Priest_by_Sierra_Simone 3

“Any time.”
She leaned forward, pushing up on her toes, and I had no idea what she
was doing until I felt her soft lips press against my cheek. I froze, every
detail, every sensation etching itself into my soul, imprinting itself while she
imprinted my skin with her crimson lipstick.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her words and her breath near my ear, and
then she bit her lip and turned away, walking towards her house.
And I went inside the rectory for another twenty-minute cold shower.
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t both dreading and looking forward to
Monday’s confession hours with equal measure. I’d spent Mass on Sunday
searching the pews for Poppy, and when I didn’t see her, a brief balloon of
hope and despair had risen in my mind. Maybe she was gone, maybe her
brief flirtation with religion had flamed out, and maybe this un-winnable test
of my self-control was over.
Maybe she was done with me, I would think, and the balloon would fill
with relief.
Maybe she was done with me, I would think again, and this time the
balloon held only pain.
And so when Rowan finally left the booth that Monday and someone else
slipped inside, the balloon burst with a vengeance, and my pulse began to
race (with trepidation or arousal, I didn’t know.)
“Father Bell?” a low voice asked.
“Hello, Poppy,” I said, trying to pretend that her voice didn’t go straight to
my dick.
She let out a laugh, small and relieved, and the sound conjured up her
smile from Friday, the way she’d beamed at me when I’d offered to help her
settle into her house.
“I don’t know what I expected. It’s just—it feels too good to be true
sometimes. I left Kansas City looking for a new start, some meaning in my
pointless life, and then here’s this unbelievably handsome priest, practically