Priest_by_Sierra_Simone 3

blouse she wore. Even with my wide shoulders blocking the door to the
booth, even with the surge of power and satisfaction and lust that came from
positioning my body against a woman’s in this primal, dominating way.
It would have, I swear.
But then she bit her lip, those slightly-too-big teeth digging into her full
lower lip, all pure white digging into the sharpest, bloodiest red imaginable,
and then she rubbed her thighs together, a tiny noise coming from somewhere
in the back of her throat.
I stopped seeing a penitent.
I stopped seeing a child of God.
I stopped seeing a lost lamb in need of a shepherd.
I saw only a woman in need—ripe, delicious need.
I stepped back, drawing a deep breath, some valiant part of my conscience
trying to flicker back online, and she took a tentative step out of the booth,
her eyes still pinned to mine. I let her walk past me, but it wasn’t because I
wanted her to leave or because I wanted this temptation to end. No, it was
more like I was giving her one last chance to escape, and if she didn’t then
Jesus help her, because I had to touch her, I had to taste her and it had to be
right the fuck now.
She backed up a few paces until she bumped against the baby grand piano
set below the choir platform. She still didn’t speak, but she didn’t have to,
because I could read every tremble of hers, every breath, every goose bump.
Her teeth still bit her bottom lip and I wanted to bite that lip, bite it so hard
that she would squeal.
I advanced on her, and she watched every step of mine with a hunger that
was beyond palpable, it was oppressive, it was ferocious.
“Turn around,” I ordered her, and fuck if she didn’t comply right away,
turning and bracing her hands against the edge of the black wood. She was
still rubbing her thighs together when I reached the piano and stood directly
behind her. I ran my index finger from her hand to her shoulder, feeling every
pebbled inch of skin on her arm. “Now what were you going to say in the
booth?” I asked her in a low voice. “And remember that lying is a sin.”
She shivered. “I can’t say it. Not here. Not to you.”
My hand reached her shoulder. She’d worn her hair up in a loose twist,
exposing the ivory nape of her neck, and I caressed it now, wanting to devour
every shudder, every hitched breath. And then I placed the flat of my palm in