And even more confusing, I wanted to open up to him. I felt connected to him on some base level I didn't understand.
Immediately, getting the sense I would be struck down any minute by God himself for lusting after a Catholic priest, I shifted in my chair and averted my eyes. Was there any sin greater? I think I’d outdone myself.
“So, Tressa, I asked you here to encourage you to help me with the teens. We have a few with . . . less than ideal home lives. They often come here for comfort, because just being here is often better than going home. I’ve tried to get them to open up to me, but they have trouble. They think I can't relate to them because I'm a priest. I’ve often thought it would be wonderful to have someone closer in age to speak with them. Everyone deserves solace, someone to talk to, and I'm afraid I'm just not that person, no matter how hard I've tried to be.” He stretched his hand across the small Formica table and rested it over my own. “But I think you could be.”
I swallowed the nerves in my throat as my hand twitched under his.
Did he feel the same spark I was feeling? Could he feel my heartbeat roaring through my system? Pumping blood through my veins and causing my fingers to twitch? I wanted to run my hands up his muscled torso, smooth my fingers along the roped veins in his neck.
Jesus, I wanted to drag my tongue along his stubbled jaw, feel his fingers tugging and pulling at my clothes before I inwardly chastised myself for using the Lord's name in vain.
And for wanting to molest a man of God.
I licked my lips as my eyes finally landed on his dark chocolate ones. They glimmered with interest as they watched me.
“You think I could help them? Really?”
“I know you could, Tressa.”
I nodded as I took in his words. The way my name fell from his full, sculpted lips had my heart beating double time.
“Yes.” I nodded. “Okay, then. If you think I can help, I would love to.”
“I know you mentioned needing a job, having to pay rent, but the church has resources. Even if this turns into something that offers compensation, it would be very little, but I can help you with a residence. The church keeps a few apartments in the neighborhood for those in need. Battered women and so on. We have one available. I’d like to offer it to you. It would be within walking distance of the church and, as you can see,” he nodded to the stove, “I can offer you sustenance.” A bright smile lit his face.
“Even if it is bland?” I teased.
“Indeed.”
“You’re so generous.”
“I think it would be an even trade. You help the church and I repay you in any way I can for your services.”
“I feel like I would be taking it away from someone else who may need it more.”
“I can assure you, that wouldn't be the case. What you can offer to these kids, it’s priceless. The Lord’s work.”
I frowned as I thought his words over. Could I really help these kids? I so wanted to.
“Okay.” The one-word assent wavered in my throat before a small smile crept across my lips.
“Great, I’m so glad to hear it.” He gave my hand a warm squeeze before hitting me with a mega-watt mile. A smile so full and sexy it took my breath away. How on earth was it possible for him to be so sensual and off-limits?
It had to be some sort of crime that God had called this delicious male specimen to the priesthood. He was off limits in every possible way, but he would not be off-limits to my fantasies.
Not at all.
Father Rafael would star in every single one from this moment forward. It made me a sinner, put me on the fast-track to Hell, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.
Chapter Three
In the days that followed, I found myself working beside Father Rafael, helping clean the church, assist with the children, and speak with the teen group that came in. Flipping through the lessons of the catechism brought me back to the lessons of my childhood in the most comforting of ways.
Father Rafael assigned me tasks and often checked up on me throughout the day, with praise always forthcoming, encouragement often, and even a laugh or smile thrown in the mix just to keep me on my toes.
Who ever saw a priest laugh?
Who ever saw a priest shed the stoic demeanor to reveal the real person beneath the collar?
Not me, and I found him fascinating when he did. He was boyish and endearing, and Lord help me, he was consuming my thoughts.
And then there were the innocent touches.
The first few times I told myself he was a tactile person, did it to everyone. And he did. I watched him with parishioners, a gentle hand here, a reassuring pat there.
But with me, somehow, it was different. I felt it instinctually. His hand on my forearm had my entire body tingling in response. A soft palm at the small of my back had fire shooting through every nerve ending in my body.
When he entered a room, my body knew it. The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention and goose bumps raced across my skin.
It was as if the energy came alive in the room, building between us. At first I assumed I was making it up. I imagined this intense connection was a one-way street. But when lightning bolts raced across my skin from his touch, I looked in his eyes and found thinly veiled lust. Desire churning, intensity misting his dark eyes.
I knew he felt it too.
But he’d taken a vow, pledged his life to serving God, and denied himself the carnal pleasures.
Pity for him.
Because at night, beneath my sheets, when I snaked my hand down my stomach to land between my thighs, I thought of him. I thought of his full lips trailing across the curve of my breasts, sucking in my darkened nipples to pull and draw them out. My body arched and my breath heaved as his deep voice spilled dirty words, telling me how he wanted to take me. Own me. Taste me.
I came in a torrent of hot, sweaty need when I thought of him sinking into me, thrusting into my body as he gripped at my hips.
I was becoming obsessed.
I felt dirty, sinful, and so sated when I fell into a restful sleep each night.
~*~*~*~
Two weeks into my new job, Boston got its first snow. It came in torrents: snowflakes falling in spades, the roads covered, and below freezing temperatures. School was cancelled and none of the regular after-school kids had shown up to hang out at the church.
The old building was silent, but for the whistle of wind, singing through the cracks.
I organized books on a shelf in the back room when, at four with the sky already darkening, Father Rafael entered.
The hair prickled at the back of my neck as his rich, accented voice floated across the space.
“Good evening, Tressa.”
My knees nearly buckled.
His voice was throatier. It felt . . . different. Sexier. Raw.
“Father.” I nodded with a smile and reached on my tiptoes to place a book high on the top shelf.
“Let me,” he murmured, right there. Right next to my ear, as if he was leaning in, enticing me. Teasing me to touch, to taste. I dropped back on the heels of my feet and turned, passing him the book, holding his gaze. His lips curved into a seductive smile before he took the heavy volume from my hands and placed it high on a shelf. When finished, he turned back to me and placed a hand at the small of my back, his thumb inching just under the cotton of my shirt and caressing the soft skin at my waist.
“Dinner?”
“Sure.” I cleared my voice as the word croaked out. But we didn’t move. We stayed still. With his hand still resting lightly at my back our eyes locked.
“Do you have something you’d like to say, Tressa?”
My jaw slackened, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
You make me wet, Father.
The words flashed through my brain as I shifted my legs together to relieve the blooming tension.
“Are you okay?” He leaned in, his lips just centimeters from my cheek. His warm breath fanning a
cross my skin caused goose bumps to erupt and my nipples to harden.
“I’m good,” I breathed in response. Pulling away, his dark chocolate eyes landed on mine. His thumb caressed the skin around my hip.
My thighs shifted, my nipples ached.
I wanted him.
“Glad to hear it,” he murmured. The thick inflection in his words had a small moan begging to escape my throat.
Would he speak Portuguese in the throes of passion? Would a jumble of Latin words fall from those sculpted lips as they sucked and pulled at my flesh?
“Shall we go? Unless there’s something else?” His eyes held mine as his hand tightened on my hip.
Was I imagining this? This spark between us?
“I’m starving.”
A full-bellied chuckle escaped his diaphragm as he pulled away. His eyes glinted. “Well, we can’t have that. After you.” He stepped aside and I took tentative steps toward the door, wondering if his eyes were on me the entire way.
I walked a little slower, swayed my hips a little more just in case they were.
“Tell me about Tressa.” One bronzed finger rimmed the mug of hot cocoa he held in his lap.
We’d eaten lentil soup, Mrs. Walsh's weekly offering, and I’d made hot cocoa I’d found in the back of his cupboard.
“There isn’t much to say. I was raised in East Boston, my brother and I.”
“And you went to St Michael's?”
“For a while.” I nodded as I sipped.
“What else?”
“There isn’t anything.” I shrugged as I watched him across from me, one long leg crossed over the other knee as he sat near the fireplace.
The fire crackled as the silence stretched.
“I sense there’s more about you, Tressa. You have soulful eyes.”
“I do?”
“Laugh all you want, but I see you. I see everything. What you try to conceal. What you prefer to show.”
“You see a lot, don’t you?”
“You’d be surprised.” A half smile lifted his lips. “Why did you decide on counseling?”
“I wanted to help.”
“That’s the stock answer; what’s the real one?”
“You think there’s more?”
“I know there is.” His eyes bore into mine. I couldn’t avert my own if I tried.
“Okay. I guess it's the same reason everyone has: my home life wasn’t . . . great. A lot happened, and I learned quickly that the people you think you can trust may disappoint you the most.”
“I see.”
“Which is why I find it ironic that I’m here.”
“Is that so?” His eyes narrowed and his head tipped to the side, something I was coming to recognize was his signature move. A small lock of hair fell over his forehead and had me itching to touch. Caress. Run my fingers through the silky strands and tug.
His eyebrows raised in silent question before his tongue darted out to trace the seam of his lips. I wanted instantly to mount him. Press my lips to his, feel his rough hands ripping off my shirt and digging into my hips.
I shifted and blinked the thoughts from behind my eyes.
“Want to tell me something?”
“You always ask that.”
“I’m a professional listener.”
“What if I don’t want to talk?” I took a sip of my mug, maintaining eye contact with him. I sensed we were waging some silent battle for control, to outwit the other.
“What else would we do?”
“Lots of things, I suppose.” I stood from my chair, mug in one hand as I stepped to the mantel. I trailed my finger along the wood grain, tracing small figurines of Jesus, Mary, Joseph, St. Michael. I wasn’t ready to talk. My mind raced for another topic to deflect the attention from myself. “Do you really believe in this celibacy thing?”
“I took the oath, didn’t I?”
“Hmm, answering my question with another question.” I grinned at him. “Some believe Mary Magdalene and Jesus were married.” I fingered the porcelain statues.
“And what do you believe?”
“Well . . .” I looked from the figurines to him. “Sex is a natural expression of love, right? A form of taking comfort from another. I don’t think it’s a sin.”
“Sex isn't a sin under the right circumstances.”
“And who deems when the circumstances are right?” I stepped closer to him, our legs just barely brushing together. “Or wrong?” The small touch lit my body on fire.
“God.”
“But aren’t God's desires subjective? The Bible is just man's interpretation of God's will,” I breathed.
“Yes, indeed it is.” He set the mug down on the side table and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Do you have a point, Tressa?” He looked up at me, his dark eyes burning into my own.
“Just that we spend so much time feeling guilt, but what if it’s useless? What if we’re meant to enjoy the life we’re given? Be good people, enjoy relationships that are healthy and consensual and take comfort when we can? Even if it’s in the form of sexual gratification.”
“Hmm . . .” He narrowed his eyes at me before his hand reached out and caressed my thigh; rough palms ran along the raw denim of my jeans. I swallowed the lump lodged in my throat and turned fully into him.
His eyes flickered with seduction, conflict, and, above all, lust. He twisted in the chair, his big hands gripping at my thighs, his face right there. His beautiful mouth so close it made me ache with need. Strong fingers stretched to knead into the cleft of my ass cheeks before I sucked in a quick breath, our eyes locking in a silent war. Who would be first? Would we take this to the next step? Would it be wrong if we did? Did I really believe what I’d said? Did he?
“Tressa.” He leaned in slowly, dusting his lips along the waistband of my jeans before his hands trailed up my hips and fisted at my shirt. He lifted it just inches to expose my belly and ran his nose along the waistband, inhaling deeply. Sucking in my scent, his eyes closed as he gripped my hips so hard I thought I might bruise.
Bruise me. Mark me. Please, mark me.
I lifted my hands to his hair, weaved my fingers through the dark, silky strands, and gripped.
A groan escaped his throat before his pink tongue darted out and traced a circle around my exposed navel.
I swayed on my feet and my eyes fluttered closed. An entire scene featuring his soft, pillowy lips and that warm tongue trailing across my body played before my eyes.
“I can smell you.” His hands tightened as he inhaled before he pulled at the denim of my jeans with his teeth and then let go.
All contact broken, I stumbled back a few steps. My eyes flickered open and my breath deflated my lungs.
He sat hunched over, wringing his hands between his knees, eyes downcast, refusing to look at me.
“Fuck,” I mumbled.
“Watch the words, Tressa,” he murmured.
My eyes darted up, shocked to be chastised by him, but he still sat there, unmoving, head downcast. I licked my lips and looked around the room for a moment, before deciding to leave.
Clearly, he did not want this to happen. I mean, I expect he did, in a physical way. But he was fighting with his morals. And I wouldn’t play a part in seducing a Catholic priest, for Christ's sake.
My morals were lacking, but I didn’t think there would be any coming back from that kind of sin.
I turned and swiped my jacket and bag off the chair before hustling out his door and into the chilly winter night.
Chapter Four
That night haunted me.
The look in his eyes.
The feel of his fingers on my thighs.
I couldn’t get him out of my head.
His words, his touch . . . consumed me.
So I avoided him for the coming days.
I called in sick on day one.
It was worth too much. I couldn’t play a part in that sweet man’s fall from grace.
I did only wha
t I was asked on day two. I watched the children. I spoke to a young boy who'd come in after his mother’s boyfriend hit him.
And I avoided Father Rafael at all costs.
I did the same on day three. At five o'clock, Father Rafael approached me with a kind smile.
My heart thudded double time and I avoided his eyes.
He asked me to eat dinner with him.
I refused and hustled home.
I was consumed by him over the weekend. My thoughts wandered. My hand settled between my thighs as I thought about him: his fingers, his tongue stroking me, bringing me to the brink before I exploded in a delicious torrent of arousal.
By Monday morning, I was pissed.
An unlikely reaction, but I couldn’t get him out of my head.
I was cranky from lack of sleep. I was angry that the only way I was able to fall asleep was to work myself to orgasm with his delicious face and body made for sin behind my eyelids.
I fell asleep sated and restful; I woke up horny and needy.
With bags under my eyes, I made my way to church Monday afternoon.
I passed through the heavy oak doors and sucked in a fortifying breath. Praying to avoid him, praying he’d be busy and I’d be busy, and I could continue on without seeing the lean line of his jaw.
The perpetual stubble that always seemed to dust the jawline of Latin men.
The dark-rimmed eyes that saw straight through me—to every dirty, sinful thought I’d had of him.
My legs around his waist, his hands tugging at my hair as he seated himself inside me.
“Fuck,” I groaned as I shrugged off my coat and hung it on the rack inside the daycare room.
A throat clearing echoed through the silent sanctuary.
I spun, embarrassed that someone heard me curse.
Father Rafael stood, a small smirk playing across his features.
He turned and smiled a friendly smile as an older woman stepped out of the confessional booth.
She patted him on the arm. “I hope you enjoy the chowder, Father.”
“I will, Mrs. Walsh. Thank you so much for your kind gesture. It won’t be wasted.” He rubbed his belly, as if there was anything there other than a flat, muscled stomach. “See you Sunday.”
Forbidden Fruit Vol 2 Page 6
