She'd worn a high-waisted pencil skirt, and once she was bent over, the slit rose high enough to expose a narrow glimpse of pink flesh.

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

My hand was still on her back, my fingers resting against her neck, and she nodded.

"Was that on purpose?"

A pause. Then another nod.

The crack resounded through the sanctuary, and she jumped at the feeling of my hand smacking her a.s.s. Then she moaned and pushed her a.s.s up farther.

I didn't spank her again, although Lord knows I wanted to. Instead I ran my hand from her shoulder to her hip, feeling the curve of her breast where it was pressed against the piano, the dip of her waist, the firm swell of her a.s.s. And then I repeated the action with both hands this time, letting my hands drift down to the hem of her skirt. She drew in a breath, and then I abruptly yanked it up to her waist.

I knelt down behind her and spread her legs, spread them so that her c.u.n.t was gloriously bared to me. "My little lamb," I whispered. "You are so very, very wet right now."

She was, wetness slicking almost every part of her. Her p.u.s.s.y wasn't just wet either-it was f.u.c.king quivering, pink and soft and quivering right in front of my face.

I grabbed her a.s.s in my hands and dug my fingers in, leaning forward so that my breath tickled her sensitive flesh.

She whimpered.

"This is so wrong," I said, moving my mouth even closer. I could smell her, and she smelled like heaven, like soap and skin and the delicate female scent that every man hungered for. "But just one taste," I murmured, talking more to myself than to her now. "G.o.d wouldn't punish me for just one taste."

I traced my way from her c.l.i.t to her c.u.n.t with my tongue and (forgive me, my G.o.d) but no communion wine, no salvation had ever tasted sweeter than this, and one taste would not be enough.

"Please," I whispered against her skin, "just one more." I flattened my tongue against her c.l.i.t and sampled her again, my d.i.c.k now so hard that it hurt.

She cried out against the wood of the piano, and I almost died, because those noises and f.u.c.k me that taste. I dove into her like a man possessed, my fingers burrowing into her a.s.s cheeks to hold her open for my a.s.sault. I f.u.c.ked her with my tongue and my lips and my teeth, eating her, eating her like a starving man. Her c.u.n.t was exactly as perfect as I'd imagined all those nights in my frozen showers, that time I'd shot off thinking about doing this very thing.

She would come, I decided right then. I would make her come on my face, and just the thought made my b.a.l.l.s draw up and my d.i.c.k jolt in my pants. It was a very real possibility that I myself might o.r.g.a.s.m without even touching my c.o.c.k.

I let one finger drift over to her p.u.s.s.y and then I slid it inside, crooking it down to find the soft, textured spot that would push her over the edge. She was shamelessly grinding back into my face now, her fingernails scratching against the piano wood, little sighs and moans issuing from her throat.

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 G.o.d hanging in sacrifice-and my heart lurched. What the h.e.l.l 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 was praying to her c.u.n.t, kneeling with his face buried in her a.s.s.

What would they think? After I had worked so hard to repair this town's hurt, after I'd finally helped this community trust the Church again?

And more than that-what about my vow? A vow I had made before my family and G.o.d? What does an oath mean to me if only three years after swearing chast.i.ty, I'm shoving my tongue up a woman's wet c.u.n.t?

But then Poppy came, her cry the most beautiful hymn I've heard in my life, and everything else vanished except her and her smell and her taste and the feeling of her clenching around my finger.

Reluctantly, I pulled back, wanting one more o.r.g.a.s.m from her, wanting to bury my face in her a.s.s again, but knowing I couldn't, I shouldn't, and then I stood and saw her looking over her shoulder like I was the most wondrous thing she'd ever seen.

"No one's ever done that to me before," she whispered.

Tongue-f.u.c.ked her in a church? Bent her over a piano and licked her until she couldn't stand anymore?

My eyebrows drew together, and she answered my unspoken question. "No one's ever made me come with their mouth before, I mean," she said. There was still a flush high on her cheeks, creeping down her neck.

I didn't understand. "No guy has ever gone down on you?"

She shook her head and then closed her eyes. "That felt so good."

I was shocked. How could she have never received oral?

"That's a shame, little lamb," I said, and I couldn't stop myself, I pressed my covered erection into her a.s.s. "No one's taken care of you properly before." I dropped a hand down and around to find her c.l.i.t again, groaning inwardly when I found that it was still a swollen, hot b.u.t.ton of need. "But I won't lie. It makes me hard as f.u.c.k knowing that I was the first man to taste you."

I heard the words as I said them and suddenly reality slammed back into me.

What the f.u.c.k was I doing? What the f.u.c.k had I done?

And why had I done it here, of all places?

I stepped back, breathing hard, no thought in my mind other than to get away, somewhere else, before I was laid low by guilt and regret.

Poppy spun around, her skirt still bunched around her waist, her eyes flashing. "Don't you dare," she said. "Don't you dare check out on me now."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I...I can't."

"You can," she said, stepping forward. She pressed a palm to my erection, and I looked down to see her unbuckling my belt.

"I can't," I repeated, still watching as she drew out my c.o.c.k. The moment her fingers brushed over my bare skin, I wanted to die, because I hadn't exaggerated how good that felt in my memories and my fantasies, no, I had not.

"You are a good priest, Father Bell," she said, her hand moving down to explore lower, cupping me. "But you're also a good man. And doesn't a good man deserve a little indulgence every now and then?"

She gripped me tighter, started to stroke in earnest now. I watched her hand moving up and down my shaft like a man hypnotized. "We won't have s.e.x," she promised. "No s.e.x, and then it's not really breaking any rules, right?"

"You're equivocating now," I said raggedly, closing my eyes against the sight of her pumping my d.i.c.k.

"Then how about another confession," she said, dragging her fingernails from my pelvis to my navel, making my abs tighten. "After the first day I talked to you, I looked you up online. I couldn't stop thinking about your voice, like I could still hear it in a way, echoing in my mind. And then I saw your picture on the website and you looked...well, you know how you look. That was the first time I got off thinking about you."

"You've touched yourself thinking about me?" The last remaining shred of my self-control frayed, threatening to snap.

"More than once," she admitted, still running her fingers over my abs underneath my shirt. "Because seeing your body that first time we met while running...and then your face the last time we talked. G.o.d, your face, it was so d.a.m.n dark, like you wanted to gobble me up right there...I had to f.u.c.k myself three times before I could focus on anything else."

There it went, any self-discipline that remained, and all that was left was a male-not Tyler, not Father Bell-but something more primal and more demanding.

"Show me," I ordered.

"What?"

"Lie down on this floor, spread your legs and show me what it looks like when you f.u.c.k yourself thinking of me."

Her mouth parted and her cheeks reddened and then she was laying on the carpet, her hand on her c.u.n.t. I stood over her, fisting my c.o.c.k, giving in to it all, giving in to everything, as long as it ended in her covered in my climax.

"Why didn't you wear underwear today?" I asked, watching her trace circles around her c.l.i.toris.

"The last time, when we talked, I got so hot talking to you. I thought if it happened again today, it would be easier if I didn't wear panties. To...take care of it. And it was easier."

I knelt down between her legs and then took her slender wrists in my hand. I stretched out over her, pinning her wrists to the floor above her head, my d.i.c.k brushing against her p.u.s.s.y and her bunched-up skirt. "Are you telling me," I asked, "that you were masturbating in the booth next to me?"

She nodded fearfully. "You make me so wet," she said. "I can't stand it."

It took everything I had not to shove into her right there and then. Every time I rocked my hips, my d.i.c.k slid against her folds, and they were so warm. So wet.

I dropped my head, burying my face in her neck. She smelled like clean skin and the barest hint of a lavender perfume-something that probably cost more than what I made in a month. For some reason, this excess, this possible decadence, fueled my need to tear her apart. I bit her neck, her collarbone, scored her shoulders with my teeth, all while I ground my c.o.c.k against her c.l.i.t and palmed her breast, driving her to a second o.r.g.a.s.m as if I were punishing her with pleasure. Punishing her for showing up here and knocking my carefully constructed life over as if it were a house of cards.

She squirmed underneath me, panting and gasping, her hands flexing uselessly against the floor as I kept them pinned there with only one hand. She was so wet, it would be so easy, just a slight change in angle, and then I could thrust in.

I wanted to. I wanted to, I wanted to, I wanted to. I wanted to f.u.c.k this woman more than I'd ever wanted anything in my life. And perversely, the fact that I couldn't, that it would be wrong on every single level-moral, professional, personal-made it even hotter. It made the image, the imagined feeling of it, a single bright point of obsession, until I was mindlessly rutting against her, sucking and nibbling at her as if I could burn out this need by devouring every inch of her skin.

"Oh G.o.d," she whispered. "I'm going to-oh, G.o.d-"

I would have flogged myself every day for the rest of my life if I could have been inside of her right then, felt her tightening on my d.i.c.k, felt her shuddering convulsions from the inside out. But being on top of her was almost as good, because I felt every seizing, jerking breath, every wild buck of her hips, and when I met her eyes, they were fierce and penetrating, but also surprised, as if she'd been given an unexpected gift and wasn't sure if she should be grateful or suspicious.

But before I could delve further into that look, she'd arched her back and unseated my balance, tipping me so that I rolled to my back and she was on top of me.

Without hesitation, she tugged my shirt up so she could see my stomach, and I didn't miss the way her jaw clenched and her eyes flared. She scratched my stomach-hard-as if furious that it was firm and muscled, as if angry that it turned her on. (And I'd be lying if I said that didn't turn me the f.u.c.k on.) She sat on me, her slick cleft sliding against the underside of my d.i.c.k, and then she started stroking me that way, as if she were jacking me off with her p.u.s.s.y. I raised up on my elbows so I could watch it, watch the way her flesh pressed against mine, the way her bare c.u.n.t allowed me to see her ripe c.l.i.toris peeking out. It was so G.o.dd.a.m.n wet, and with all the pressure, her full body weight pressing against my c.o.c.k, it was such a close approximation to the real thing, maybe too close, but it still wasn't technically s.e.x, I lied to myself, maybe it wouldn't count, maybe I wasn't sinning.

But even if I was, holy f.u.c.k, I was not stopping.

It was so dirty, the way her skirt was still hitched up to her hips, the way my pants were yanked down just far enough to free my b.a.l.l.s, the way the old carpet abraded my a.s.s and lower back. The way she shamelessly angled herself so that my shaft would press on her in all the right places, the way it was just our arousal lubricating us and nothing else, and G.o.d, 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 p.u.s.s.y milking my d.i.c.k for everything it was worth.

"Come," she told me hoa.r.s.ely. "I have to see you come. I need it."

My jaw was too tight to answer, because it was close, something more intense than I'd felt in years gnawing at the base of my spine and rending its way through my pelvis.

"Don't hold back," she begged now, pressing down even more, and f.u.c.k, there it was. "Give it to me. Give me every drop."

s.h.i.t, this woman was filthy. And perfect. And it was pure instinct that made me grab her hips and work her harder and faster over me, my mind filled with the sight of her straddling me and her pale pink c.l.i.toris, still plump and needy, and the memory of her taste and smell on my mouth and face, and then it flooded through me-no, it burned and chewed through me, and she let out a low moan at the sight of my come spurting onto my stomach. There was so much, and it felt like hours instead of seconds that I was suspended in pulsing, total-body release.

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 G.o.d had made us, Adam and Eve, in the most elemental and fundamental form. We were biology, we were creation incarnate, and I saw the moment she felt it too-that we were fused somehow. Irrevocably and undeniably fused together into something singular and whole.

My climax abated, but I could barely breathe, barely process what the f.u.c.k I had just felt, and then Poppy bit her lip and dragged one finger across my stomach, coating it in my o.r.g.a.s.m, and then brought it to her mouth. My c.o.c.k jumped as I watched her suck it off her finger.

I rested my head back against the floor, overcome with the sinking realization that I would probably not ever be able to dig this woman out of my system. She was the kind of woman that could make me hard over and over again, the kind of woman I could spend a week f.u.c.king nonstop and then still want more, and that was bad news for my self-control, which was slowly resurrecting back into life, along with my defeated, gnashing conscience.

"Will it drive you crazy," she asked after a moment, "knowing that I'll be touching myself, just inches from you, every time I come in to confess?"

I groaned. f.u.c.k yes, it would.

"Poppy," I said, but then stopped. What could I possibly say in this moment that would have any value? That would encompa.s.s the rushing torrents of shame and guilt, and also express how deeply this woman had gotten under my skin?

"I know," she whispered. "I'm sorry too."

She stood and rearranged her clothes as I wiped my stomach with my shirt and sat up. Had it been only a minute ago when the entire universe had shrunk to just me and her, to our noises and our sweat, our f.u.c.king without really f.u.c.king? And now the sanctuary seemed vast and hollow, a cave with only the overtaxed air conditioner to chase away the dull silence.

The church was empty. The townspeople weren't gathered in the narthex, ready to throw stones at me or exile me. I'd gotten away with it.

And somehow that made me feel worse.

Poppy and I didn't say goodbye. Instead, we looked at each other, rumpled and damp, reeking of s.e.x, and then she left without another word.

I slowly made my way back the rectory, sticky and hard again and hating myself relentlessly.

My screen door slammed shut, and I jumped out of my kitchen chair, expecting Poppy or an angry horde of parishioners or the bishop here to excommunicate me, but it was just Millie, her arms laden with frozen ca.s.seroles.

She bustled past me into the kitchen, the late afternoon light shining through her stiff, brick-red wig as she started unloading her cargo.

"You are too clean," she said by way of greeting, scowling at the fastidiously neat countertops. "Boys your age should be messy."

"I'm hardly a boy, Millie," I said, walking over to help her move the food into the freezer.

"At my age, anyone under sixty is a boy," she said dismissively shooing me out of the way so she could put one of the dishes in the oven.

Millie was approximately one hundred and thirty years old, but she was not only one of my most active parishioners, but the sharp-as-a-tack bookkeeper for the church. She'd been the one to insist that we upgrade to iPads and Squares for our bake sales and Fish Fry Fridays, and the one who spearheaded the installation of fiber optic internet when nowhere else in town had it yet.

She'd also adopted me as a sort of project when I moved up here, new to town and new to living any place other than a trendy Midtown apartment in walking distance to a Chipotle. She'd clucked her tongue at my age and my appearance (her nickname for me was "Father What-a-Waste") and showing up once a week with food (even though I'd protested a thousand times that I could cook for myself [mostly ramen noodles, but still.]) And after she'd met my mother and they'd spent an hour talking about the best temperature of water to use in piecrust dough, it was all over. Millie adopted my mother as well, along with my brothers, who got packages of cookies sent to their sleek offices in downtown Kansas City every week.

Except today I felt unworthy of her bustling, fussing attentions. I felt unworthy of everything-this house, this job, this town-and I just wanted to sit here at my kitchen table until I died.

No, that was a lie. I wanted to do something-run or lift weights or scrub the tile until my hands bled-I wanted penance. Funny how many times I had counseled my flock about the real nature of penance, the real weight of G.o.d's unconditional love and forgiveness, and my first reaction to sinning with Poppy was to punish myself.

Or at the very least, exhaust myself so that I couldn't think actual thoughts any more.

"Something's bothering you," Millie decided, sitting at the table and folding her hands together into a bundle of papery skin and old rings. Someone once told me that she'd been one of the first female engineers in Missouri, doing surveying for the government when they built the interstate system through the Midwest. And it was easy to believe now, with the no-nonsense look she was leveling at me, with those sharp eyes searching my face for every detail.

I did my best attempt at an easy smile. I have a nice smile, I admit. It's one of my most effective weapons, although I lobby it more against congregants than co-eds these days. "It's just the heat, Millie," I said, making to stand.

"Uh-uh. Try again," she said and nodded back to the chair. I sat again, fidgeting like a kid. (Millie has that effect on me. Our bishop once joked after meeting her that she should have been the Mother Superior at an abbey a hundred years ago, and all I have to say about that is that I would feel sorry for any nun working under her.) "Nothing's wrong," I said, keeping my voice light. "I promise."

She reached across the table, covering my large hand with her thin, wrinkled one. "The thing about being old is that I know when people are lying. Now, last time I checked, you were in charge of an entire parish. You wouldn't lie to one of your parishioners, would you?"

If it was about having almost-s.e.x on the sanctuary floor? A fresh wave of guilt flooded through me as I realized that I was compounding my sins now. I was lying (and lying to a good person who'd done nothing but take care of me.) Suddenly, I wanted to tell Millie about this afternoon, about the past couple of weeks, about this new temptation that was the oldest temptation on earth.

Instead, I stared down at our hands and didn't answer. Because I was prideful and defensive and furious with myself. And that wasn't all.

I wanted to do it again. I wanted Poppy again. And if I told someone my sin, I'd be accountable. I'd be bound to obey my vows, I'd be bound to behave.

Nothing about Poppy Danforth made me want to behave.

But I'd be risking everything by not behaving, my job and my community and my duty and my sister's memory and maybe even my eternal soul.

I lowered my head onto Millie's hand, careful not to rest the full weight against her fragile bones, but desperately needing comfort. "I can't talk about it," I said into the table. I wasn't going to lie. (Except how often did I tell my youth group about lies of omission? When exactly had I started making the sharp left turn into being a hypocrite?) Millie patted the back of my head. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the pretty young woman who bought the old Anderson house?"

My head snapped up. I don't know what my face looked like, but she laughed. "I saw you two at the coffee shop last week. Even through the window, I could see you guys made quite a couple."

f.u.c.k. Did she suspect? And if she did, did she judge me for it?