Page 47 of Hotter 'N Hell

While I had picked up debris, talked to the insurance adjuster, made calls to the parishioners who had been in the path of either storm, set up meals to be provided to those without power, our time in the closet hadn’t left my thoughts once. She hadn’t left my thoughts.

I flexed my hand as I held it out and stared at it. I was jealous of my own hand.

If her family—I was assuming that was who those guys were—hadn’t shown up, I wasn’t sure I’d have let her leave the damn closet. It had smelled like her pussy. And that thing it had done, where it squirted—I hadn’t known about that. I was so tempted to google it.

My head fell back onto the sofa. Her family, those men—they’d known. I could see it in all their eyes as they looked at me. I hadn’t been sure for a moment that one or more wasn’t going to put their fist in my face. Which I would have deserved. Not only was I a priest, but I was also eight years older than her. Those two things should have been enough to stop this.

But I was starting to think nothing was.

King David had sinned, and then came Solomon. I mean, if God could use the two of them, he could still use me. I was a man. One who hadn’t known his own needs when I took my celibacy vow.

Delana had been young, and although I had wanted to do things with her—things other than kissing and playing with her tits—she’d been adamant about waiting until marriage. Maybe if she hadn’t gotten sick, we’d have finally given in and done more. But she died. Taking my heart with her. I had believed that meant my desire for sexual things too.

I had been wrong. So very, very wrong.

Turning my head to the left, I stared at my rosary beads. I’d picked them up earlier, but I couldn’t bring myself to pray. Thethought of asking for forgiveness and calling what I’d done with Saylor a sin bothered me. What did that say about me? I was a priest.

I had spent years of my life to get to where I am now. Money spent to get through seminary. Guilt at that thought ripped through me. Delana’s parents, devout Catholics, had paid for my seminary degree. They’d said it was what she would have wanted.

Now, I’m finger-fucking a girl eight years younger than me and smelling her on my hand, refusing to wash it.

What happened to me? How did I become this?

Before her, I’d even been smug about my ability not to succumb to lust. Sure, I’d fought off the need to masturbate and only given in to that sin five times since finishing seminary. All of which I had confessed and asked forgiveness for.

This was different.

How did I go back after knowing how her cunt felt? Slick, tight, soft, so hot. The thought of my dick sinking into that. No wonder men were brought down by sex.

My hand went to squeeze the erection I’d given myself, thinking about it.

My phone’s text message alert went off, and I sat up, taking my hand off my dick, and picked it up. Fully expecting it to be someone in need of food or shelter or wanting to help clean up tomorrow. That wasn’t what it was.

I stared down at her name—Dimples. I’d changed it in my phone after she added her number. Lifting my fingers to my nose again, I smelled her, then slid my thumb over the phone to read what she had sent.

Saylor:

I will be late tomorrowmorning.

That was it. No explanation. Nothing.

She was upset with me. I tried to think of what I had done wrong.

Jude:

Is everything okay?

I waited while replaying everything that had been said before I left her.

Saylor:

Yes.

I frowned. That had been a lot of dots for one word.

Jude:

No, something is wrong. What is it?