Forbidden Fruit Vol 2

by Millstead, Kasey

  “This time, I’m going to watch your face as you come apart beneath me.”

  I tremble in anticipation at his words.

  Dipping his cock into my pussy juices, he withdraws and then slides slowly into my ass.

  I can’t help but marvel at the fact that if I lost my job over this, it would be totally worth every damn second!

  Ethan

  My chest squeezes as Anna’s muscles clench around my dick, sucking me deep into her, even as I try to withdraw. My gaze stays locked on the point of our connection, watching as I disappear inside of her.

  Finally, I pull my eyes away and look up to my wife, furiously rubbing her pussy with one hand while she fucks herself with the other hand. She’s focused on watching me fuck Anna and seeing her reaction, I know it’s turning her on. Big time. A fine sheen of sweat covers her forehead and she’s panting, making her breasts rise up and down rapidly. Her hair is stuck to her head in places and her eyes are shining. She’s never looked more beautiful.

  Today has been the most intense sexual experience of my life and I’m going to make the most of it. I plan on fucking Anna every which way I can. Every time she moves tomorrow she’s going to feel me between her legs. Every time she plays with her pretty pink pussy from now on, she’s going to imagine it’s me. From here on out, no matter who she fucks, she’s only ever going to think of me.

  My muscles tighten at the thought and my chest puffs out. I grip her hips and begin to pump furiously in and out of her tight little ass. I glance over at Lucinda just as her eyes roll back and she comes apart at the seams.

  Anna begins chanting my name. “Ethan, fuck. Oh my god. Please. Oh my god. Ethan!” She grips my cock like a vice and I feel her body pulse as she screams through a long, drawn out orgasm. The feeling triggers my own release and I growl deep in my chest as my come rushes out of my cock.

  The three of us collapse on the bed, panting, out of breath but so incredibly satisfied.

  Other titles by Kasey Millstead

  The Down Under Cowboy Series

  (#1 Bestselling series)

  Cowboy Town

  Sky Cowboy

  Cowboy Christmas

  Cowboy Dreams (Coming soon)

  Stand Alone Titles

  Fighting to Stay

  Illicit Desire

  The Steele Investigations Series

  Sapphire

  Emerald

  *All titles by Kasey Millstead are available for purchase at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iTunes & Kobo*

  www.kaseymillstead.com

  www.facebook.com/authorkaseymillstead

  www.twitter.com/kaseeymillstead

  Sins of the Flesh

  By

  Adriane Leigh

  Editing by Hercules Editing

  Proofreading by Karen Lawson

  Chapter One

  Aged stone stairs led to the heavy wooden doors of St. Michael's. Opening them, the scent of incense filled my nostrils. The calm seeped through my bloodstream and relaxed my body.

  It had been so long since I’d been in church. I was surprised it still held the same comforting effect that it once had.

  I was grateful for that.

  I stepped into the old Boston church and the door closed gently, locking me into the ancient structure. I licked my lips nervously, unsure what to do with myself since it’d been so long.

  I took a few tentative steps into the large space, dipped my hands in the holy water near the vestibule doors, more for the ritual of it than anything else, and made the sign of the cross.

  I thought God might strike me down dead at the action. I’d done a lifetime’s worth of sinning since I’d been to St. Michael's. I wasn’t even sure what had brought me back.

  That wasn’t true. I knew exactly what it was.

  Hurt. Shame. Need.

  My life had fallen apart. My scholarship fell through when my grades dropped at UMass after that night. The night I couldn’t bear to think of during the daylight hours but haunted me in my nightmares.

  So here I was, back home, the place I’d never wanted to return to, with memories I’d been trying to forget.

  My growing-up years had been shit. My mom, an alcoholic. My dad, nonexistent. My brother, off and married, happily ever after with 2.4 kids, a Stepford Wife, and a mistress on the side.

  And here I was.

  Same plain Jane, a few more scars, nightmares still chasing me in my sleep, back to the place that had once brought me comfort.

  I walked up the aisle, my eyes perusing the Stations of the Cross that hung along the wall, the dark wooden pews, worn from decades of use. My fingertips dragged along the soft wood as I ambled toward the altar.

  I finally stopped a few rows back from the front as my eyes soaked in my ornate surroundings. The stained glass windows filtered overcast light from the cold November day.

  “Good afternoon.”

  A deeply accented voice startled me from my thoughts. My fist clenched at my side and my eyes fluttered closed. I was rooted to the spot, wanting to run, but my legs unable to move.

  “Are you all right, miss?” The soft timbre was closer. A gentle hand landed on my shoulder. I swallowed the fear in my throat and turned to the soothing voice.

  Dark chocolate eyes, heavy with concern, assessed me. Short, clipped dark hair, a strong jaw with a day’s worth of the sexiest stubble I’d ever seen. I itched to run my hand along the sharp angle, scratch it beneath my fingernails, and tug his bottom lip between my teeth. He was all man: tall and lean, raw and intense, yet there was unexpected beauty in his rugged features.

  “I’m fine.” I spun away from his intense gaze.

  “Are you new?”

  “Are you?” I turned and arched a brow at him. A soft chuckle filtered into my ears, a rumble that had my thighs clenching.

  “I’ve been here a few years, but I’m sure I haven’t seen you before.” He stretched one arm out to indicate I should take a seat. I did as he intended and watched his lithe body move to the pew in front of my own. Black dress pants hugged firm thighs and a perfectly shaped ass. A black shirt tucked into the pants, a leather belt at the waistband. My eyes traveled up his lean, yet muscled form. Shirtsleeves rolled casually up to the elbow, a fine dusting of hair lying over the smooth muscle. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his shirt and landed at a stiff white collar, in sharp contrast to the rest of the ensemble, announcing his status as the resident priest at St. Michael's.

  “So, what brought you here today?” His kind eyes took me in. I wondered what he was seeing. Slightly wild, wavy hair that refused to be tamed. A full bottom lip and slightly thinner top one with a deep cupid’s bow. Dark brown eyes hardened with entirely too much experience for my young years.

  He cocked an eyebrow, encouraging me to respond.

  “I grew up here. What happened to Father Murphy?” I asked.

  “Retired.”

  I nodded in response as I wrung my hands together.

  “You’re back visiting, then? From college, perhaps?” His dark eyes watched me, as if he was reading my body language.

  “Yes. Well, I guess I’m here permanently now.”

  “Have you graduated?” He ticked his head to the side as his eyes ran up and down my form which was clothed in a bulky wool coat and slouched in the pew.

  “Just in my second year, but my scholarship fell through after . . . ” I swallowed and diverted my eyes to the tall dome arching above the altar, looking for words.

  “After…?” His soft lips turned up in an encouraging smile. They pulled at the corners, but still remained full. Usually when someone smiled, their lips thinned out, stretched, but his remained impossibly full.

  His dark eyes glittered at me warmly, rimmed in dark lashes, so dark he could have been wearing eyeliner.

  I twisted my fingers in a thick lock of hair that fell over my shoulder. “My grades fell, and I can’t afford to go anymore. So I came home.” I laughed on the last word.

  “What’s so
funny about coming home?” His eyes watched me with delicious intent, like he was interested in knowing my story. No wonder he was a priest. He made me feel like he actually cared. I wasn’t used to people caring.

  “Home . . . is complicated for me. My mom is an alcoholic. She used to send us to church just to get us out the house.” I huffed.

  “Ahh. I’m sorry to hear that. Was church a place of comfort for you?”

  “At times, it was…”

  “Was?”

  “I haven’t been here in a long time. I hit an age, and I refused to go.” I couldn’t fathom why I was opening up to him about this. He surely didn’t want to hear how I’d lapsed in attendance. “How long have you been a priest?”

  His mouth twisted to one side, surprised I presumed, at my abrupt change of topic.

  “Six years.”

  “Late bloomer?” I took in the soft lines around his mouth; the start of crow’s feet at his eyes told of a life full of good humor and laughs. I estimated him at thirty-five, maybe thirty-six. I took in his dark eyes and creamy almond skin. Latin American, if I had to guess.

  “Perhaps.” His gaze glimmered with amusement.

  “Do you ever miss women?”

  “Excuse me?” His eyes widened.

  “Celibacy. It must be hard.” My lips quirked up devilishly. His eyes flicked down to my mouth and I knew he’d picked up on my double entendre.

  “That’s the point. Sacrificing for the Lord. Living a life free of distraction.” His fingers trailed along the wood of the pew absently.

  “Right.” I nodded.

  “What were you going to college for?”

  “Counseling. I wanted to help underprivileged children. Work in the foster system. Make it better. Help kids born into a life they didn’t choose.”

  “A noble vocation. Have you given up on that?”

  “No.” My eyes hardened at his implication. “It’s just a bump in the road. I have to find a job, somewhere cheap to live. Maybe go to the community college to get my grades up and my scholarship back.”

  He nodded. “We have an after-school program. Perhaps you’d be interested in helping out?”

  “Really?” My eyes narrowed. “You don’t even know me.”

  “I don’t have to know you to see you.”

  I held my breath as I listened to him speak.

  “Your soul shines bright through your eyes.” He reached up a hand to trail the pad of his thumb along my temple softly. “Nothing can be hidden through one’s eyes.”

  “I don’t know if a church is really the right fit for me.” I twisted my fingers back and forth as I tried to calm my breathing from the feel of his skin against my own.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” He pulled his hand away and tipped his head at an angle.

  “I’m damaged, Father. I’ve done things. I just . . . don’t think God and I are a good fit.”

  “God’s a good fit for everyone. And I think the pain that flickers behind your eyes will help you help the children. You may be surprised by what you have to give.” His full lips turned up in a soft smile.

  “Right.” I pressed my lips together. “I should get going.”

  “I didn’t catch your name.” He stood to follow me down the aisle.

  I turned back to him, my hands shoved in my pockets, preparing to hit the bristling November temperatures outside. “I don’t recall getting yours either, Father.”

  “Father Rafael.” He shoved one hand in the pocket of his fitted pants, stretching the fabric across his crotch. My eyes zeroed in on the location before I caught myself.

  “South American?” I murmured.

  “Brazilian.” He rocked back and forth on the heels of his shiny black shoes.

  “Nice to meet you, Father Rafael. I’m Tressa.”

  “Perhaps you’ll come see me tomorrow about the job?”

  I swallowed as I watched him. The air was still between us, just our breathing filling the few feet stretched between our bodies.

  “Maybe.” I grinned and then turned and opened the heavy doors, pushing myself into the chilly air.

  Chapter Two

  “Jacob, stupid isn’t a nice word. Please tell Abby you’re sorry.”

  “But—”

  “Jacob, please tell Abby you’re sorry for saying that word.” The little fair-haired boy pouted before turning to Abby and mumbling an apology.

  “You’re good with the children.”

  I turned from shuffling crayons into an empty box to see a familiar tall form in the doorway.

  “Thank you.” I nodded at Father Rafael as I stood to put the box of crayons away. It was my first day at St. Michael's working in the small daycare.

  “Perhaps you’d consider working with the older kids? I mentioned we had an opening. It’s more on a volunteer basis but invaluable experience. And something paid may be opening up. It’d be minimal, but I can see this is where you belong.”

  “Maybe.” I smiled as Jacob's mom walked into the room off the nave that housed the tots.

  “Is there a reason you’re hesitant to take the counseling work? It was your specialty, if I’m not mistaken.” Father Rafael quirked one thick eyebrow at me. I avoided his eyes as I passed Jacob’s mom his small backpack before she shuffled him out of the room. Abby was the last child remaining, and I was expecting her father to arrive at any moment.

  “I can’t really say; it just didn’t feel right. I was still just in my general classes in school. I’m sure there’s someone else much more experienced for the position.”

  “To excel at something is as much about intuition as it is knowledge, Tressa.” Father Rafael stood beside me as I watched the little blonde-haired girl rocking a baby doll back and forth. “Take Abby, for instance. See how she’s holding that doll? She’s just barely two, and yet she knows about nurturing and love. She hasn’t been taught that; she’s soaked it up through interaction. She knows inherently that to nurture is divine work. The same goes for guiding people. Counseling isn’t as much about teaching as it is about listening, and I sense you’ve got enough life experience to be someone’s listener.”

  “Someone's listener?” I frowned as I turned to take him in. His dark gaze shone with meaning. His words struck a chord, because I had been through so much. And I could listen; it was why I’d wanted to take up counseling in the first place, to help, to listen, to be someone's support system.

  “Perhaps we can talk about it over dinner?”

  “Dinner?” My eyebrows shot into my hairline. Was this . . . wasn’t this . . . forbidden?

  “In the rectory. I’ve got leftover chicken soup. Mrs. Walsh insists on cooking a homemade soup every week. I eat it for days, and while I’m thankful for the gesture, there’s only so much I can eat. Trust me, you’d be doing me a favor helping me eat it a little faster.” His lips curved into a boyish smile.

  “So why not just throw it away?” I tipped my head to the side with a smirk.

  “Things given out of altruism should never be turned down. I wouldn’t feel right flushing something down the toilet when she put so much of herself into making it for me, no matter how bland it may be.” He mumbled the last part with a wink. “Unless you have plans tonight?”

  “Mmm, those I do not have.” I smiled when Abby’s dad entered the small room.

  “If I could have a word, Father?” The man stood from zipping the little girl’s coat.

  “Of course. I’ll be back momentarily, Tressa.” His bronzed hand extended to land on my forearm with a soft pat. Lightning bolts jolted across my skin. Goose bumps and tingles exploded. I forced a smile as I made work of cleaning up the small mess the children had made.

  A few minutes later, my purse over one shoulder and my coat over my arm, I wandered into the nave. I sucked in a deep breath. It was ironic, finding myself in a church again. The last place I would have imagined finding work, spending my days.

  Wandering down one wall, I took in the haunting scenes of the Passion of Christ. H
is last moments, carrying the cross, the crown of thorns, the pain and anguish etched on his face.

  I was broken from my reverie when a deep voice, a slight inflection in the tone, murmured over my shoulder, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Beautiful? I was thinking horrific.”

  “It’s that too. But see the hope? There’s no pity on his features; there’s will. Faith is a beautiful thing, and it’s written in every line of his face.”

  I tipped my head to take in the weatherworn lines of the face of Jesus. He was barefoot and nearly naked as he was tortured in his final moments.

  “Hungry?” He placed a warm hand at the small of my back. I only nodded as he led me down the aisle, past the altar, and through a long hallway that led from the church to the rectory.

  I entered his small home, the smell of incense permeating the space. It was homey, comforting; it looked lived in. A Bible sat alone on an end table, an image you would find in any other Boston Catholic home. The space was steeped in history, the dark woodwork shone, the décor simple yet elegant.

  My fingers danced along the wood of the fireplace mantel as I looked at small religious figurines. Roused from my thoughts with the sound of pots clanging in the kitchen, I followed the noise into the small, brightly lit space.

  Father Rafael had rolled his dark sleeves up to his elbows and was pouring soup from a container into a pot on the stove. He stirred and lit the burner before turning to me, a genuine smile lighting his face.

  “Sit. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Water would be great, thank you.” I sat at the small table and watched him unabashedly. His lean form turned away from me, the clean line of his dark trousers hinting at the athletic physique underneath.

  I’d never seen a man of God so . . . sexy. Did he work out? My mind immediately jumped to the image of him peeling off that dark shirt, undoing the collar, slipping on a pair of athletic shorts and running on a treadmill. Lifting weights as he grunted and a fine sheen of sweat dusted across his skin. His hair damp from perspiration, messy from running his fingers through it.

  He was hot. Father Rafael was deliciously hot.