by M. C. Cerny
I listen to the sermon with one ear. The other is scanning for potential threats made in mumbled whispers while I check the international rugby scores on my phone. My Celts are doing well, and I slap my thigh a little too loudly in excitement. Mrs. Grady—a tired-looking woman with four children and no husband—glares at me, forcing me to shift in my seat and slip my phone back into my pocket. I’ll probably take on her eldest son this summer to do work in my warehouse. God knows they could use the extra income. See? I have a little charity left in my soul, when it suits me.
A commotion from the back draws attention, and I turn find my penance slipping into the last pew with her worthless father. My mood changes, and not for the better. Our eyes meet. Mine narrow while hers open wide in surprise. I give her a chiding smile, watching her cheeks burn in the distance as her eyes do their best to shift focus on the man making a ruckus in the pulpit. Her father remains oblivious and it pisses me off. I didn’t know Sydney felt the Holy Spirit in her soul. In fact, this church isn’t anywhere near to where she lives, which reminds me to check in with Stevens and Rhodes. I never saw her in here before today, and I attend regularly despite the priest’s threats that God might strike me with lightning for being here. Father Ross O’Hennessy likes his Irish whiskey too much to ban me from church. I’ve saved a bottle from my personal cache of Dair Ghaelach just for him.
It’s been a week since I saw her last parading around my club. As much as I tried to dismiss her from my mind, she found ways to creep in unexpectedly: On Monday it was her floral scent. On Wednesday it was the color of her hair when I ate one of my favorite chocolate-and-caramel candies the housekeeper leaves on my nightstand. Fuck—by Thursday all I could imagine were her legs when I saw the girls dancing their routine at the club. She’s effectively worm-holed a place in my brain. That navy trench coat of hers teases me. My mind wanders to that Friday night when it lay wrinkled and rolled up on my office floor. The fact that Father O’Hennessy is talking about the sins of temptation isn’t lost on me.
When the service is over I glance behind me, nodding to a neighbor, and acknowledge I’ll be at the waterfront fundraiser with an associate sitting behind me. Sydney slips out the side almost soundlessly while her father ambles over to light a holy candle in the back of the church, kneeling in prayer. I hope he prays to win the lottery, foolish man. I get up to follow her, wondering why she’s here. My footsteps fall in line behind hers, moving down the side hall and past pews toward the back, letting her have a lead as we weave through people. Some stop me for a handshake or a word about business. I brush them off, watching her. Sunlight from the stained glass windows paints her in abstract definitions, broken fractures of light trying to escape the darkness—but I’m coming for her.
Her footsteps click softly over marble and stone, slipping inside a confessional. I can barely make out the patent navy shoes again with the straps so tight around her ankles I imagine them to be slim leather cuffs from my own collection. Either she’s incredibly religious or stupidly foolish. A priest can’t save her, and the altar boys are clear across the church tending to other responsibilities. Even the choir has left their stands for after-service refreshments. I scan the hall and see we’re alone. It’s almost too quiet, and I open the door to slip inside the dark box. I’m a large man and the space cramps my size. I don’t like enclosed spaces, but for her I might make an exception. I hear her slide the partition open.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Her face is silhouetted by the screen, but I make out the soft profile of her sloping nose and pouting lips.
It takes everything in me to keep quiet. I cough to mask the chuckle threatening to erupt, and deepen my voice, hoping it’s not obvious.
“Tell me, my child.” I have no idea what a priest would say. Confession isn’t my thing. The last time I went had to be close to two decades earlier at my grandmother’s behest—God rest Gloria’s soul.
“My father is in trouble and I’m trying to help him, but I don’t know if I’m making the right decision.”
“You cannot help those that do not help themselves.” I nod in the dark, congratulating myself for making that sound pretty pious.
“I-I tried meeting with a man, but he’s unwilling to help.”
The unease makes me shift in my seat, but not with guilt. I wouldn’t say I’m completely unwilling either, but I’m not taking on debts that aren’t hers.
“Your father needs to seek out his own redemption.”
“I know, Father, but he’s all I have in this world and life hasn’t been the kindest to him. I don’t have many options left.”
“God will guide him.” My fists clench, pressing into my knees. If God isn’t going to guide him, I certainly will after this conversation—if only to get rid of Sydney’s tempting offer. I’m pissed she continues to defend him. If she only knew the depravity of his choices and how they will affect her if she doesn’t distance herself from him. Gambling is the least of his transgressions, if my informants are correct. I have Stevens and Rhodes looking into him and it isn’t good: stolen gun property, prostitution, a betting ring. The man practically made my father look like a damn saint.
“What should I do?”
What I want to say and what I do say are two paradoxical things. Pretty fucking blasphemous, actually. I’ve been toying with her in here unfairly. To me this is a game, but to her it actually means something, and for the first time I feel a measure of guilt over something I’ve done—or rather didn’t do, in refusing to help her. Someone should tell Father O’Hennessy that there’s a wolf in the shepherd’s house.
“You must do whatever is God’s will, Sydney.” I listen to her sniffle and slam the partition between us closed. Her tears slice into my conscience and I don’t like feeling responsible. Instead it makes me angry, irrationally so, and I want her succumbing to my will. I crave to make my dick hard again with thoughts of making her cry out for other reasons. I don’t like feeling soft around her. I slip out of the confessional determined to fix this. This girl will be the death of me.
I wait until she opens the door a crack and I yank it back, pushing her inside. Her mouth opens to scream and her eyes widen in the dark.
“Hush,” I instruct her as I wedge my body against her in the closet obviously built for people half my size. I want to touch her pebbled skin, but there isn’t any room to maneuver while she’s pressed deep into the corner. My body flexes against hers, leaning heavy into her softness.
“Now, what were you going to say, Sydney?” I murmur in a low voice. “And remember that lying is a sin.”
“Mr. Natas.” Maybe it’s the sting of my touch that makes her shiver, but I love the fact that she’s in my arms at my mercy. Whether I grant her any is another question.
“Wrong, angel. I’m the devil.” I haul her up into my arms and crush my lips against hers, kissing her for the first time. I’m right. Those damn lips taste of sweet honey—almost too sweet as they part under my mouth. I taste her in long strokes and grind my pelvis against her, letting her feel the steel rod that would give anything to rock her foundation right this minute.
Her moans are noisy and fun. I pull her mouth off mine, letting the juice of our kiss string between us in a chain of longing. I want to pull her in close and taste her salty tears, but instead I push her down, down, down to her knees cramped in the corner.
“Declan,” she whispers, and my hands squeeze her shoulders as I hover over her, crowding her space and stealing her oxygen. She responds nicely to my wordless command.
One hand moves to the front of her, clasping her delicate throat and feeling her soft submission. My thumb strokes the soft, pale skin and I feel the heady flutter of her heartbeat at her pulse point. She’s flawless, and I can’t decide if I want to mark her or toss her out of the box running scared.
“Do you know what being mine entails? Mine in every way?” I clarify. Of course she doesn’t know. This is nothing compared to what I could—no, would—do if she were
mine. If an innocent young woman like her knew what I liked, what I wanted, what I would do to her if she gave me her submission, she’d be screaming for Jesus to save her.
Good thing Jesus isn’t here.
I look down and her face is bright and open. Maybe it’s the Holy Spirit, maybe it’s the sanctity of where we are, but I have a hard time giving a fuck anymore. She does nothing except meet my eyes in a guileless expression of acceptance. Sydney is so sweet that looking at her should give me cavities—when all I want to do is drill her.
She whimpers
“Do you, Sydney?” I ask again.
She shakes her head no, and I realize I’ll show her. I’ll corrupt her just enough to give her a taste, a literal taste of what being mine would entail, because I’m a selfish son of a bitch with a heart more shriveled than the Grinch.
My hand wraps tighter around her neck until I feel the chain and clasp of a necklace. I stop and pull it out of her top, slowly letting each round bead pop out of her neckline. “What’s this, pretty girl?” I roll my fingers over the hard, polished stones.
Her hand closes tightly over mine, clasping the cross. “It’s my rosary.” Humming for a second, I pull the rest of the semi-precious rose quartz stones out from her shirt. If she were mine, I’d bathe her in expensive gems. But she isn’t.
My hand wraps the beads around my fist and I pull the strand tight, putting pressure against her neck. “Remember when I said I would defile you?”
She nods and my dick protests behind my zipper.
“P-please.” Her eyes bulge in surprise.
“Please what?”
“Mmm.” Her words muffle.
“How about ‘may I please suck your cock, Declan?’ Hmm?” I jerk her forward on her knees, growling my demand.
“W-we’re in c-church…”
I lean down, thoroughly enjoying her discomfort because I’m that kind of bastard. “I know. Now be a good girl and ask nicely.” I’m prepared to let her go and never see her face again. As much as I would miss her beautiful blue eyes, I know it’s the right thing to do.
She looks like she might hesitate, push me back, and flee. I wait for her to turn me down and reject me in kind, but it doesn’t happen. Instead her eyes go wide, shocking me, and she moans long and loud. I don’t think she realizes how loud she’ll sound from inside the confessional. Part of me wants the whole congregation to hear her submit to me.
“Declan…”
I cup her cheek in my hand, giving her a placating smile as I rub my thumb over her trembling mouth, effectively shutting her up. “Be quiet, Sydney. People may hear you.”
My other hand massages her neck, eliciting a surprising little moan. I watch her war within herself when she whispers the words that threaten to make me spunk like a teenage idiot in my thousand-dollar dress pants.
“D-Declan, may I please s-suck your c-cock?” Her lips purse and the temptress licks them, making me jerk my hips with my rock-hard arousal. The minx has got to know what she’s doing to me. I can’t explain it, but I’m going to make my dick erase all other dicks for her in this singular act, this one moment of uninhibited mouth-fucking.
My free hand jerks my buckle open and pulls the zipper of my dress slacks down in a rushed, sloppy movement lacking my usual finesse. Her small hands reach up and part the superfine wool, barely grazing me. I hiss with the heat and excitement of anticipation. The confessional feels burning hot and I close my eyes, savoring it. If this is hell, then may the Lord take me now.
“Yes,” I encourage, yanking her forward and looking back down at her.
She shifts on her knees and I crank her head back. “Open those pretty goddamn lips, angel, and suck me.”
She licks them and parts them wide as instructed. I guide my rigid cock, pumping it a few times before fitting it between her hot, panting lips. She closes her eyes and molds her pretty pink cupid’s bow around my shaft, stretching her mouth. My hips lean in and my head rolls back, despite the lack of space, as I let myself go. I pump back and forth and use my hands to hold her where I want her, regardless of any resistance she might give me. My fingers tangle in caramel-and-blond hair like a knotted rope while her mouth sucks me like a sticky summer treat, her tongue stroking me like a salted Popsicle for her pleasure. My other hand keeps her on her knees by the wrapped rosary beads. Begging for forgiveness will never be the same for my sweet Sydney.
I arch back to look at her. Tears stream down her hollowed-out cheeks as her eyes gaze at me with that guileless expression. She’ll be disappointed I don’t help her father after this. Her eyes seek an explanation so I give her the only one I can—pure, blunt honesty in a cruel and twisted world.
“This was never about a trade, my darling Sydney. This is about teaching you a lesson about good girls who risk ruin in the devil’s playground.”
I wonder if she’ll bite, scratch, and hiss when this is over. Her expression blanks out, revealing nothing.
“Do you understand?” I thrust my dick between her stretched lips.
Her head bobs and I curl her loose locks behind the shell of her delicate and oh-so-bitable ears.
“I’m going to come in your mouth, and that gorgeous throat is going to swallow every last drop.”
Her eyes finally narrow and I imagine her asking me or what? so I answer her anyway.
“If you don’t, I’m going to spank you for every bead on this rosary.”
Her eyes clear and she sucks deeper, though with less enthusiasm. She’s gotten the message and my work here is done. My come jets into her mouth and I hold her steady. She takes what I give her and then licks my dick from root to tip when I’m done jerking. It’s hands down the best blow job I’ve ever gotten, but I don’t tell her that. Instead I pull up my pants and shift my wet cock back inside. I help her up and pull her against me.
Her harsh breaths heat my chest, but the ice around my heart doesn’t melt for even a second. I wonder if she’ll cry. She tears so prettily. I don’t know what comes over me, but I kiss her neck and whisper harshly, “Now I lay me down to sleep.” I bite her lobe enough to make it sting, earning a gasp.
Sydney follows with the next line softly against my chest, barely audible next to our heartbeats, and I let her rock into me.
“I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”
My hand squeezes her neck and I kiss the skin, licking it, tasting her sweet submission one last time. My voice comes out more gravelly than I mean it to. “If I should die before I wake.”
She shudders. “I pray the Lord my soul to take.”
I push her back to look at me as far as she can go inside the confessional. Today she’s learned a vital life lesson.
“Wrong. Your soul already belongs to me.” Opening the door, I send her on her way with a spank on her ass, shutting the door behind us loud enough that she scrambles on her legs, fearful someone may have heard us. I wait a moment, letting her flee the hallway and adjusting my tie, refusing to look back at her and regret a single moment of what we did inside the confessional.
Neil surprises me, rounding the corner shaking his head and muttering. I’m pretty sure my beloved brother just called me an asshole.
I smirk with a jaunt in my step good enough to skip down the church steps and wave a hand at Father O’Hennessy. My sins are already an ocean deep; I’m not about to let a girl anchor me anywhere.
Chapter Six
Sydney
I scurry from the vestibule, tears blinding me as I smooth them from my cheeks, and run into someone on my way out. The body is definitely male, hard, and the only thing holding me up and together. Flushing with embarrassment, “I’m so sorry.”
I wonder if they know. Can they tell? I wonder if the blush of my cheeks shows my guilt and shame. I doubt anyone ever died from giving a blow job in church. I can’t believe I had my mouth on Declan’s—well, never mind that. That is never happening again. The muscles in my face ache and my lips feel…used. I feel used. Luckily I don’t know anyone here—th
ank goodness—considering this isn’t my regular church.
The male voice brings me back to reality, shocking me.
“Easy, Sydney. You running or sinning?” Declan’s brother clamps his hands on my shoulders, steadying me as I find my footing.
Great. Now I owe Neil for saving me from face-planting on the marble tiles while I’ve got salty dick breath from his brother. His hands squeeze my shoulders gently as if to reassure me. The only thing I feel is a cramping in my stomach, with the contents of Declan’s passion curdling in my belly. One hand clutches my abdomen while the other covers my mouth. I need to find my father before a scarlet letter starts showing up on my clothing.
We’re supposed to meet with a man who can get us a meeting with LeHavre. That’s the whole reason for coming to this church. I don’t see the man anywhere. He was supposed to meet me back near the confessional and tell us where to meet LeHavre. Dad is waiting for me. I didn’t approach LeHavre at first because of what I knew about him—heavy in the mob and barely respected. The money has to be paid back. He scared me more than Declan, but now I have no choices left to me; Declan just made that crystal clear.
“I have to go.” I shake and push him away, seeing my dad already moving outside, clasping hands with two other cops he knows from a neighboring precinct, deep in conversation. I look back and see Neil with Declan, but they don’t look my way.
“Dad! Dad!” I’m shouting and chasing after him, trying to catch up.
He nods at me, waving me off. I toss my hands up in the air. I will not go to the meeting alone. I watch him walk off toward what I assume is another sports bar. His friends wave back, assuring me they’ll see him home. Liars are what they all are.
