Lessons in Sin

Carrie had snitched? Because she was the big sister on the third floor? Had she told on herself, too? She’d been pressed up against the window with the rest of them, drooling over the half-naked priest.

“Why do you think someone would watch you run?” I arched a brow, trying to ignore the chiseled planes of his stunningly gorgeous face.

“I take that to mean you didn’t participate this morning.”

“Oh, no. I was creeping right along with your horny fan club.”

“I want the names of everyone in attendance.”

“Um, yeah. This girl”—I aimed a thumb at myself—“isn’t a snitch. But here’s some advice. Put a shirt on. Increase your carbs. Grow a potbelly. Because the washboard, eight-pack thing? That’ll just keep reeling them in. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but every female in this school has a lady boner for you.”

He attempted a stoic expression, but the intensity of his disgust shone through.

“They call it Morning Worship.” I stared at the wall before me, basking in his discomfort. “To think, when the lights go out, all those dutiful prayer hands are petting the kitty in your honor.”

“Enough.”

“Can’t blame a girl for tapping into her potential. Tapping and rubbing—”

“You’re up to ninety-nine minutes. Shall I add more?”

“I’m good.” I ground my teeth.

“Remove your shoes and socks.”

What? I didn’t dare voice the question. Every response added more time. But fucking hell, I didn’t want to endure this with cold feet on the hardwood floors. Not that I had a choice.

As I kicked away the shoes and socks, I assumed this was just another layer of torment.

Until he circled behind me. “Now your underwear.”

I stopped breathing.

Only a few people had ever told me to remove my panties, and they were guys I’d been actively trying to fuck. I didn’t know a lot about priests and their rules, but this was reprehensible. It was too intimate, too pervy. It couldn’t be anything else but sexual.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop.” His body edged closer to my back, his breath lashing at my neck as he spoke in a deep, scalding voice. “I’m not interested in anything beneath your skirt.”

The words stripped my skin, flaying me with venom, hurting with unmistakable abhorrence.

Prickles of humiliation washed over me, and I wished, God, I wished I hadn’t flinched. Even now, my shoulders bunched around my ears with the sinking realization that I would never be curvy like Nevada or seductive like Carrie or alluring and classy like my mother. I was too small and flat-chested, too mouthy and sarcastic.

As I stood there, shamed to my core, I knew there was no stopping what came next. Not with the displeasure wafting off the priest at my back.

“Take. Them. Off.” The uncompromising command in his voice tightened my chest.

Fuck off battered against my rib cage, begging to launch free.

“Say it, Miss Constantine.” His footsteps scuffed the floor, his proximity taunting. “Use that sharp tongue and double your time.”

I just wanted to get this over with.

Reaching beneath my skirt, I gripped my underwear and shoved. The texture of soft fabric slipped down my thighs and caught on my bare knees. I wriggled my legs. White panties fell around my ankles, and the man in my periphery didn’t so much as twitch.

I quickly snatched the underwear from the floor. When I straightened, his face was waiting, hovering a breath away.

“Obedience is the burial of the will and the resurrection of humility. The words of Saint John Climacus.” He nodded at the nearby desk. “Stack your things there. You have three seconds.”

I doubted Saint John had women’s underwear in mind when he talked about humility. But I kept that to myself and did as ordered.

When I returned to the crucifix, I was hyper-aware of my nudity beneath the skirt. But Father Magnus’s only interest was my face.

He was waiting.

Waiting for me to kiss the statue’s feet.

I flattened my hands on the wall. Behind my breastbone, my heart lunged into a fit of kicking and screaming. Don’t do it. Don’t give in. Run! Run! Run!

I harnessed the anger and glared upward at the effigy of a half-dead god wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. “You might get my mouth, creepy naked Jesus, but that’s all I’ll ever give you. While I’m forced to kiss your feet, I will curse you through every vile minute of it.”

If this wasn’t the Ninth Circle of Hell, I was surely headed there. I waited for Father No-Fun to whack me over the head with more minutes, but all he did was lower his brow to his hand and sigh.

Releasing my own sigh, I put my mouth on the antique toes and tried not to think about germs. The scent of musty wood invaded my nose, and I tried not to think about that, either.

He paced off toward his desk and returned to my line of sight with a Bible in hand. Pulling up a chair, he settled in, cracked open the book, and began reading.