Sinner (Priest Book 3)

by Sierra Simone

  She swallows, meeting my eyes. “Sean,” she whispers.

  “This was the job you wouldn’t tell me about.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a nun.”

  She lets out a breath. “Well, I’m a postulant. And this order is semi-apostolic, so sister is really more correct than nun. We usually use the word nun to refer to someone in a contemplative order.”

  I blink at her for a minute, willing all the words she just said to make some kind of sense. But they keep floating around in my brain, totally divorced of context and meaning. “So…you’re not a nun?”

  A quick, flickering smile. “I’m not a sister yet. I’ll be a postulant for another month before I enter the novitiate stage.”

  “And then you’ll be a nun?” I ask.

  “And then I’ll be a novice for two years.”

  “And then?”

  The smile turns into a laugh. “Then I take temporary vows. If I still want to take permanent vows after three years, then I’ll be a full sister of the order.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  She laughs again. “Well, yes. He is kind of the point.”

  I give a not-so-discreet glance around the sad waiting room, circling back to the young, interesting woman in the window in front of me. Even in her plain postulant’s jumper, even with the white headband holding her curls away from her face, she’s stunning. In fact, something about the starkness of the setting, the starkness of her clothes, makes her even more beautiful than she was last night. My dick gives an insistent throb, reminding me that I never got a chance to kiss her, reminding me that I never got a chance to sling her leg over my shoulder and taste her.

  And you’ll never get to now, Bell. She’s a fucking nun.

  “Why?” I ask, trying to understand. Because why would anyone choose this? Old plastic chairs and boring routines and a life without sex? A life without sex, and for what? For the dubious pleasure of getting to wear a gabardine jumper? “You could do anything you wanted. You’re so young, Mary. You’re smart. You’re in school. Why would you throw all that away?”

  Her flickering smile is snuffed out like a candle. She looks away. “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand.”

  “Damn right, I don’t understand,” I say, beginning to feel genuinely irritated.

  No, not irritated.

  Upset.

  I’m upset that I met this girl, that I want her, that I want to kiss her and I want to fuck her and I want to dance with her again, and I can’t do any of those things because she wants to offer up her life to a nonexistent deity. I mean, it’s obviously not about me and it’s obviously none of my business, but still.

  “I should have known,” she mutters. “You were like this when Tyler became a priest too.”

  Tyler.

  My brother.

  The words drip through my mind with slow, chilling realization.

  “How do you…?”

  But even as I say the words, even as she tilts her head impatiently, and even as the sun shifts behind the clouds and throws her face into a new relief of light and shadow and I see the echoes of Elijah’s cheekbones and eyes and forehead—even as all this happens, I know.

  Fuck me.

  “Zenny?” I ask. And then again, because it still doesn’t seem real. “Zenny?”

  She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t need to, because I can see it now. Not just her similarity to Elijah, but her similarity to the little girl I used to know. But shit, she’s no little girl now. Fourteen years is apparently a long fucking time, which is something I know intellectually, of course, but seeing the evidence of it like this is disorienting. Unreal.

  Zenny is a woman. A woman I wanted to fuck last night.

  Little Zenny! And I almost kissed her, I almost—

  Oh God. I clap a hand over my mouth as the real impact of it all sifts through my thoughts.

  “Elijah is going to kill me,” I mumble through my fingers. “Oh my God. He’s going to kill me.”

  I see the tiniest flash of amusement in her gaze before it goes serious again. “It’s fine, Sean. Nothing happened anyway.”

  “Nothing happened? Jesus, Zenny, I just about kissed you! I had no idea—” I turn away from the window for a moment and then turn back. “Why didn’t you say anything? You obviously knew who I was—why didn’t you tell me it was you?”

  “You didn’t recognize me,” she replies calmly. There’s something challenging in her eyes when she looks up at me. Or maybe it’s not challenging—maybe it’s…hurt? But that’s ridiculous. Why would she be hurt that I didn’t recognize her after fourteen years? “And I didn’t see any reason to tell you. Especially in light of what’s going on with the building.”

  “But you still wanted me to kiss you,” I point out (and yes, I say it to be a dick). “Even though I’m the big, bad wolf trying to take your building away.”

  Her eyes flash again, but this time not with amusement. She walks away from the window, and next to me, I hear a door open. She stands in the threshold, looking more sweetly glamorous than any girl has any right to be, and she’s gesturing me inside. “Shall we get started?”

  “No! Zenny, you owe me more than that, for fuck’s sake.”

  “I’m not talking about this with you,” she says. “It’s over with and it’s not happening again…and nothing happened to begin with, anyway. We’re past it.”

  I’m not past it! I’m not past the memory of her touch, the memory of wanting her—which isn’t even a memory right now, it’s real, it’s present, wanting her is my current state of being—and how the fuck am I ever supposed to get past the fact that this is Elijah’s little sister? Someone I held as a baby?

  Oh my God, I’m going to hell. I don’t even believe in hell and I’m going there, and what’s worse is that she believes in hell, probably; she believes in all this stupid stuff, she’s giving her life to the same church that killed my sister.

  How can I still want her after all that? Knowing she’s little Zenny, knowing that she’s choosing the one institution on this earth that I want to see razed to the ground? But God, want her I do.

  She gestures again and I finally accept her invitation, catching the smell of something rose-like and delicate as I walk past her.

  “I just want you to see the shelter before we talk about anything else,” she says matter-of-factly, closing the door to the waiting room and leading me down a short hallway. We pass a small office with a woman sorting through boxes inside; presumably the same woman Zenny was talking to earlier. “It’s pretty quiet in the summer,” Zenny continues, “unless there’s a run of rainy days or we get another group of women waiting for permanent placement.”

  “Zenny.”

  She ignores me, leading me into a large room lined with neatly made-up bunk beds. “But in the winter, we’re over capacity. We have a strict separation of families, men and women, but there are times when we have to let overflow guests sleep on the kitchen floor so we don’t have to turn anyone away.”

  I glance around the sparse room, which despite its tired blankets and flat pillows, is extremely clean and smells surprisingly homey. A familiar mix of baking bread, fresh flowers and Mr. Clean. Then I look back at the young woman who’s trying very hard not to look at me.

  “Zenny.”

  She turns on her heel and walks out of the room, talking very quickly now. “And then here’s the cafeteria,” she says, turning into a wide doorway. “As you can see, it’s pretty small for what we do, and the kitchen needs updating, but despite all that, we were able to serve close to two thousand—”

  “Zenny.” And this time I touch her. Just a brush along the white, artificial-feeling fabric at her elbow. And she goes still and stiff, like I’ve frozen her to the spot.

  “Tell me what last night was all about,” I say, and I know I sound bossy, I know I’m using the same low voice that I would use to tell a woman to open her legs for my mouth. I know it and I don’t care. I don’t think I
can handle living with last night in my mind without some kind of closure, I don’t think I can look at her for another second and not kiss her—I can’t listen to another word without needing her to say my name over and over again. Something has to shift, something has to stop this terrible twist she’s got going in my chest, and this is the only thing I can think of. “The honest guy thing, remember? How about you give me the honest girl thing?”

  From behind her, I can see the lift and drop of her slender perfect shoulders as she breathes. I can see the catch of the sunlight through her curls and the tight line of her jaw as she thinks.

  “Turn and look at me,” I coax gently, and then oh fuck, that was a mistake, because she does turn, she does look at me, and it’s like every time I forget. I forget how fucking gorgeous she is, I forget what the sight of those pouting lips does to my cock.

  “Please,” I say quietly, peering down into her face. “Tell me about last night.”

  The bright morning sun makes the copper in her eyes look molten, liquid, like her very soul is bubbling hot and waiting to be cast. She sighs, about to look down, and I don’t let her, I catch my finger under her chin to keep her eyes on me. My touch seems to shock her, and it shocks me too, and in the back of my mind, I think of stained glass and the sharp taste of wine.

  “I—I just wanted one last night to myself,” she finally admits. “In a month, I’m professing as a novice, and aside from going to school, I’ll no longer be free to…” she trails off, as if catching herself using words she doesn’t want to use. “Then it will be time to seriously devote myself to the order. To this life.”

  “So you were going to ask just any old man you saw to kiss you?”

  “You’re not that old.”

  “You know what I meant. Answer me, please.”

  Another sigh. “No. I just wanted to dress up and drink and have a night that wasn’t homework or cleaning shelter toilets or studying ecumenical texts. But then I saw you, and you didn’t recognize me at all, and it felt terrible but it also felt…safe, I guess. Like I knew you and didn’t know you at the same time. Like I could pretend to be someone else and also know that you would take care of me.”

  “That was a dangerous assumption,” I tell her, feeling a spike of retroactive fear. “The things I said to you last night—dammit, that wasn’t okay of me to do.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “So it was okay to say those things to me when I was just a stranger, but when you know I’m Elijah’s sister, then it’s not okay?”

  “Well, yes. And also you’re so young. And I’m not a good man. If you’d told me you wanted it, I would have spent the rest of the night with my mouth on your cunt.”

  Her eyes widen and I remember we’re in a place run by nuns.

  Sigh.

  “Sorry,” I concede, dropping my finger from under her chin and running a hand through my hair. “But do you see why this is a little weird to me? You’re Elijah’s baby sister and now all of a sudden you’re a nun and the things I wanted to do to you, Zenny, Jesus fuck, you have no idea.”

  “Is this the infamous Sean Bell having a conscience?”

  “We haven’t seen each other for fourteen years,” I say, miffed and amused at the same time. “For all you know, I’m a very principled man.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I talk to Elijah almost every day. I know enough to know your only principles are about money.”

  “Untrue,” I protest.

  “Really?”

  “Uh, yes, really. Witness me panicking that I had carnal thoughts about you last night.”

  She waves a hand. “That’s more about your fraternity with Elijah than actual ethics.”

  “I don’t see a meaningful difference between the two.”

  “Are you still having carnal thoughts about me?” she asks abruptly, and she asks it with that tempting combination of boldness and vulnerability that I can’t resist. Like she wants to know the answer so badly that she’s willing to expose her own curiosity and desire—and more than desire itself, but the desire to be desired. And it betrays so much about her—her youth and energy and spirit and innocence and honesty and longing, and it’s potent, it’s so fucking potent.

  “Do you want the honest guy thing still?” I ask, because I have no problem being honest, but after I answer her, she might have a problem with it. And I want to give her the choice to back away from this conversation now, before I reveal exactly how impure and worldly a secular man can be around a holy woman.

  “Yes,” she whispers, peering up at me.

  I open my mouth to answer her, remembering only at the very last instant that there’s at least one other person here, that Zenny wants to be a nun, that it wouldn’t be good for her to be caught with me whispering dirty things in her ear, and I don’t want to be interrupted anyway. I need her to hear exactly what I’m going to say to her so that she understands how serious this all is.

  I glance around the cafeteria to make sure we’re alone, and then I take her elbow and lead her into the kitchen, which is partitioned off with a swinging door. Once inside, I let go and she instinctively takes a step back, pressing herself against the wall.

  Smart girl.

  I do all the good guy things: I stand well away from the door so she has a clear exit, I put my hands in my pockets, and I ask for a final time, “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  She lifts her chin the tiniest bit, and I see her nervousness, her uncertainty. But she says, “Yes, please,” in a calm, clear voice.

  Fine, then.

  “I’ve wanted to fuck you since the moment I saw you today,” I say, watching her blanch with surprise at my blunt lewdness. “I can’t stop thinking about pushing that jumper up to your waist and nuzzling into your cunt until my face smells like you. I want to bite your tits through that white shirt. I want to see that cross necklace sliding around your collarbone as I find out if you prefer two fingers or three.”

  Her lips part but no sound comes out. Her eyes are wide and searching mine, and she’s breathing fast, so fast that I know for sure that she’s hearing and understanding every word.

  “Has Elijah told you how many women I’ve fucked? How many women I’ve made come? It’s a big number, Zenny, because I love to fuck. I love to make women come. I love to see their snug little cunts, I love to taste them and push my big cock into them until they stretch. I love having my hands full of their hair while I fuck their mouths. I love feeling a girl’s ass clench around my finger as I tongue her clit.”

  She swallows.

  “And I want all those things with you. Right now.” I unbutton my suit jacket, parting it so she can see exactly how urgently I want it. Want her.

  “Oh,” she breathes, her eyes dropping to the thick outline in my trousers. “Oh.”

  “Yes. Oh.”

  She can’t stop staring at my erection, her teeth sinking into that plush lower lip as she looks.

  “So you see the problem,” I say in a businesslike tone as I button my jacket again, mostly concealing the aching hard-on that’s currently dripping precum at the sight of her biting her lip. I can’t stop thinking about how those lips would give and mold under my own, how they would yield to my teeth, stretch around my organ as I carefully, tenderly slid in to the back of her throat.

  She struggles to drag her eyes back up to my face, and when she gets there, she finds me smirking a little. Her cheeks warm again, possibly in embarrassment or in arousal, or some combination of the two. “The problem is you being turned on?”

  I take a step forward, my hands back in my pockets. “I’m a dirty man, sweetheart. I fuck strippers. I’ve taken conference calls with another man’s wife sucking me off under my desk. You think I’m ashamed of my cock? That I’m ashamed of wanting to fuck? Nothing’s further from the truth.”

  Her pupils are huge now, her eyes just the barest rings of copper around massive pools of black. “Then I don’t understand,” she whispers.

  I take another step forward, and ano
ther, until we’re toe to toe. I reach up, moving slowly enough for me to catch her gaze and raise an eyebrow. Is this okay? I’m asking silently, and she gives me a slow, wide-eyed nod. I trace a line down the point of her chin, dropping to finger the starchy collar of her shirt. “The problem isn’t that I want to fuck you. The problem is that I care about you. I care about Elijah.”

  “And you don’t fuck women you care about?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “That seems strange,” she murmurs, her breath catching as my finger goes slightly lower than her collar and starts toying with the chain of her necklace.

  I shrug. “It’s how I’ve always done things. And…”

  “And?”

  I roll the cross pendant between my fingertips, keeping my eyes on hers. “And there’s this.”

  “Is it a problem because you respect my choices and my beliefs? Or because you don’t respect the Church?”

  I use the cross to tug myself just that much closer to her. “Both,” I tell her.

  “So there’s more than one problem,” she says, her voice a bit breathless. “You care about me and my brother. And you don’t care about God.”

  “Mmm,” I agree. I’m watching her mouth now, the way her lips crease ever so slightly as she talks, the flick of her tongue as she shapes her words. My cock is painfully aware of how close it is to her; just a few inches more and I could press right into her belly, grind away the ache she gave me.

  No. Bad.

  Elijah.

  Nun thing.

  “I never got my kiss,” she whispers. “And I’d already planned on committing that sin. What if you kissed me now and we pretended it was still last night? That you didn’t know it was me?”

  Fuck.

  My body responds before my mind, my heart hammering quick and my memories whirring like a merry-go-round, bringing up half-forgotten feelings. Feelings of magic and mystery and more-ness, as if this girl holds inside her a larger universe than the one I live in, as if she speaks a language I only hear in dreams I pretend I don’t dream.

  She reminds me of the way I used to be. Before. Before Lizzy died. Before I rejected all the stupid and naïve things that had kept our family blind to the truth and her pain. Before I made my own idol of money and ambition and $1500 neckties.