Page 66 of Forgive Me Father

“A-Am I in your house?” I stammer, my voice scratchy.

He glances around the room, then closes the curtain more and flips on a lamp, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow.

"I figured bringing you back here would be better than explaining to your parents why you were passed out in my arms, covered in vomit."

"Did we..." I trail off, glancing at his bed.

"No, and we won't," He warns, handing me the glass of water. "I almost hurt you. It took everything in me to hold back. The things I wanted to do to you...what do you think would happen if I lost control, Eden?” The feeling of him down my throat again was both exhilarating and nerve-racking.

"I was fine."

"Yeah?" He questions, his fingers grazing my throat with a light touch. "Is that why you can barely speak this morning? Because you're fine?" He scolds, tipping the glass of water towards me. "Now drink, Angel. You were messed up last night."

Not wanting to argue, I take the water and drink it down in one go. Just as I catch my breath, my phone buzzes, lighting up with messages from both Luca and Aiden.

Roman narrows his eyes and grabs the phone before I can react, his expression darkening as he reads the texts.

"How about I go to the Autumn Mass today? We can talk afterward," Roman mutters, reading Luca’s message out loud. "Already making plans with pretty boy?"

I snatch the phone back from him, tossing it onto the bed, shaking my head in frustration.

"Would you rather me ignore him? After what you did last night? The last thing either of us needs is some rumor spreading that there’s something going on between us, Father.”

He looks like he’s about to argue, but he stays silent, his gaze trailing over me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

"I like you in my shirt," He murmurs, a smile ghosting his lips as my cheeks heat up.

"Don't get used to it," I retort, brushing past him. "I reek of vomit, and it’s nearly noon. I need to shower before Mass. It's a day of service for us both, Father," I add with a grin, pretending to gag as I stick a finger down my throat.

I stride toward the nearest door, my hand wrapping around the handle, only to find it won’t budge.

"That's not the bathroom," Roman says, a smug grin spreading across his face as he nods towards the door beside it. "That one is."

I stare at the locked door, then at him. "What the hell is in there?"

"Nothing you're ready for," He scoffs, nudging open the bathroom door.

"I put your clothes in the wash. They should be dry by the time you’re out of the shower."

I step into the space. The bathroom is immaculate, almost unnervingly so. White tiles gleam under the soft light, the air tinged with the crisp scent of soap and disinfectant. It’s a space that reflects a need for order and control—everything is meticulously arranged, not a trace of personal clutter. The showerhead, polished to a shine, stands ready as if awaiting some unspoken command, and the neatly folded towels on the rack suggest a man who maintains rigid discipline in all aspects of his life.

Someone’s a bit of a neat freak.

"I'll leave you to it. No need to dwell on last night," He mutters, retreating a step, though his eyes flicker with something he’s trying hard to suppress.

"Right," I whisper, fighting the urge to lose myself in how damn good he looks, all controlled strength and simmering tension beneath that calm exterior.

I grasp the hem of his shirt, peeling it over my head, the cool air brushing against my bare skin. His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking as he forces his gaze to stay above my shoulders. I hand him the shirt, then slowly slide off my underwear, making sure to bend over deliberately, offering him a view he can’t ignore. Running my fingers through my hair, I notice his eyes remain fixed on mine, his restraint fraying as I step closer.

When my hand grazes the front of his pants, I can feel the tension thrumming through him, barely contained beneath his composed exterior.

"Your lips say one thing, Roman," I murmur, leaning in just enough, "but your body tells me another."

His hand clamps down on the back of my neck, firm but not rough, like he’s caught between his duties and his desires.

"Ah, ah, ah," I cut him off, my eyes dropping to the ring on his finger. "The ring’s still on, Father.

I pry his hand off me, locking eyes with him, throwing down a challenge before stepping into the shower, leaving the door ajar. The steam from the hot water begins to fill the room, the heat matching the thrum of excitement in my veins. I wait, listening for any sign that he’s going to tear down the walls he’s hiding behind—or if he’s going to retreat into the rigid safety of denial he seems to rely on to keep him safe from this thing that’s growing between us. Seconds turn to minutes, and it seems he’s made his choice.