The heavy oak table of the sacristy groaned under her weight. I had her pinned, my palms flat against the wood on either side of her hips, my chest heaving against the fabric of my cassock.
The air in the room was thick with the smell of old paper, incense, and the overpowering, musk-sweet scent of her arousal. For a week, I had lived in a purgatory of longing. I had spent seven days imagining the exact moment my resolve would shatter, and as I looked down at her, the shattering wasn't a crash—it was a landslide.
"You wanted this," I rasped, my voice sounding like gravel. "You spent weeks carving a hole in my soul, Serafina. You wanted the man behind the collar."
She arched her back, her chest pressing hard against my ribs, her eyes wide and dark with a hunger that mirrored my own. "I d
