“I’M SORRY. I DIDN’T KNOW WHERE ELSE TO GO.”
The words are out of Amaya’s mouth before I even have the door fully opened.
It’s almost ten o’clock at night, and I was just settling in to work on this Sunday’s homily when there was a knock on the door. Nobody— besides Amaya—comes to my cottage in the back beyond Jeremiah when he needs guidance, and even then, we usually meet in the office at the church, so seeing Amaya isn’t that surprising. I glance around the open space behind her, making sure there aren’t any prying eyes, before I move to the side and usher her in, quickly closing the door and locking it for good measure. I wince when I turn to face her, the few day- old wounds on my back and inner thighs screaming from the sudden movement, but I don’t want her to pick up on my discomfort, so I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood and move slowly in her direction.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, stopping when I’m a few steps away. I don’t dare get too close.
I’ve thought of little else since the night I killed for her, because as much as I try to justify it, now that the green haze has lifted from my eyes, what else can it be called but a crime of passion?
I’ve sought penance ever since, although I don’t feel remorse for killing him.
I feel guilt that I don’t.
Still, I haven’t gone to seek Amaya out since. I haven’t given in.
And I know that I need to get rid of her permanently before I let my addiction to her overtake my entire life. I need to rip it out from the root, making sure it’s dead and gone.
But either way, that pathetic man deserved to die, and I’d do it again.
Amaya’s frazzled, her eyes wide and red- rimmed, and her hair is a tangled mess, like she’s been running her hand through the locks and tugging.
She’s upset.
My chest pulls.
“Amaya,” I soothe, taking another large step toward her, because I can’t not.
My fingers tense, wanting to reach out and cup her cheek. I’d turn her face up to mine and force her to look me in the eyes. Then I’d soak in how warm her skin felt and how her pouty mouth would part in invitation if I tugged the smallest bit on her chin.
My cock twitches, and I slip my hands into my pockets instead.
She shakes her head, her gaze growing glossy. “I don’t know what to do or wh-where to go, and I know you’re not the person I should be coming to, but I don’t have anyone else.”
Now it’s her who takes a step closer, and it’s so sudden that I panic, jerking back, pulling the scabs apart on a particularly nasty lash across my side. I can’t contain the sharp intake of breath.
Her eyes grow wide. “Are you okay?”
I shake off her concern. “It’s nothing.”
“That doesn’t look like nothing.” She points to the grimace on my face.
She takes another step forward and I react without thinking, reaching out and gripping her arm tightly. We both freeze when my touch registers, the air thickening around us until it chokes.
My hand wraps entirely around the bone of her wrist, fingertips meeting on either side, and I’m reminded of just how delicate and small she really is.
I could snap her in half with a simple flick. It would be easy.
As effortless as breathing.
Would she drop to her knees? Fall to the floor and beg for mercy?
I quite like that idea.
Her hand flexes as though she’s trying to either escape or move closer. Which one, I’m not sure. If she’s smart, she’d choose the former.
“Don’t,” I say, squeezing her close for a split second and then shoving her away roughly, ridding myself of the temptation to do more. My heart pounds as I imagine wrapping my fingers around her throat, just to see if it feels as vulnerable as the delicate feel of her wrist.
Would it be as easy to snap?
She shrinks back, almost like she can read my thoughts.
“Tell me what you need, or leave.”
She scoffs, rubbing her wrist and glaring at me. “I shouldn’t have come here in the first place.”
“That’s right, you shouldn’t have.”
She blinks. “Why are you being so… You know what? Never mind.”
She spins around, but before she can make it far, I’m on her, my front flush to her back as I press her into the wall next to the door. Her body tenses against me, and I bring my arms up, caging her in, aching to touch her with every fiber of my being.
I can’t control either part of myself: the monster who wants to fuck her or the man who wants her dead.
My breath makes the strands of her hair flutter, and I lean in close, licking my lips, wondering if I’ll be able to taste her in the air. “Why am I being so what, petite pécheresse?”
“So mean,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “You’ve never been so mean before.”
I give in, the pull to her so strong it floods my veins and makes me high with need. My hand leaves the wall and sinks into her hair, fisting the waves and tugging until her head falls back against my chest. From this vantage point, I can track the delicate veins of her throat, and my mouth parts, going dry as I watch her swallow.
Her breaths come in sharp pants, her windpipe tempting me to crush it.
My fingers twitch at my side.
It would be so easy.
Do it.
I raise my arm up slowly, my body buzzing from anticipation, but then a small moan escapes her, and I drop it back down, fisting her hair tighter with my other hand instead.
“Tu me rends fou,” I rasp.
I splay my palm across her stomach, dragging her into me until her ass moves back and meets the thick, hard length of my cock. I groan, my head falling back.
“Cade…” she whispers.
“Do you see what you’ve done?” I murmur, bending low until my lips scrape against the shell of her ear, my fingers twisting in her wavy, dark strands. “What you’ve reduced me to?”
I thrust my hips against her, my eyes rolling as my hand slides up the front of her stomach and then over her chest, resting on top of her heart. Her life force drums out a quickened rhythm beneath my palm.
Do it.
In a millisecond, I’m cupping her throat, my thumb stroking her neck to the beat of her heart.
She could become nothing more than a painted memory on my fingers, one I can wash away like chalk in the rain.
I tighten my grip and my balls draw up, my stomach tightening as she sucks in a sharp breath.
Do it, I hear again.
My fingers dig into her skin.
Just a little more now and I could be free. How blessed would it be to feel my obsession drain away along with the light in her eyes?
Out of all the demons I’ve ever encountered, she has to be the worst. She tortures me until I’m sure I’d miss the pain if she wasn’t near.
“Tell me, petite pécheresse, have you thought of your priest?”
She swallows, her throat moving beneath my hand, and I imagine what it would feel like if my cock was fucking it instead. If I’d feel it bulging from the inside while she drank me down.
I loosen my grip, my priorities changing as my mind flips from hatred to lust.
“Tell me,” I demand.
“Yes,” she breathes out.
My mind goes blank, a primal need rushing through me.
I need to touch her.
I need to feel her against me.
I need to erase what any other man has made her feel, to ruin her for even God, until the only one she can pray to is me.
But it’s not my fault. It’s God’s for not making man as strong as the devil.
My hand glides back down her body, memorizing every single curve until I dip in the waistband of her skirt. Precum leaks from my throbbing cock when I meet warm and wet flesh instead of the fabric I expect.
“Fille sale,” I groan. “So wet for me.”
She moans when I graze my thumb across her clit, fingers slipping effortlessly between her folds from how soaked she is. I bite down on the inside of my cheek until copper floods my mouth.
It’s been so long since I’ve touched a woman sexually.
“Merde.”
I slide inside her, her inner walls hugging my fingers like a vise and making me hang on to my control by a simple, flimsy thread. I am…lost to her.
My thumb continues to stroke her clit until it swells, both of her hands wrapping around my wrist so tightly that her nails break my skin.
The pain makes a small spurt of cum leak from my tip.
I sink my teeth into her neck, her taste exploding on my tongue like ambrosia, and when she starts moving her hips against me, I thrust back, pushing her into the wall and finger fucking her until she cries out.
My other hand, still tangled in her hair, pulls sharply, making her back bow against me, and I swear I could die right now and burn in hell forever as long as I kept the memory of feeling her come undone beneath my hands.
“Cette chatte est à moi,” I whisper before swiping my tongue across the expanse of her neck.
“Oh God,” she moans.
I pump my fingers harder, my own muscles tensing, my cock growing so thick it’s about to burst through my pants. How incredible it would feel to rip away her skirt and sink deep inside her. To split her apart, feel her legs wrapped around my hips and her cunt squeezing me until I paint her womb with my cum.
“Come for me,” I command.
My thumb presses down on her clit and she moans, long and loud, her body vibrating as her walls contract around me.
The sounds pouring from her lips send me over the edge, and I explode, blinding white light bursting behind my eyelids as my dick pulses, sharp contractions that drain what feels like years of pent- up sexual frustration. It’s hot and messy and I’ve never felt so much pleasure or relief.
We both stand still for a few moments after, my grip in her hair so tight I’m unsure if I’ll be able to untangle my fingers. I rest my forehead in the crook of her neck, my skin sticky from exertion as I try to regulate my breathing.
As soon as I do, the guilt of my actions hits hard.
I push away from her, my limbs cold and emotions wild.
“Leave,” I demand.
“I…what?” she asks, spinning around and running her hands through her hair.
“You”— I point my finger at her—“are nothing more than a temptress, a witch sent to lead me astray. Just like your mother said.”
“Of course you’ve heard about my mother.” And then she laughs.
As though any of this is funny.
I rush forward so fast she stumbles into the wall.
“Do you think this is a joke? That me forsaking my vows is something I take lightly?”
She shakes her head, her eyes growing round and wary.
“I have given my life to Him, and you come around, torturing me simply by existing. No.” I shake my head until my skull rattles. “You’re a curse. One that will destroy everything I’ve worked for.”
“Cade,” she murmurs, her hand reaching out to grasp my cheek.
I rip myself away before I can feel the warmth of her touch, turning my back on her and gritting my teeth.
“I am not Cade. I am Father Cade Frédéric. The priest of Festivalé. And you, Amaya Paquette, are worse than a whore,” I spit, refusing to look at her. Refusing to acknowledge the way my heart feels like it’s splitting with every word I say. “You are the devil, and I want you out of my sight.”
There’s a strong pinch in my chest when I hear the door slam, and then my stomach is roiling. I race to the toilet, heaving bile until there’s nothing left but the bitter taste of regret.
And although I’m already sore, already beaten, I head to my room, grab my discipline, and strike myself for the sin.
He is merciful.
