king me.

I had on six-inch heels and a bright blue wig and he still knew me the moment I entered, just as I'd known from one glimpse of his profile that it was him.

"Jesus Christ," he said, his words carrying like a poisonous melody over the throbbing music. "Is it really you?"

I stood in the door, having no idea what the f.u.c.k to do. I knew I could go find Mark, explain to him that I knew the client and couldn't dance for him-Mark would understand. But even three years after he'd dumped me via wedding invitation to another girl, I still couldn't force myself to walk away. Or stop listening when he started talking.

He said he couldn't believe it-everyone had thought I'd absconded off to Europe or someplace exotic and all the while, I had been here. He gestured to me, to indicate the skimpy outfit I wore, to indicate all the things that came along with here, the dancing and the alleged disgrace, but I saw the moment he was done making his point, the moment his pupils dilated and he took in my nearly naked body.

He'd married f.u.c.king Penelope but he was here and he was here for me, and f.u.c.k it all, I wanted that. That moment where he chose me over her. No matter how wrong it was.

"Come inside," he said, and I did.

Will G.o.d forgive me for that? Because I could have left. Without any consequences. I could have found another girl and left the club without another moment spent with Sterling Haverford III. But deep down, I wanted to stay. Deep down, I wanted what I knew would happen if I stayed.

I closed the door behind me and crossed my arms, and then told him exactly how much of an a.s.shole he was. To his credit, he didn't deny it.

He asked me to come closer. It was a command, and Lord help me, I've always responded to commands. I walked over to him, and he ran a hand up my flank to where my skirt hung just below my a.s.s. His wedding ring glinted in the low neon light of the room. His f.u.c.king wedding ring from his f.u.c.king marriage to Penelope f.u.c.king Middleton.

I tried to pull back, but he reached up and grabbed my arm.

And then he said, "You know why I didn't marry you, Poppy?" He was caressing the inside of my thigh now and I couldn't help it, I took a tiny step to the side, just to widen my legs the smallest bit.

He smiled and went on. "It's not because I didn't want to be married to a Danforth. G.o.d knows that with your family and your money and your brains, on paper you would have been the perfect wife. But we both know better, don't we, Poppy?"

His fingers finally found what they were looking for, my lace thong, and he curled his fingers around the fabric and ripped, the flimsy material tearing easily, granting him access to my c.u.n.t.

"Deep down," he said, continuing his earlier train of thought, touching me, touching me so much now, "deep down, we both know that you're a little s.l.u.t. Yes, with a perfect background and a perfect education, but you were made for being a wh.o.r.e, Poppy, not a wife."

I told him to f.u.c.k off, and then he said, "Do you think I just showed up here accidentally? I've been looking for you for three years. You're mine or have you forgotten?"

How could I be his when he had a f.u.c.king wife? I asked him that.

And he responded that he didn't give a s.h.i.t about her-which is probably the truth. But he told me he married her because he needed someone proper, someone he wouldn't worry about his clients wanting to f.u.c.k.

And then he said that wasn't me. Said I screamed s.e.x with my t.i.ts and my mouth, and not only did I always want it, but I always looked like I wanted it. And he couldn't have that in the precious Haverford family portrait.

The worst thing was, I knew he wasn't saying it like an insult. Those were just the facts. People like us weren't supposed to be this way. We were supposed to be reserved and cold. Thin and bloodless. s.e.x was either a necessity or a calculated affair. And now Sterling wanted me to be his calculated affair. I had loved him and he wanted to keep me as his pet mistress, in a box that had no place for real love or a real future.

But while I was thinking all of this, he was unzipping himself, and he was so hard, so mouthwateringly hard, and I couldn't help it-I knew he was married, I knew he was an a.s.shole, but it had been so long, too long, and I had loved him once...

Are you judging me right now, Father Bell? Are you thinking about what a dumb b.i.t.c.h I am? I know you aren't, you aren't like Sterling and me. The words "dumb" and "b.i.t.c.h" have probably never even come out of your mouth in the same sentence. But I was thinking it then, just like I'm thinking it now. I was stupid. But I was also lonely and heartbroken and so f.u.c.king wet it was dripping down my thighs.

Then I let him f.u.c.k me. Because he was right, I do like it, I do always want it. And as he slammed into me over and over again, I told him to tell me the fantasy, this life he was offering me. And he did, G.o.dd.a.m.n him, and it all sounded so perfect coming from his lying businessman's mouth. He told me about the lazy afternoons we'd spend together, the expensive restaurants he'd take me to, the o.r.g.a.s.ms he'd give me on top of smooth Egyptian cotton sheets. He told me about the flowers and jewelry and vacations in Bora Bora and expensive cars and everything else that would fill up our illicit life together, all while I ground myself on his c.o.c.k, ground myself towards the best o.r.g.a.s.m I'd had since college.

He was cursing by this point, folding me over the bench and driving into me from behind while he pressed my face against the leather and I felt the cold metal of his wedding ring against my hip. It was degrading and terrible and I came almost immediately.

And then I came again.

"And that's my real sin," Poppy finished. "That's my real shame. I can't sleep at night knowing that I let him-let myself-" She broke off and there was a moment of silence which I didn't interrupt, both out of respect for her and also because I didn't trust my voice. Her confession had been so raw-so f.u.c.king detailed-and I was filled with rage at this Sterling a.s.shole and sorrow for her and also a fierce, unshakable jealousy that just weeks ago, he got to be inside her and he didn't deserve it, not one bit.

But mostly I was so f.u.c.king hard I couldn't think straight.

"I let myself come," she said finally, in a quiet, sad voice. "He is a married man and he cheated on me for years and he wasn't even sorry, but I still not only f.u.c.ked him, but I came. I came twice. What does it matter that I made him leave right after it happened? What kind of girl still does that?"

I needed to say something, needed to help her, but f.u.c.k, it was so difficult to focus on anything other than the image of her face pressed into the seat as she gasped her way through multiple o.r.g.a.s.ms. I was going to h.e.l.l for even thinking this, especially since I wanted to punch Sterling in the windpipe for acting on it, but it was almost unbearably s.e.xy that those rough kinds of things got her off. Because they got me off too, and it had been so long since I'd had a woman whimpering under my touch...

You're no better than him, I castigated myself. f.u.c.king get it together. Feelings, focus on her feelings. "How did it feel?"

"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 o.r.g.a.s.m again. I can't help it-a guy coming is the hottest f.u.c.king thing, especially when I can feel it inside of me..."

My head fell back against the wood of the booth with an audible thud. "I meant-" I said in a strangled voice "-how did it feel emotionally?"

"Oh," and then the breathy little laugh, and then f.u.c.k it, I'd go to h.e.l.l, because I couldn't not rub myself now. I was so hard that I could feel every ridge and slope of myself through my pants. My other hand toyed with my zipper as I stroked, trying to keep my breathing silent. Could I unzip myself quietly enough that she wouldn't hear? Could I jack myself right here in the booth without her knowing?

Because there was no way I could live without it at this point. Her words were carved into my mind, and they would be there forever.

"I guess it made me feel like Sterling was right. I am a wh.o.r.e, aren't I? I had a debutante ball and my family was listed in the Social Register and I have dressage trophies-but that doesn't change who I am on the inside. I think deep down, I always knew that Sterling didn't really love me, but I was willing to accept s.e.x in lieu of love because I wanted that just as much as I wanted the romance, and what woman thinks like that, Father? That I'd rather have s.e.x without love than have no s.e.x 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?"

Shame. Yes, I knew that feeling; I was feeling it right now, in fact. I forced my hands to my thighs, well away from my erection. Concentrate, I told myself. And when you're alone, you can take care of your...problem.

"G.o.d made us as s.e.xual creatures, Poppy," I said, wishing my words sounded more soothing than they did. With my choked voice and barely controlled breathing, they came out sounding like a dark threat. A dark, imminent threat.

"Then He made me too s.e.xual," she whispered. "Even now, I-"

But she stopped.

"Even now, what?" And I was using that voice again, and there was no mistaking the danger now.

I could hear her shifting in her seat. "I should go," she said. I heard her reaching for her purse and then the door handle clicking open, but I was out of the booth and over to her side in an instant, standing there as her door swung open. I braced my hands on either side of the door (what in the actual f.u.c.k was I doing?) blocking her escape because I had to know, I had to know what she was going to say, and if I didn't, I would go crazy.

She looked up at me looming over her, her hazel eyes growing wide. "Oh," she breathed. We stared at each other for a moment.

It could have ended right there. It would have, even with her red lipstick and her bright eyes and her nipples in tight little points under the thin silk blouse she wore. Even with my wide shoulders blocking the door to the booth, even with the surge of power and satisfaction and l.u.s.t that came from positioning my body against a woman's in this primal, dominating way.

It would have, I swear.

But then she bit her lip, those slightly-too-big teeth digging into her full lower lip, all pure white digging into the sharpest, bloodiest red imaginable, and then she rubbed her thighs together, a tiny noise coming from somewhere in the back of her throat.

I stopped seeing a penitent.

I stopped seeing a child of G.o.d.

I stopped seeing a lost lamb in need of a shepherd.

I saw only a woman in need-ripe, delicious need.

I stepped back, drawing a deep breath, some valiant part of my conscience trying to flicker back online, and she took a tentative step out of the booth, her eyes still pinned to mine. I let her walk past me, but it wasn't because I wanted her to leave or because I wanted this temptation to end. No, it was more like I was giving her one last chance to escape, and if she didn't then Jesus help her, because I had to touch her, I had to taste her and it had to be right the f.u.c.k now.

She backed up a few paces until she b.u.mped against the baby grand piano set below the choir platform. She still didn't speak, but she didn't have to, because I could read every tremble of hers, every breath, every goose b.u.mp. Her teeth still bit her bottom lip and I wanted to bite that lip, bite it so hard that she would squeal.

I advanced on her, and she watched every step of mine with a hunger that was beyond palpable, it was oppressive, it was ferocious.

"Turn around," I ordered her, and f.u.c.k if she didn't comply right away, turning and bracing her hands against the edge of the black wood. She was still rubbing her thighs together when I reached the piano and stood directly behind her. I ran my index finger from her hand to her shoulder, feeling every pebbled inch of skin on her arm. "Now what were you going to say in the booth?" I asked her in a low voice. "And remember that lying is a sin."

She shivered. "I can't say it. Not here. Not to you."

My hand reached her shoulder. She'd worn her hair up in a loose twist, exposing the ivory nape of her neck, and I caressed it now, wanting to devour every shudder, every hitched breath. And then I placed the flat of my palm in the s.p.a.ce between her shoulder blades and pushed her down against the piano, so that she was bent over, the side of her face pressed against the glossy wood. She was so pet.i.te that she had to stand on tiptoe, her leather ballet flats tugging free of her heels, her calf muscles bunching into tight b.a.l.l.s.