Forbidden Fruit - A Naughty Collection

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“And what is it you need to confess, child?” My tone is gravelly. Her voice sends heat racing through every part of my body, and I have to adjust my thickening erection. It’s worse than I realized. The guilt eats away at me, but I’m a human being. Weak. Needy. I can’t stop my desire for her.

“I’ve . . . I mean . . .”

“It’s okay, child. You’re safe here.”

Is she? No. Because if she strode into this booth and dropped to her knees, I don’t think I’d be capable of saying no. There’s no way I’d be able to resist sinking into her mouth. Having those glossy, pastel-pink colored lips around my cock would be heaven itself.

“There’ve been things I’ve done. Things I shouldn’t do. My parents would disapprove of me if they knew.”

“We all do things we’re not proud of, little lamb. It’s how we repent that absolves us.” Her breathing hitches. The sound sends a jolt of pleasure to my balls. They hang heavy, wanting to empty into a willing vessel. Something tight. Hot. Wet.

Fuck. Scrubbing my palms over my face, I inhale a long breath.

“Father, I’ve touched myself.” Her words come out in a whoosh.

As wrong as it is, her voice has this effect on me, and my dick agrees. He’s ready to burst through my slacks. I shouldn’t do this. But I find my hand on the bulge as she tells me her dirty tales. “There’s a man. He’s . . . older. I . . .”

“Go on,” I urge. My voice strained as I stroke myself through the material.

“I think about him, and I feel a tingle between my legs. It’s . . . I’m so ashamed, but I can’t stop. I mean . . .”

I know what you mean, I want to tell her. To confess my own dirty fantasies. My own filthy sins. But I can’t. I don’t. Instead, I rub the aching hard-on in my pants.

“My fingers get so wet,” she continues her torturous confession. “And I . . . I find release. I find ecstasy. How can it be wrong? It feels so right.” My body locks. Immediately the wet spot in the black material shows, and I stifle a groan.

“Ten Hail Marys’ child,” I bite out, shoving the door open, fleeing before she sees me.

Glancing at the page that has two lines of a sermon, I sigh, realizing I’m no better than the damn sinners I’m talking about. How do I tell people to pray, to confess and repent, to be honorable citizens when my mind is filled with dirty thoughts? I should be different. It’s why I entered the church, to dedicate my time and life to doing good.

I’m worse. I’m a hypocrite. Every Sunday I stand up before my congregation and preach about morals, values, respect, and I’m breaking every one of those rules. I should rip off the damn collar and burn it. Perhaps I’ll burst into flames.

A knock at the door drags me from my secret thoughts. “Come in,” I call to the visitor. Rising from my chair, I round the desk only to be halted in my tracks. The brunette who’s been haunting my mind, dreams, and fantasies stands on my threshold looking almost ethereal. I say almost because her body is far from it. It’s sinful. Curves fill out the black jeans she wears. Her top—a pastel-blue, flowery, satin material—fits loosely around what I can only imagine being pert breasts.

“I’m sorry if I’m interrupting you, Father. I . . .” Her voice drops to a mere whisper. She regards me with big eyes glistening with hope and anxiety. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“You’re not disturbing me, Sage. Come in.” I should go to her. Perhaps escort her into the office, but I can’t. My legs don’t work, and it appears my brain has also short-circuited.

When she closes the door, I can’t help the heat coursing through my veins. She approaches me, and a faint fragrance of apples invade my senses. It reminds me of a happy day I’d spent in an orchard with the woman I was convinced I would marry. And instead of being annoyed with Sage for bringing back that memory, I’m glad because I want to associate that scent with her. The sweet, lingering fragrance.

I want to revel in it. I ache to collapse with desire at her feet. To taste her skin. Shaking my head of the wayward thoughts, I nod. Gesturing to the chair. “Please sit down. What can I do for you?”

When I settle behind the desk, I meet her gaze. It’s filled with trepidation, then changes. “I know what happened this morning. It’s been weighing on me. On my mind. What you did in there. I did it as well.”