The Pope: Cards of Love

by Lovell, LP

  When I close my eyes, I can still picture the look on her face in the park, that spark of desire, a longing for something she herself could not identify. So close. I was so close to doing something stupid. She’s infecting me like a disease, an addiction for which there is no cure. That look told me she wants to be my dirty little obsession. And here I am. She has her wish.

  It’s late, and she’s out here, walking alone in the dark. I’d be worried about someone attacking her, but I know the only thing out here she should truly fear is me. Waiting until she’s slipped from sight, I get out of the car and lock it. I remain on the opposite side of the road and walk slowly. She ducks through a small gate and up to the front door of one of the replica semi-detached houses that line the street. She fumbles with her keys, dropping them before picking them up. I remain across the street in the shadow of one of her neighbour’s bushes. A guy walks along the pavement and pauses at the gate. He’s wearing black jeans, a leather jacket and has a gait that screams of youth and arrogance.

  “Lila.” The street is utterly silent, and his voice carries through the night easily.

  She freezes and whirls around. I can’t see her face, but her body language is tense. He pushes through the gate and approaches her.

  “Nate, now isn’t a good time.”

  “It’s never a good time. I’m not just letting you go, Lila.”

  “I can’t talk to you right now.” She shakes her head and goes to put her key in the door, but her hands are now trembling.

  He grabs her shoulder, spinning her around and shoving her up against the door. I take a step forward out of the shadows, my fist already clenched and ready to break his jaw simply for touching her. But then I force myself to step back, disappointed at my momentary lack of self-control.

  She speaks quietly to the guy before his fingers brush over her cheek. Then he leans in and kisses her, and something akin to rage twists in my gut. He isn’t worthy of sweet Delilah.

  After a moment she pushes him away and slips inside the house, slamming the door shut in his face. So the little lamb has a boyfriend. He takes his phone out and places it to his ear as he walks down the road.

  “Yeah, it’s me. I’ve got her under control. She won’t talk.” A pause. “It won’t come to that. And you’ll just draw more attention to the business,” he hisses, his voice trailing off the farther away he gets.

  The more I hear, the more that curiosity eats away at me. I debate following him when I see an upstairs light turn on in the house. Delilah moves around the room before releasing the button on her jeans and pushing them down her legs. I can see the top of her thong and about an inch of her arse, but it’s enough. My dick twitches in my jeans and my fingers flinch as though they could trace the shape of her. Then she reaches for her tank and drags it over her head, exposing a white lace bra that matches her thong. Innocent and creamy and perfect. My cock hardens even more, and I step back, gripping the garden wall behind me to keep myself rooted.

  Just as quickly as she stripped, she shoves a baggy t-shirt over her head. What the fuck am I doing? Pushing off the wall, I force myself to stride away from her house when truthfully, all I want to do is go back there and knock on the door. I want to desecrate her body in every way because I can’t remember the last time I saw something so beautiful, so utterly pure, yet so devastatingly tainted.

  But I can’t. She’s not ready. There will come a time when my little sinner tells me all — when she purges her soul to me like a sacrificial offering. And when she does, she’s fair game.

  * * *

  I swear I can sense it, the second she walks in. Without even seeing Delilah, I know she’s here in the church. I can’t explain it, but she’s like a storm. There’s a tell-tale static in the air whenever she’s near.

  Once again, I linger in the doorway that separates the church from the offices at the back. She sits on the front pew. Her hands braced on her thighs, and her head dropped forward. She looks as though she has the weight of the world on her shoulders and it’s slowly crushing her. Good. I want her broken and crumbling. I want her crawling on her knees for me, begging for salvation only I can give.

  It’s been five days since I last spoke to her. One since I saw her. But I knew she’d come. Her demons demand it of her. I see them dancing in her eyes, but they calm when I’m near because they recognise their own.

  Stepping into the church, I approach her, but she never looks up, not even when I take a seat next to her. I wonder if she knows the inevitability of it all, or whether she still believes she can fight it. I know I should battle this irrational lure I have to her, but some things are fated, ordained. I don’t believe that anything other than the Lord himself could have placed her in my path because she could be perfect.

  I say the words that have been burning me for the last six days.

  “You didn’t come to confession.” Not one day this week.

  On a heavy sigh, she lifts her head and stares at the Virgin. “It doesn’t help,” she says, the hush of her voice carrying around the empty church.

  “Then why come?”

  She turns to face me, and I can almost see the cracks in her, she’s so fractured. “Because you help,” she breathes.

  “God places people in your path for a reason.” I want her to believe that.

  She closes her eyes. “Just for today, don’t be a priest. Please. I came to see a friend.”

  “Oh?”

  Her eyes flash open. “I was hoping he might want a sushi repeat.”

  There’s a look in her eye, a sorrow so deeply ingrained it is as though it’s branded on her soul, and that…that calls to me like a flame calls to a moth. Ah, sweet, tainted Delilah. She thinks I can save her, but little does she know that she asks the devil for salvation.

  “I was about to head home. Come on.” I stand and offer her my hand. As always, when she slides her palm over mine, there’s that inherent sense of warmth like coming home after you’ve been away for a long time.

  As we leave the church and walk down the street, she slips her hand into the crook of my arm, holding on like she’s walking on sheet ice, and I’m the only thing keeping her upright. I frown down at her just as the wind catches a strand of her hair, blowing it across her face. What is it about her? Why do I pity her? Why do I want to ruin her and save her at the same time?

  “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” I ask. I shouldn’t care, but I do. God, I do. I want all those sins to fall from her pretty lips like raindrops in a storm

  Her step falters and then she stops until we’re standing still in the middle of the street with people parting around us. “Do you ever spend so long running from your demons that you just can’t see a way out anymore?”

  “No.” I don’t run from my demons. I embrace them.

  “Of course not. You don’t have demons. You’re a priest.” She drops her head in shame and her shoulders sag. Reaching out, I press my finger beneath her chin, bringing her gaze to mine.

  “We all have demons, Delilah.” Ah, yes, there they are, dancing around in those pretty, sad eyes of hers. Just let them play, little lamb.

  “Somehow I don’t believe that you do.” We stand in silence, people milling past us, and yet it’s as though we’re the only two people in the world right now.

  “Come on. It’s cold out here.” I move to grab her arm, but instead, catch her hand. Her fingers wind through mine, and she doesn’t let go. Instead, she clings on for dear life. And I let her.

  We walk like that to my Thames-side apartment. Once inside, I close the door and take her coat, sliding it over her shoulders. She bends over, unzipping her knee-length boots and forcing the material of her black long-sleeved dress to ride up her milky thighs. I stand, rooted, my eyes trained on the exact spot where the material ends and her skin starts. Fuck. Clenching my fists, I stop myself from reaching out and touching her. Instead, I force myself to move past her, down the hall and into the kitchen. Taking items out of the fridge, I start p
utting them on the counter and placing pans on the cooker. I can feel her eyes burning a hole in my back, but I need a minute to pull myself together. I want to be Delilah’s weakness, but it’s not without cost because she’s surely becoming mine.

  When I do finally look at her, it doesn’t help. She’s taken off her boots, but in their place are knee-high woolly socks. They should look ridiculous, or at the least make her look childish. They do neither.

  “Would you like a drink?” I ask, lifting my eyes to her face.

  She nervously tucks her hair behind her ear. “Do you have wine?”

  I nod and go to the fridge, taking out the bottle of white. I don’t hear her approach, but her arm slides beneath mine as I finish pouring, her chest pressing to my back for a fleeting second before she snags the glass and moves away. I watch her retreat with a small smile on her face as she lifts it to her lips. Careful, little lamb. You might get bitten.

  By the time I’ve cooked the steaks and placed them down on the dining room table, I’m tense, on edge and questioning why the hell I’m even bothering to keep myself in check. Fuck dinner. I should just throw her over the breakfast island and sink into her. She wants it. It’s written all over her innocent face. The only thing stopping it is me. And why? Because I don’t want to shatter the illusion. I need her to believe the lie. To trust me, to confess. She must confess.

  I watch as she cuts a piece of steak and places it in her mouth, allowing the fork to slide past her lips.

  “I wasn’t sure you would come back,” I say. “I thought I’d scared you off.”

  “I was embarrassed.” Her fork clinks against her plate, and I’m not sure if she’s about to get up and walk out. Instead, she drags both hands through her hair, her eyes falling closed. A long breath slips from her lips. “Judas, you’ve been a good friend to me. And I really need a friend right now.” Those swirling grey irises collide with mine. “So, I’m sorry if I was inappropriate on Sunday. I promise it won’t happen again.” A friend? My eyes drop to her lips, her chest, then her tiny waist. There’s nothing friendly about this.

  “You weren’t inappropriate,” I say, trying not to recall the image of Delilah sucking ice cream off her finger. “And that’s why you didn’t come to confession?” She nods. God, she’s so innocent, so perfectly pure in her unseen depravity.

  She offers me a tight smile and picks up her fork again. She begins to ask me questions, about anything and everything, as though she’s hungry for every fragmented detail about me.

  “So, let me get this right. You’re called Judas, and your brother is called Saint.” I nod, and she shakes her head.

  “When Ma had Saint she said that our father was a heathen and the kid needed all the help he could get.” I laugh because it’s so true.

  “And is your dad a heathen?” Her lips twist in amusement.

  “You could say that.”

  “And yet, you’re a priest… What does your brother do?”

  I’m treading carefully, telling the truth while omitting everything. “He owns a couple of nightclubs.”

  “Do you get on?”

  I bite back a laugh. “Saint is…a little strange.” She tilts her head to the side, delicately twirling the stem of the wine glass in her hand. “He thinks differently to the rest of us.” She nods, seemingly satisfied with my half-truths and bullshit. “And you, Delilah, seem like an only child to me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Because you always seem so inherently alone. “Just a feeling.”

  She swallows heavily, placing her glass to her lips. “You’re good,” she murmurs, before taking a sip. She’s on her second glass, and I’m tempted to ply her with a third. Just to see what happens when sweet Delilah gets drunk.

  Without a word, she gets up and takes both plates to the kitchen, running them under the tap. I watch her wash the plates, and I imagine her doing this; eating dinner, washing dishes, in another man’s house. I get a small glimpse of the life she could lead one day if I were to leave her be. If I were to let her live in her continued denial. She could remain sweet Delilah, her sins buried and her darkness chained. She could marry a nice man and live a good life, a lie. The thought annoys me.

  Moving behind her, I reach out, my fingers brushing over her hip. She stills before slowly turning to face me. There are barely a couple of inches of space between us, and she’s caged against the sink.

  Her eyes meet mine; the palette of greys swirling like a tornado. “Judas,” she breathes, her hand landing on my chest, right over my heart. Her lips part and a trembling breath slips past them as her cheeks stain a pretty rose pink. “What are you doing?” she whispers.

  “I don’t know.” Truthfully, for once, I don’t. I just…need to touch her. I need to feel the warmth of her skin, smell the sweet vanilla scent that clings to her hair.

  “You do.” She reaches up, dragging her nails over the stubble on my jaw.

  We stand on a precipice because once this starts, there’s no stopping it. I’m too invested to turn from this path. “You should tell me to stop, Delilah,” I warn. One last chance.

  Her hand moves, and she drags her thumb over my bottom lip in a caress. “No,” she whispers.

  My eyes flash open, and I allow her to see the warning in them, to see a glimpse of the man I truly am. She doesn’t flinch, so I fist a handful of her hair and slam my lips over hers. God, she’s everything I thought she would be: sweetness and warmth, and pure compliance. She stills for a moment before softening in my hold. I take everything that I can from sweet Delilah. Her body bows and contorts to my will, her lips parting on desperate breaths and unwittingly allowing me entrance. She tastes like vanilla, and sugar, and the crispness of white wine. My hold on her hair tightens, and my teeth scrape her bottom lip until the tiniest hint of coppery blood explodes over my tongue. It’s violent and unrestrained, but I have no sweet nothings to give her, only ruination. And through all this, her hands remain gentle, cupping my face, stroking over my chest. We’re darkness and light, hard against soft, the tainted against perfection. We’re a storm, and I want to throw my head back and bask in the deep rumble of thunder, the ironic thrill of being powerless and turning yourself over to something greater.

  When I pull away, she’s gasping for breath, and her lips are swollen and flushed a deep pink. She looks scandalised and violated, and it’s making my dick hard. Her fingers press to her lips, and when she pulls them away, blood tinges the tips.

  “Sorry,” I say, but I’m not.

  She trails her fingers over my lips. “Don’t apologise.” I nip at her fingertip, and she drops her hand. I’m this close to throwing her over that breakfast bar and shoving that dress up. I just want her. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how it’s come to this, but I’m losing control. It’s not time yet. I’m a man who always gets what he wants, but I know this little lamb isn’t yet prepared to be devoured by the big bad wolf.

  “You should go, Delilah,” I grate out, forcing myself to step away from her.

  Her eyes go wide before I watch the hurt rise in them.

  She nods. “Yeah, I’ll… Yeah.”

  She slips past me and into the hallway. I grip the kitchen counter until I hear the front door close, and then in a rare loss of control, I turn and launch the whiskey glass across the room.

  12

  Delilah

  I’m so stupid. What was I thinking? How did I get that so wrong?

  Judas doesn’t want me. Or maybe he does? He kissed me like he does. He kissed me like he wanted to crawl inside of me and live there. As though he would devour me and enjoy every second of it. He felt like a man on the edge, possessed, and god how I wanted that demon inside him to split in two and invade every inch of me.

  But now I don’t know what to do. Lines have blurred, and I’m terrified because I need him. He’s the one person I can’t lose, and though the pull I feel towards him goes far deeper than just friendship, I’ll take what I can get. I’m scared h
e might not want to see me again. After all, he’s a priest. He’s taken a vow. I don’t want to be a point of anguish, an unwanted temptation.

  And of course, permeating all this is an incessant, nauseating feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s like the dial on my guilt has been cranked up to max because I kissed a guy. I should be thinking about a hundred other things right now except the one thing I am: Judas’s lips. I’m guilty for not feeling guilty. Judas makes it a little easier to breathe, and when I’m with him, I forget about everything else. But the simple fact is that Izzy isn’t out there kissing boys or inappropriately crushing on priests.