She nodded, then swallowed, as if her mouth were dry. I watched her throat move.

"Get on your knees," I said hoa.r.s.ely.

She scrambled to obey, kneeling in between my legs and peering up at me through the long, dark lashes that haunted my waking thoughts.

"Take your shirt off."

She pulled the cotton shirt over her head and dropped it on the floor, and I had to fist my hands in my sweatpants to keep from tackling her and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g her brains out, because holy f.u.c.k, were those b.r.e.a.s.t.s perfect. Cream-pale with dark pink nipples, small enough to cover with a fingertip, but large enough that I'd be able to draw them easily into my mouth. I wanted to see my c.o.c.k slide between those t.i.ts, I wanted to jet my climax all over them, I wanted to feel them pressed against my chest while I stretched my body on top of hers.

But there would be no end to the things I wanted to do to this little lamb, no matter how many times or how many ways I had her. She was creating this insatiable pit in me, a yawning chasm of need, and even in my haze, I could see how destructive that would be if I didn't stop it.

And the stopping would happen soon...just not right now.

I lowered the waistband of my own pants just enough to free my d.i.c.k, leaving my shirt on as well. I liked being dressed when I f.u.c.ked, I always had; there was no bigger turn on than having a naked woman climbing all over you, purring at your feet and squealing in your lap, all while you were fully dressed. (And yes, I recognize that's also f.u.c.ked up in terms of feminism and all that. I'm sorry.) Poppy squirmed now, her hand drifting to the thin fabric between her legs, caressing herself.

"You left a wet spot on my leg, lamb," I said, glancing down to my thigh, where her arousal had soaked through the fabric of her shorts and my pants. "Do you want something?"

"I want to come," she whispered.

"But you can make yourself come any time you want. You came here tonight because you want something else. What is it?"

She hesitated then answered. "I want you to make me come."

"But you know it's wrong to ask."

"But I knew it was wrong to ask...or to want."

I let out a breath. It was wrong. All of it, so very wrong.

And Jesus help me, for some reason that made it all the sweeter.

"Lick," I said, indicating my c.o.c.k. My hands were still by my thighs; I didn't bother holding myself for her. Instead, I sat back and watched as she ran her tongue from my base to my tip in one long motion. My fingers dug into the chair, hissing as she did it again. I'd forgotten how good this was too, how smooth and slick and soft a woman's tongue could be, how perfect it felt tracing lines along the sensitive underside of my d.i.c.k, tracing delicate circles around the crown.

Obedient lamb, she didn't do any more than lick, her hand still between her legs, her eyes pinned to mine in the dim light.

"Suck now," I told her. A quick flash of a smile-a smile that screamed Ivy League and financial a.n.a.lysis and a taste for good champagne-and then her head was nothing but a bobbing ma.s.s of dark waves between my legs.

I really did groan now. Was there any sight I'd missed more than this? A head moving eagerly between my thighs? But then I thought of that Monday in the church, her bent over the piano and her c.u.n.t the only thing in my vision. Her sitting on me, grinding her c.l.i.t against my shaft.

There were a lot of sights I'd missed.

My hips and legs were practically vibrating with the suppressed need to thrust into her mouth, and I indulged myself just a little, threading my hands through her hair and holding her down over my c.o.c.k, pushing up with my hips until I hit the back of her throat, shuddering as I slid back out, lips and teeth and tongue and palate, all of it stroking me, stoking me to further flame. I'd never been harder than this before, I was sure of it, and when I pulled her lips off my c.o.c.k, I could see every vein, could feel the painfully swollen crest as it flared out then back in to my tip.

That's when I knew I had to feel her c.u.n.t. If it was going to be the last time, if this was it, then I had to. I mean, I was already committing a mortal sin by letting her suck me off. Would it be so much worse if I had her rub her p.u.s.s.y against me again?

Or if I slid just partway inside? That still wasn't really s.e.x, not really really, and I would pull it right back out. I just wanted to feel it once. Only once.

s.h.i.t, I sounded like a teenager. I also didn't care at that moment, with the hardest d.i.c.k in the world and with the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen still kneeling in front of me, mouth parted, c.u.n.t wriggling in undisguised want.

"Take your bottoms off and get on the counter," I ordered. She stood, took off her shorts, and walked to the kitchen (where thankfully all the blinds were drawn) and hopped onto the counter.

I approached her slowly, my blood at a low, dangerous boil, because I knew that I was walking oh-so-close to the edge, to the point of no return, but I wanted to, I wanted to fling myself into the unknown if the unknown was Poppy. It was hard to give a s.h.i.t about anything else.

I smelled her as I stepped up to the counter, a mix of her arousal and clean soap and just a hint of lavender. I spread her legs as far apart as the counter would allow, reaching behind her and scooching her right up to the edge, so that when I pressed myself against her, my c.o.c.k nestled against her folds.

She licked her red lips as she met my eyes. Licked her lips, as if she were a predator about to devour me, but that was not how this worked, not at all, and suddenly I was obsessed with smearing that red lipstick, still perfect at three in the morning, as if she'd reapplied it before she'd come over. Yes, when I was done with her, that carefully applied color would be everywhere, and she would feel marked, taken.

I leaned forward and kissed her for the first time.

Her lips were as soft as I expected-softer even-but they were firm in a way that I had not expected, not immediately yielding to me. Had I not lived the life I'd lived before the robe, I wouldn't have understood her reluctance. But I had, and I did.

"You want me to fight for it, lamb?" I murmured against her lips.

She nodded breathlessly.

"You want me to steal it from you?"

Another nod.

"Force it from you?"

A shuddering exhale. And then finally another nod. My little lamb wanted it rough, and what do you know, I wanted to give it to her that way.

My lips became an inexorable force, an act of nature-an act of G.o.d-and I gripped the back of her head as hard as I dared, pressing her face to mine. I ground my hips into her, rubbing myself against her, and used my free hand to claim her breast-pressing it into her chest, grabbing it so fiercely that I knew she could feel every fingertip as a bright point of discomfort. Slowly, oh so slowly, her mouth opened up to me, and the first time our tongues slid together in a tangle of silk and promise, I nearly lost it right then and there.

Her mouth was greedy, but mine was greedier, and we fought each other, who would devour whom the fastest, who could take what they wanted first, who could take the most, and before long, she was a writhing form of smooth muscle and soft curves, her hips jerking against mine and her hands fisting my hair and scratching my back.

When I finally, finally broke our kiss, I was satisfied to see that the lipstick was indeed smeared. It matched her smudged eyeliner and her wild hair, it matched her hands gripping my a.s.s like two hot brands.

"I want to be inside you," I said. "Just a little. Just to feel it."

"Oh G.o.d," she breathed. "Please. It's all I've thought about since we've met."

"You have to hold really, really still," I warned her. "Will you behave?"

She bit her lip and nodded, and then I took myself in my hand. I couldn't believe I was doing this, and in the kitchen of my own f.u.c.king rectory-not that it was any worse than the sanctuary floor. But with her legs spread, with her practically whimpering from that kiss, I couldn't have stopped myself if I tried. And I definitely didn't want to try.

Holding myself, I pressed the head of my c.o.c.k against her c.l.i.t, brushing down past her entrance to her a.s.s. She shivered in a way that told me she had no objection to that either, and I'd have to add that to the things I'd bitterly regret never having. I moved up, again grazing past her opening and up to her c.l.i.t. She gave me an agonized expression and I wanted to kiss it right off her face-or come all over it, either one. After a few more pa.s.ses, I couldn't wait any longer, I had to do it or I might actually die on the spot.

I leaned my forehead against hers, both of us looking down to watch as my tip pressed against her and slowly slipped inside. I stopped when the crest of my c.o.c.k was in her, and then froze, muscles quivering.

Both of us just stared down at it, this impossible sight: me inside of her, a priest tasting the forbidden fruit and barely able to keep himself from eating it all.

"How does it feel?" she whispered.

"It feels..." my voice was barely more than a gasp at this point. "It feels like heaven."

She was so tight, her c.u.n.t squeezing my tip, and there were no words to describe what that wet, slippery skin was doing to me, because it was rewriting my mind and my soul, my future and my life. It was a sensation so base and primal, so delicious, that I would have killed to feel it, I would kill somebody right now if it meant I could have my d.i.c.k inside this woman again.

One and a half inches of d.a.m.nation, and all I could think about was sinking deeper into h.e.l.l.

She rocked forward the tiniest bit, unable to help herself, greedy lamb, and I grabbed her neck, my legs shaking with the effort not to come from that single little movement alone. "Stay the f.u.c.k still, or I'm going to come before I want to, and if that happens, then I will take you over my knee and spank your a.s.s until you learn how to listen," I said sternly.

My command had the predictable effect of sending goose b.u.mps rippling up her arms. Her breathing was loud and harsh sounding in the small kitchen. "f.u.c.k," she whispered. "f.u.c.k. I-this-this is the hottest thing I've ever done."

It was possibly the hottest thing I'd ever done too, and I'd done a lifetime's worth of hot things to many hot women-but none of them had been like Poppy.

Red-lipped and blue-blooded. And f.u.c.k, the h.o.r.n.i.e.s.t woman I'd ever met.

"I want to feel you come around me," I said, my forehead still against hers, our eyes going back to the place where we were joined. I would never forget this as long as I lived, I knew, and I didn't want her to forget either.

"That won't take long," she said and then gave a little husky laugh that made her clench around me. I hissed, grabbing the countertop to keep myself from losing it.

"Sorry," she whispered, and in answer, I slid a hand over her leg to her c.l.i.t and began rubbing.

"Stay still," I reminded her as we watched my large hand, tan and calloused from all the odd jobs I did around the church, pressing into her soft pink flesh, as we watched her quiver around the tip of my d.i.c.k.

"I'm trying to stay still," she murmured, and I could tell she was, I could tell she wanted to see herself come around me as much as I did. I increased the strength and tempo of my fingers.

"Filthy girl," I whispered. "So dirty to let me stick it inside of you. Do you like this, being spread open and used this way? I bet you like being called dirty names too."

"P-please," she moaned.

"Please what, lamb?"

She could barely talk now, her head lolling back against the cabinets, her arched back shoving her b.r.e.a.s.t.s closer to me. "Names," she got out. "I like...the names..."

f.u.c.k. She was really going to kill me. Death by turn on. Death by perpetual erection.

"Are you a s.l.u.t, Poppy?" I bent my head down and sucked on a nipple, loving the feel of it furling on my tongue, stiffening as I sucked. "You're sure acting like a s.l.u.t, making me act this way. You're making me break all sorts of rules, and I hate breaking rules." I moved to her neck, kissing and biting. "You'll take it anywhere you can get it, won't you?"

"I'm-" She inhaled, unable to finish, but she didn't need to because she was coming now, her body undulating as if to chase the waves of pleasure that rolled through it. Again and again, her p.u.s.s.y clamped down on the head of my c.o.c.k, squeezing and pulsing, and just knowing that I could make her come with only the shallowest of penetrations made me nearly wild.

She slumped in my arms as she came down, resting her head on my shoulder. "Your turn," she said against my skin.

I started to pull out but she grabbed my hips and stopped me. "No," she said. "In me."

"Poppy," I started.

"I'm on the pill." Her jaw set as she looked up at me. "I want to see it spilling out around you. I want it where it belongs-in me. Please, Tyler. If this is the last time, give me this one thing."

Tyler. She'd never called me that before. And it was there at the base of my spine now, fueled by her dirty words-what woman begged for this? What woman was turned on by it?

But frankly, I would have agreed to anything, no matter how dangerous, so I nodded, my jaw clenching.

She leaned back against the cabinets, bringing her heels up to the counter. The change in her position didn't move me any deeper inside, but it made her flex and tighten around me, and my climax clawed closer. She slid her hands to the undersides of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, running her thumbs along her still-stiff nipples, pressing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s together and moving them apart, highlighting how f.u.c.king luscious they were and nearly blinding me with l.u.s.t at the same time.

G.o.d, I needed to pump.

Needed to thrust.

Needed to f.u.c.k.

Then her fingers went to her c.l.i.t and she started getting herself off again, her other fingers going up to slide in and out of her mouth and I was f.u.c.king transfixed, those lips, that wicked mouth, the mouth that had gotten my c.o.c.k from hard as f.u.c.k to harder than f.u.c.k by the fireplace earlier. And then-naughty girl-she moved her hips ever so slightly, bucking them just enough to push me in and out of her the smallest bit, so wet, so tight, and there it was, stabbing through my b.a.l.l.s and up my c.o.c.k, and we both watched as it happened, as my hips jerked and my stomach muscles jumped and then I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. My legs could barely support my weight and I could barely breathe as it ripped through me, my first climax in a woman in years, but I forced myself to stand stock still because I wanted to memorize this moment forever, the s.e.m.e.n dripping and her p.u.s.s.y so wet and her legs spread in hallowed welcome. The pulsing finally, finally slowed, and she laid her head against my chest, making this happy, contented little sigh, and my heart twisted inside my chest, demanding everything that it wanted now that it could be heard over my rampant l.u.s.t.

"s.h.i.t," I mumbled, leaning forward and pressing my face into her sweet-smelling hair. "What are you doing to me?"

We stayed that way a long moment, neither of us wanting it to be over, but then the air conditioning kicked on, blowing cold air over us, and Poppy shivered, still naked. I had her stay on the counter while I got a washcloth and cleaned her with warm water, and then I helped her find her clothes and walk to the door.

"So I'll see you at Ma.s.s tomorrow?" she said.

"Poppy-"

"I know, I know," she said with a sad smile. "Tomorrow, we'll start fresh. Chaste. Clean."

"Good, but that's not what I was going to say."

Her brows furrowed. "What were you going to say?"

I leaned in and brushed my lips against hers. Last time. Last kiss. "I wanted to say thank you. For the Scotch and for...what just happened."

She blinked up at me and then her eyes fluttered closed as I deepened our kiss, tasting every inch of her mouth, licking into her as gently and lovingly as I had done ferociously earlier. I never wanted to move from this spot, I only wanted to taste her and breathe the air that we were sharing and feel her body warm against mine-and also pretend that I wasn't waiting for a tsunami of guilt and a lifetime of penance.

"Goodnight," she said against my mouth.

"Goodnight, little lamb," I said.

Stepping away felt like stepping onto shards of gla.s.s, and I couldn't help myself, she was so wide-eyed and so open to my love, and it was instinct more than anything else that led to trace a small cross on her forehead.

A blessing.

And hopefully a promise to do better.

My phone buzzed violently on my counter.

It was Monday, two days post-not-really-s.e.x, and I was thinking about how I was meeting Poppy in just a few minutes for lunch. I was cleaning the counter and remembering what the view had been from this exact location two nights ago.

I didn't even try to puzzle out what the text said. It was from Bishop Bove, and my boss was not only terrible at texting but also really insecure about his terrible texting, so I knew he would call right after he sent the text to make sure I got it (and then translate it for me.) Sure enough, my phone rang a moment later, The Walking Dead theme song echoing in my kitchen. Normally I would hum a couple of bars, normally I would be more than happy to talk to the gruff, principled man who was reforming our diocese and fighting for reform alongside me, but today, I only felt a p.r.i.c.kling trepidation, as if he knew somehow what I had done last night. As if he would guess it the minute he heard my voice. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Are you going to the Mid-America Clergy Convention next year?" Bishop Bove asked, skipping straight to business. "I want to put a panel together. And I want you on it."

"I haven't decided yet," I said, and I realized my palms were actually getting sweaty, like I'd been called to the princ.i.p.al's office or pulled over or something. s.h.i.t. If I felt this nervous on the phone with him, what would I do when I saw him in person?

"I think this is finally the year we'll get the panel we want in there," the bishop said. "You know how long I've pushed for it."

The panel we want...the panel on abuse. Bishop Bove had submitted proposals to the continuing clergy education organization for the last four years and had been shot down every time. But the leadership within the organization had shifted, younger organizers were in charge, and I knew that Bove had been told privately that he would finally get his controversial panel.

But how was I going to sit in a hotel ballroom staring at a sea of priests and presume to lecture them on the perils of errant priest s.e.xuality? I glanced down at my countertop, where I'd slipped inside Poppy. Not all the way. Not all the way, but enough to come. Enough to make her come. I rubbed my eyes, trying to block out the sight.