Saving Sins (Forbidden Erotic Romance) (7 page)

The pain inside her was white hot, only matched by the
pleasure of his hot hand running up her back as he pressed forward, guiding
himself into her. Slowly, painfully, he pushed forward, parting her inner
walls.

He was big, but she arched her back and forced herself to
relax as he moved into her. She imagined she could feel every vein and ridge of
his cock as it slid past her outer lips and slipped inside her slick, aching
channel. It felt every bit as good as she had dreamed, a hot, forbidden
invasion, stretching her out, opening her up, filling her to the brim.

"Oh," he said behind her, and then at last he was
seated inside her, his hips flush with her ass, and she wanted to cry, wanted
to die where she knelt so that her life could end in this perfect moment.

Slowly he curled over her, until his body covered hers, his
arms around her waist, hand on her breast. He was tall enough that she could
feel his face pressed into the back of her neck. Together they knelt in the
vestibule of his church beneath the statue of Mary, his cock buried to the hilt
inside her.

He'd found her on the street, lifted her up, saved her. She
didn't know how to thank him, didn't know how to love him without giving
everything to him. Perhaps she was being selfish, but in that moment she
couldn't have cared less. She wanted to stay forever, him inside her, the cold
of the tiles on her skin, the thick smell of incense in her nose.

Then Father Michael pulled out and thrust forward, and Tara
gave a little shriek. Her voice, buried beneath her need for so many years,
under so much pressure, came out high and shrill, and behind her he grunted,
his hips thrusting again, then again and again, picking up a frantic pace.

"Tara," he said, "Tara, my love, Tara, my
girl, my poor broken girl—"

She pushed back as his pelvis pistoned into her, and his
thrusts took on a painful edge as he pounded against her ass. "Fuck me,
Father," she moaned. "Fuck me, Michael."

"Sweet God in heaven," he cried, and then they
were fucking, raw and hard and frantic, pain and pleasure and sadness and care
all grating together, generating a heat she had never felt before, so sweet and
aching she felt impaled through the heart by her own impossible love.

Her body tightened around the rhythmic stab of his cock, and
she strained, pushing back, squirming, writhing. "Father, fuck me,
Michael, fuck me, harder, harder—"

"Tara, Tara, Tara," he said, and her name was a
profane prayer on his lips as she felt his cock hitch inside her. His hands
reached out, tangling in her long blonde hair, pulling until her head could go
no further, and he was riding her, her back arched, her pussy quivering and
squeezing around him. Her mouth was open, raw, animal sounds escaping from her
throat, and she stared at the alcove across from her, where some saint or other
stared down at them, watching Father Michael take her on the floor.

Go ahead and watch, she thought fiercely, and then Michael
shifted, angling his cock deeper into her, and her building orgasm suddenly
crested and crashed over her, flooding her, her whole body clenching and
writhing, and she screamed. The sound echoed in the vestibule, and behind her
Michael's ragged cries grew desperate as her slick, clenching passage suddenly
grasped his cock and milked it. Then he, too, was shuddering with climax, and
he came inside her, his hot, thick seed spurting against her womb, filling her
pussy, over and over and over again, until it was running down her thighs,
spilling onto her jeans, spattering the floor.

As the pleasure receded, Tara listened to their breathing
slow, and Michael pressed his face into her back.

"Tara," he said, and she heard regret in his
voice.

"Shh," she told him. Slowly she pushed herself
back, with him still seated inside her, until they were sitting back, his cock
in her pussy as she sat in his lap on the floor. Turning, she looked him in the
eye. His face, so handsome, was haggard. His lips pressed together unhappily as
he stared at her, and her heart twisted. Leaning back, she kissed him. After a
moment, he responded, and slowly, languorously, she teased the tension from
him, her lips softening his mouth until she felt him relax against her. She
pulled away and pressed her forehead to his face.

"Be with me tonight," she murmured. "Just
tonight."

For a moment she thought he would refuse, but then he
nodded.

"Tonight," he promised. "Just for
tonight."

 

*

 

They fucked all night. Moving from the vestibule floor, she
took him by the hand into the sanctuary, and he followed her. He bent her over
the railing of the altar and had her there, in full defiance of the crucifix on
the wall, and she came twice around him. In the confessional box, she sucked
his cock into her mouth and milked him until he moaned and pushed her away,
falling to his knees before her like a supplicant, pushing his face between her
thighs and licking her to climax.

He took her home, then, to his little apartment, a spare two
room affair, and they made love there, over and over. Pushing him into his
bedroom, she slowly disrobed him, casting aside the trappings of his calling,
until he was just a man standing naked before her. Her man. The man she owed so
much. The man she loved so fiercely. Wedded to the church, but she had him for
the night, and she intended to make it count.

He liked her twisted and tied up. The rosary he had given
her at the beginning of the night—a lifetime ago—ended around her wrists, a
thin tether that she could have broken easily, and yet she didn't. She let him
lay her down and tie her up and plow her body, wringing pain and pleasure from
her in equal measure. His mouth spilled profane prayers against her skin as he
fucked her, and she cried and sighed with each thrust of his hips. Outside the
snow fell, obscuring sound and sight, hiding them from the world as they broke
his vows again and again until at last they were spent and fell asleep, his
cock still inside her.

In the early morning hours she woke to find him kissing her,
his fingers in her pussy, and she dozed as he roamed her body with his hands,
sleepily responding to encourage him.

He spent his seed inside her over and over. It would have
been a sin to spill it.

"Kiss me," she murmured in the dark, the cold of
the snow filled night lapping at the small, hot universe they created together.
"Love me."

"I do," he whispered back, and together they came
apart in the darkness.

 

*

 

Morning hit, cold and bleak. She'd slept little, but when
she opened her eyes, Tara knew it was over. Next to her, Michael slept, his
face peaceful in repose, sweet and beloved. His hair fell over his forehead,
soft and inviting, and his lips were slack and plump.

She wanted to lean over and kiss him awake, but she feared
what would happen if she did. Would he yell? Would he cry? Would he weep with
regret and anger? She couldn't stand the thought.

Slowly, carefully, she slipped out from between the sheets.
Chill air hit her, and she shivered as she gathered her clothes, her heart in
turmoil as she retreated from the room and dressed hastily. The whole apartment
spoke of a man who lived alone, sparse and sad, and she wished she could tidy
it up, give it a few soft touches. That was impossible, though, and she knew it
was. Between her legs, she felt the soreness left behind by their frantic
couplings. She wished she could stay. She wished she never had to leave. But it
was better if she did.

He would hate her when he woke up. Guilt would come between
them, and she couldn't stand that. There should be no guilt for what they had
done—shame should only be for those things that harmed, not those that brought
only pleasure.

Don't look at him,
she thought. It was the only way
she could go.

Moving to the door, Tara let herself out. Outside the world
was shrouded in snow, and the sky hung heavy and gray above her.

In silence, she walked back to the church, then climbed into
her car and drove home.

 

*

 

They said when God closes a door, he opens a window, but it
didn't feel like that at all. Instead, she was trapped, darkness around, the
air stifling. The door slammed shut, and no window opened for her.

Tara became a sleep walker. She moved from class to class,
dreaming. The snow receded, then came again, and when she slept at night, she
dreamed of Michael, the memories of their bodies straining in time to the beat
of their hearts obliterating the nightmares that plagued her. Again and again,
they came together in her dreams, and when she woke the reality that she
couldn't see him again hit her anew.

Why did she go back to the church? Why did she think seeing
him again would help her break with her past? Why did she think sleeping with
him would satisfy her hunger? One night... it wasn't enough for a lifetime. Not
nearly enough.

 

*

 

Her dorm phone was ringing and Tara blinked, realizing she
had been lost in thought, again. Danielle, her roommate, sighed as she slipped
out of bed and crossed the room to the telephone, which was only a few feet
away from Tara.

"Hello?" she said. She listened for a second, then
held the phone out to Tara. "For you," she said.

Licking her lips, Tara took the receiver from Danielle and
pressed it to her ear. "Yes?" she asked.

"There's a visitor for you in the lobby," the
student manning the front desk said. "A... Father MacEnroe?"

The blood drained from her face. "Yes," she said.
"Yes, I'll be right down."

Two weeks. She knew it had been two weeks because she had
kept track. Each night without him had been endless until she fell asleep, and
the days were interminable. Her work suffered, and finals were almost over. She
had no idea how she had done in any of her classes, and she didn't care. All
she could think about was him.

And now he was here.

Numbly, Tara hung up the phone and stood. Should she do her
hair? Put on makeup? No. No, he'd seen her at her worst. She didn't have to
hide from him.

On trembling knees, she exited her dorm room, walked down
the hall, and descended the stairs.

He stood in the lobby. At first he didn't see her, and she
took the opportunity to study him.

Exhaustion lined his face, but he was just as beautiful as
ever. His shoulders were drawn up and tense, and she longed to reach out and
massage them.

Had he been as rocked by their encounter as she had? She
knew he must be torn, deep inside, but why had he come to her instead of
seeking to be shriven? It didn't make sense.

She reached the lobby and crossed the floor.

“Father?” she said. Her voice cracked on the word. She had
no right to call him that.

He turned and when his eyes fell on her, his face was
transformed.

“Tara,” he said, reaching for her, and she found herself
being folded into his embrace.

Shocked, she forced herself to hug him back. He pulled away
and regarded her.

“Let's go for a walk,” he said.

Mouth dry, she nodded. “Just let me get a coat,” she said.

 

*

 

They walked in silence for a long time. It had snowed again,
and the campus was blanketed in white, dotted with footprints and snowmen and
furrowed hills where drunk students had held snowball fights.

Tara didn't know what to say. She wanted to kiss him, to
hold him. He had looked so tired when he'd seen her, but now when she sneaked
little glances at his face, he was almost tranquil.

He was here to tell her that he was going away. He had
requested transfer. To some war-torn hellhole, far away from here, or to a
monastery from which he would never return. He had broken his vows, and he had
to pay the price.

Why else would he be here?

They passed the library, and Michael turned toward it,
making a beeline for a snow-covered bench. Without brushing it off, he sat
down. After a moment's hesitation, she joined him.

For a while, they watched their breath curl in the air.
Finals were almost over and no one was around, but they wouldn't have drawn
attention even if the campus was turned out in full force: with his coat
covering his priestly garb, they just looked like a young woman and an older
man enjoying the fading light of the late afternoon.

“I'm going back out tonight,” he said suddenly.

Tara started, then blinked, trying to comprehend what he was
saying. When she realized she hadn't misunderstood him, she frowned. “You...
you are?”

Amiably he nodded. “I have... a newfound passion for my
work.”

At the word
passion,
she licked her lips and became
very still.

“Oh?” she said.

“Yes.” He turned to her, and his green eyes bored into her,
intense, absorbing. She wanted to fall into them. “Would you like to come?”

Yes.
“With you? Ministering?”

He nodded.

She thought very carefully. “Are you... angry with me?”

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, turning his face to
the sky. “'And the Lord God said, “It is not good that the man should be alone.
I will make him a help meet for him.”'” He paused. “Help me, Tara.”

She didn't know what to say. “I... I don't know if I can
work closely with you,” she told him finally. She knew she couldn't. Her heart
would break a thousand times each minute she was near and yet still forbidden
to touch him.

And then he turned and kissed her.

Shocked, she held very still. His lips were warm, sweet,
inviting. Memories slammed into her. Fire rose in her belly.

He pulled away. “No,” he said. “Be with me, Tara. Lend me
your strength.”

She wanted to cry, wanted to tell him it was
his
strength
that sustained her, that it was he who had pulled her from the dark, but maybe,
just maybe, she had repaid the favor.

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