Takeover: The Complete Series

by Lana Grayson

  “Good.” I praised her, brushing my fingers along her cheek. “Drink your wine. Relax.”

  Honor refused. She stared at me, defiant.

  “You think this is all a game of power and submission,” she said. “It’s not. My body will respond to that sort of…touching, whether it is at your hand or if someone wants to prove their love to me.”

  “You’re naïve.”

  “So are you, Father.” She shuddered again. “I don’t think anyone could resist those feelings. It’s not submission, it’s…biology.”

  “But you did resist. You were strong.” I let my voice soften with praise. “You have the power to control this desire, Honor. To refuse that animalistic sin.”

  She shuddered, and I longed to capture each trembling breath in a kiss.

  “It’s hard. It…hurts.”

  “You’re strong, my angel. And it’s time to prove it.”

  Honor knew what I wanted, but she shook her head. “It’s dangerous, Father.”

  “Only if you can’t deny it.”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  “Do you think you’d fail?”

  The words stirred her more than my touch. My little angel…a born competitor.

  She gathered the hem of her dress, bunching it in her fingers. Just like my cassock, her dress had shielded her, protected her in modest virtue.

  And so we removed it.

  Nothing would separate her from her own resolve, her own strength.

  The dress fell to the floor, and she hid her body with a cautious hand.

  No bra. Only panties.

  And they were lost too, pulled away and down, rolled over the goose bumped crest of her thighs.

  I hadn’t seen a naked woman before, not in the flesh.

  She was more beautiful than I imagined. Curves of darkness. Swells of femininity. Honor covered her body with graceful arms, but her breathing shuttered, jiggling the perfect surge of her breasts. A dark nipple, pebble hard and temptingly hidden, practically glistened. What a rich, chocolate tease.

  “Can you resist, Father?” she whispered.

  “I have no choice.”

  Honor breathed deeply as she moved her arm. She revealed herself to me. Every secret, every fold, every deliciously sinful and heavenly beautiful innocence that the Lord had created.

  I studied her, from her quivering lips, the graceful slope of her shoulders, the taut and aching tightness of her nipples…

  The slim waistline and perfect navel…

  The flare of her hips.

  And her spread thighs, legs on either side of me, exposing the beautiful, slickened, dark petals that called to me for another touch, a taste, a moment of unrepentant sin.

  But this wasn’t my challenge.

  This was the beginning of her newfound strength.

  “You are stronger than your lust,” I said.

  Honor nodded, her words soft. “I know, Father.”

  “My brave angel.”

  I touched her then, my flesh against hers. She slickened for me, so wet and hot. I feared I’d be lost within that very same temptation which weakened her body for the mounting it craved.

  She trembled for me. I stared into her eyes while my fingers teased and prodded within the molten velvet of that forbidden pleasure.

  Her jaw immediately tightened, and her breath held. Every strike of my fingers, every little tease of my hand cupped those perfect folds and drove her higher, harder, weaker against my touch.

  I’d never felt such…softness. I stroked her petals, delighting in how silken her body melted. Even this inexperienced virgin, betrayed by her need and the lusts of the man controlling her, instinctively wetted for sin. Every curve of her flesh and sensual swelling of her slit directed my fingers low, to the slickness of her entrance.

  Where we’d lose both our souls in a moment of rutted perfection.

  “Father…it’s hard to…”

  Honor could no longer speak. Her delight hurt me as well. My cock throbbed, hardened within the beautiful vulgarity of her exposed body. Her stomach tensed, undulating with every flinch of her suffering body.

  She fought the pleasure.

  Her body ached, arched, wetted.

  Offered for me.

  She almost faltered. Her breath caught, and my fingers pinched the nub which controlled her every gasp.

  Her eyes closed, and she sweated. Twisted.

  Begged.

  “Oh, God…” Her soft cry pleaded such a beautiful song. “Need to stop…”

  Higher, higher. More and more. Such glorious resistance deserved praise.

  And such beautiful agony deserved the destruction of both our souls.

  I pulled from her slit as her voice trembled too much. She cried out as my hand left that sanctifying heat.

  I panted my own breath, filled with the warmth, the slickness, and the delicious scent of her.

  My thoughts turned to sin—darkness, sweetness, and wine. Honor struggled to hide herself again, but I had yet to memorize every forbidden curve of her body.

  “You’re cruel,” she whispered.

  “And you’re stronger than you believed.”

  The cake waited for us. I picked another piece within my fingers, pinched tight, just as if I offered her the Host.

  She accidentally shivered, a shock of pleasure that stole her breath. The cake crumbled and fell upon own chocolate skin.

  It beckoned me.

  Perverse. Lovely.

  I lowered to her chest, devouring the cake.

  “This is my body…” I whispered to her.

  She murmured the words. “Given for you.”

  A dark, devious sin twisted in our hearts. I reached for the goblet of wine. She waited, believing I’d offer it to her.

  I didn’t.

  I dripped the chilled wine over her heated body. Honor moaned. She arched into the coolness of the wine, and it trailed over her beautiful curves.

  This was the blood I drank.

  I loomed over her, using my tongue to lap the dry wine from her delicious skin. The wine trickled faster than I could drink. I chased, lower and lower, until it consecrated the perfect petals between her legs.

  The shadow of temptation riled me. It pumped my cock and strained my body in sweated resistance against everything my collar represented.

  I tipped the glass.

  The splash of wine centered over her perfect slit, exposed and wanting for more than the brush of my fingers against that virtuous, damning core.

  I closed my mouth over the drips of wine, catching each beaded chill as they rolled over the plumpness of her swollen petals.

  And her sweetness beguiled and enchanted every twist of my heart and throb of my cock.

  Honor’s moan turned to song.

  My lips were once cast in prayer. Now they formed sacred words eager to draw her uttered gasp of glory.

  My tongue was once used to spread the divine mysteries. Now it explored the depths of hers.

  My words were once meant to preach. In my silence, I offered the blessing of her pleasure to us both.

  “Father, please…” Honor couldn’t breathe. Her body wracked with a pained shudder that threatened our very faith. “This is too much.”

  I feasted upon her, savoring the slickness as I lured more pleasure and pain from her. I shared her anguish.

  This suffering must have been holy. The denial of our body, our needs, our desires tortured our instincts. I ached for mercy. I throbbed in my own masochistic delight.

  My worthless body demanded that I toss her upon the very ground we walked. If I let it control me, I’d have rutted through that innocence for my own perverted satisfaction. I’d have taken her as an animal. Rolled and sweated and coated her in wicked seed.

  Ruined her.

  Damned her.

  Joined her.

  I suckled upon that nub of power. She liked that. Or maybe she didn’t. Her hips arched in pleasure and bucked in panic. She tightened and begged against
my mouth.

  Pity I buried my tongue within her, or I might have eased her with a gentle word.

  “Father Rafe.” Honor’s fingers tangled in my hair. I no longer knew if she pulled me away or pushed me into her secret beauty. “I’m too close…”

  The power surged through me. I wanted to destroy her, and she’d have begged me to do it.

  And that was the reason I pulled away. Despite my own groan, despite losing myself within her sweetness and tasting upon the most blessed and perfect pleasure, I retreated.

  Defeated my temptation.

  Overcame my desire.

  And the pride surged through me as my own release.

  But Honor tumbled to the floor. Quivering. Weeping.

  She gripped the hem of my cassock and shuddered.

  “Please. Please. Please.” Her words rasped into broken begging. “Father…I can’t…it’s too much. Please.”

  “My angel—”

  “Just once.” Her voice hardened. “If you don’t, I will.”

  Three times I had denied her. Was I cruel enough for a fourth?

  Why did the sight of a naked woman, stricken with lust, so please me? It was as if I knew she would fail this test. Somehow, in my own wicked sin, I’d planned to wrench this submission from her.

  And that was my sin. Not lust. Not adultery.

  I hardened because she submitted to me. I made her submit to me. I drove her into sin, and I used her weakness to strengthen my own resolve.

  It wasn’t fair to leave the poor creature in pain.

  I pulled her to her feet, pinned between the counter and my body. Her nudity pressed against the black robes, the eternal and ever vigilant armor I wore to protect me from moments like these, temptations like her.

  She cried in relief as my fingers snaked back to her slit. I touched her again.

  Her wetness guided me, and I used a single finger to tease before finally sinking into her heated core.

  Honor immediately clenched around me.

  Nothing prepared me for that singular bliss. Her tightness yielded to my finger and brought such pleasure from her breathless form. She arched into me, crying out as my thumb struck her swollen, desperate nub. There was a temptation, the way it so secretly and lovingly tucked within her folds. It was a lure, a bait. My lips had captured it, and she rewarded me with a sweet cream.

  If only I had tasted more—where my finger now buried.

  If only I might have come with her.

  “Once, Honor,” I ordered. “Just once. And then you will repent for it.”

  Honor came in sobbing relief. She gripped my body, my cassock, anything and everything which grounded her to earth and not the heavens above or the hells below.

  Her core clenched my finger, pulsing with sensual, painful contractions of her body as the sin imprisoned her within desire.

  Or maybe it wasn’t sin.

  Honor surrendered to something beautiful. The gratitude she uttered, her shudders, and the sobbing pleasure didn’t create anything dark and unholy.

  She came, and the curves of her skin bathed in a rich heat. Her silken delight pulsed and wetted as a halo of comfort cradled her.

  Beautiful.

  Was that how it would feel?

  Heaven on earth? A quiet peace between two people?

  Or was it a dark shame of submission, aggression, and conquering?

  I didn’t trust her to stand on her own. I set her upon the counter once more, covering her shivering body with the dress I so carelessly tossed away. She swallowed, her eyes glassy and relaxed.

  “Forgive me, Father.” She tugged the hem low. “I…”

  “This is why you were sent to me.” I didn’t let her speak, wouldn’t let her feel ashamed of that most wondrous and amazing moment that transformed her before me. “I am meant to care for you, Honor. I will teach you to control this desire…and you will help to defeat mine.”

  “How?”

  I had no idea. I could think no farther, no deeper, than my own lust. My cock strained, envious of my hand for bringing her to that angelic peak.

  “We pray,” I whispered. “So that we go no further than this.”

  “And if we can’t resist?”

  “Then I will resist for us, my angel.”

  Because I could. Because I had no choice.

  Because our souls depended on me.

  And that responsibility, that pride, hardened me as much as my name whispered upon her lips.

  11

  Honor

  The confessional was both a loathsome and amazing place.

  Most people misunderstood its purpose—here was where we confessed our sins to a priest, a man afforded the same blessings as Christ offered his disciples. With his help and guidance, we were forgiven and our souls cleansed.

  But I still never liked it. Not when I was a child confessing to simple annoyances, and not when I became a woman and first admitted my desires for an untouchable man.

  What should have been a cherished moment of spirituality was tarnished with the mortal complication of shame.

  But I understood why Father Raphael wanted to meet in the safety of the confessional. It was a good place to talk. Private.

  Father Raphael had extended the reconciliation hours, but no one came to take advantage of the sacrament. I waited in the vestibule until I was certain we’d be alone. This was not a conversation others needed to hear.

  I nudged the sanctuary door closed as I passed. It clattered shut; the hinges squealing as the lumbering door groaned against the frame.

  He waited for me inside the booth. I crossed myself by habit and sat on the bench instead of the kneeler.

  Father Raphael waited, silent and overwhelming, as always.

  His stillness waged war with my thoughts, and the quiet muffled my voice. I shivered, a good and wicked shiver, as if his touch still lingered on my body.

  I’d missed his kiss.

  “Hi.” I greeted him in a whisper, licking my lips though my mouth had gone dry. I breathed deep just to tease myself with his scent. “I got your message.”

  “Honor.” His voice retained a seriousness. No smiles from my priest today. “I’m glad you came.”

  So was I, but I doubted he meant it in the vulgar way my mind corrupted his words. I tucked my hand in my lap.

  “I’m not sure what to say to you,” I said. “I didn’t know what to do with myself today.”

  “Why?”

  “After what happened last night…” I cleared my throat. “We needed to talk.”

  “I agree.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. Last night was something amazing.” I loathed the word, but why lie after committing other sins? “I got home, and I hadn’t slept that well in months.”

  “Honor.”

  I figured he’d be stern with me, but I knew what I had done and how terrible it was. I bowed my head. “I’ll guard myself better next time, Father.”

  “Of course you will.” His words brimmed with praise, and I let them hum over me, delighting me in the electric tickles of his warmth. “I’ll hear your confession now.”

  The warmth dissipated, and a cold shock nearly snapped my spine.

  “What?”

  Father Raphael didn’t apologize. “Your confession, Honor. Let me hear it, we’ll pray, and then we’ll begin again.”

  “Are you…? Oh my God. You’re serious.”

  “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

  Like that was the problem now. “You want me to confess?”

  “Sit, Honor,” he ordered. I ignored it. “This was my fault. I led you into that sin, and I encouraged the lust that controlled you. Once you confess, you’ll be forgiven, and we’ll work harder next time. I will protect you.”

  Shame was a gut-punch, but this knocked me out. Nothing was more dehumanizing than apologizing for my desire.

  Except him assuming I needed some sort of guardian.

  “Do you really think you have to protect me?”

>   “Yes.”

  “You think I can’t resist temptation on my own?”

  He was silent. I gritted my teeth.

  “Father, what happened last night was not a failure of my faith or spirit. It was a natural reaction of my body. I couldn’t have stopped it.”

  “You asked for it, Honor.” I heard the curled edge of his words, whispered in a proud smirk.

  “And you gave in. You didn’t stop. You helped me.”

  “I am not your enemy.”

  “I never said you were.”

  “Why are you upset? I’m here to help you.”

  Then why did he sound so…

  Smug.

  “Why do you want me to confess? Do you want to hear me beg for forgiveness like I begged to—”

  I couldn’t say the word.

  Father Raphael sighed. “Consider this your…second original sin. I will cleanse it, and you’ll learn from me how to combat these urges.”

  “Because you fought them last night.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that wasn’t your kiss last night?” I hissed the words. “That wasn’t you hand-feeding me cake? Tasting me. Pleasuring me?”

  “It was, yet I resisted the urge to take you.”

  “You were ready too, Father. Ready and panting and just as desperate as me.”

  “But I didn’t lose control.”

  Again, that tone. A sanctimonious arrogance shadowed his words in a false halo of purity.

  I knew what this was now. Why he invited me to the confessional. Why he twisted my words and prided himself when I failed to combat my desires.

  “You think you’re stronger than me,” I said. “You think you’re better at this—like either of us have any idea what we’re doing together.”

  “Honor—”

  I heard the amusement that time. Father Raphael took pleasure in his game.

  And it ended now.

  I slid from the bench and burst from the confessional, but I didn’t leave the church. I aimed for the compartment where he waited for me. I yanked the door open.

  “Strictly speaking…” Father Raphael gestured to his side of the confessional. “You aren’t supposed to be in here.”

  “Then I’ll have to confess for that too, won’t I?”

  The door slammed behind me, and I stared at this man in the dark and quiet. He placed his Bible on the bench beside him. His eyes flashed, and his brow furrowed. Stubble darkened his chin, the strength of his jaw.