Page 36

Marcelo never came back last night. Which doesn’t surprise me. He was more than a little on edge when he fell out of bed. I know the demon is getting to him more and more with each passing day, and we’re no closer to finding him.

Even if he was in my dream last night—even if he warned me of . . . of something.

I turn over in bed, Diablo nestled like a little croissant between my thighs, and click on my new phone. There’s no notifications, of course—I’ve only downloaded a reading app and a few books I’ve barely started, and the only phone number I have saved is Marcelo’s. But it’s not why I check it. It’s already 7:10. Mass will start in twenty minutes and it’s only a matter of time before people—my mother—start showing up. And Marcelo left last night in a simple T-shirt.

I crawl out of bed, knocking Diablo from his place. The cat chirps but stands and stretches, waking up with me. He yawns wide, those razor-sharp teeth revealing themselves to me—teeth he hasn’t used against me even once. He scampers across the bed, and bonks his cute little head against my hand, demanding attention as I scratch between his ears.

“Marcelo needs his collar if he’s going to serve confessionals today,” I tell him. “So I have to go, but I’ll be right back.”

I quickly get dressed as Diablo goes to eat his kibble. I throw on a black, nondescript dress, a cropped cardigan, and combat boots I easily zip up. My plan is to find Marcelo, give him his shirt and collar, and get the Hell out of there and back here before anyone shows up and asks where I’ve been—or worse, meeting my mother.

I grab what I need, let Diablo out the back door, and leave the safety of the apartment. The halls are silent but for the shuffle of feet of the altar boys and attendants preparing for Mass.

Hurrying through the hall, I push my way into the sanctuary. A few early birds are already standing amongst the pews, chatting or finding their places, but I don’t look at anyone for more than a breath. I don’t want eye contact, I don’t want looks of concern or confusion or disgust. I just want Marcelo.

The first bell sounds throughout the cathedral. Flinching, I hurry my step once more, crossing in front of the sanctuary and the pulpit. Hopefully, he’s already in the confessional , I think, as the idea of wandering St. Mary’s looking for him sounds more terrifying with each passing moment my mother might walk in and see me. I reach the confessional booth and lightly knock on the wood. The booth sits on the far side of the pews, but pressed into its own little alcove, slightly hidden and private for anyone looking to confess.

“Yes?” Marcelo’s voice is raw, raspy—and incredibly sexy—coming from the other side of the door. He sounds exhausted and just about done with everything. Not really like a welcoming priest ready to listen to the parishes’ woes and tribulations.

“It’s me,” I whisper. “I brought—”

A small yelp escapes me in place of words. I don’t even get time to finish my sentence as Marcelo pushes the door open, wraps his arm around my waist, and pulls me into the small booth with him.

“Hello, songbird.” He grins, placing me on his lap. The booth is small, tight, and incredibly closed in. I feel each of his breaths against my cheek, my neck, as his smile widens. “Sorry I didn’t come to bed.”

I pat his knee. “It’s okay. I brought your shirt and collar. Didn’t think you would be allowed to hold confessions with just a T-shirt on.” I smirk and pluck the shirt from his chest as I hand him his priestly attire. He throws it around his shoulders, working his hands around me so he doesn’t move me even an inch further from him. But his eyes feel distant. “Are you okay?”

He pursed his lips a little, looking past me. “I think so. I spent the majority of the night in here.”

“Confessing your sins?”

He smirked again, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes.”

I stare at him a moment, the dark circles under his eyes making his brown eyes even deeper, like the color of freshly brewed espresso or forest dirt with a damp layer of morning dew—there’s still a warmth in them I’m not even sure he realizes he has.

Those gorgeous eyes meet mine.

“But you are not one of my sins, Junia. The things I want to do to you—though vile and wicked and downright perverse—are not a sin. I am not ashamed for wanting you as badly as I do. For pleasing you, for wanting your moans and your screams. I may have broken a vow, but it was a vow made by man, not my God. My God would not bring you into my life and then force us to deprive each other of what we truly want—what we need.” His hand slides around my waist again, pulling me closer.

“June,” he continues, “I—I don’t think I’ve ever said this to a woman. I don’t think I’ve said this ever, to anyone other than my parents, but . . . I love you. I’m in love with you. And loving you . . . it isn’t a sin.”

The air catches in my throat, and for a solid moment, I forget how it works to breathe—how to inhale from my nose, letting air move through me to fill my lungs, how it is to release the air, exhaling. I simply forget. All I can do is process his words, over and over again, and be consumed by the deep, warm eyes I’ve simply become obsessed with.

I cannot remember the last time someone told me they loved me—never a boy . . . a man. Since her eyes became daggers, I haven’t even heard my mother utter the word.

Marcelo cups my chin, his soft touch reminding me to inhale. I breathe in a little too sharply, hiccuping from the effort.

“Don’t answer now, songbird,” he whispers, his eyes searching mine before falling to my lips. He knows how I feel about him, he has to. “I want to show you first. Prove it to you.”

The next chime of the church bell vibrates through the tiny booth, and the cacophony of voices finally reaches my ears. There are so many people, people I know, people I’ve seen every day of my life, right beyond this piece of wood, right beyond this tiny box.

My mother is even with them.

I close my eyes, closing them to all of it—shutting them out. They can’t take this from me. My mother cannot take this from me. It’s mine. He’s mine .

Marcelo guides my chin toward him, and I feel the second his soft lips meet mine. Those lips that spill words of love and adoration, of praise and desire and everything that is good in this wretched world. He kisses me with those lips, showing me just how much truth is in his words, how much he meant them. And I can feel it—all of it—every thing in this one kiss.

His hand pulls at my waist, pressing me into him, and he groans as my breast pushes against his chest. I didn’t wear a bra, thinking I’d be running right back to the apartment after giving him his things, and I can tell by the way he slides his tongue between my teeth that he is so incredibly grateful for it.

“I love you,” he says again, against my lips. “I love you, June.” His hand on my chin glides past my jaw and burrows deep into my hair at the base of my neck. He pulls lightly and I can’t help but moan into his mouth. Our tongues dance together, and it takes all but a moment to feel his hard cock pressed against my thigh. “Let me show you. Please,” he begs, “let me show you how much I love you.”

I pull away, waiting for him to open his eyes, to look at me. I want him to see that I agree to it, that I want it—him—just as much as he does. Marcelo bats his eyes, his gorgeous lashes slowly opening, and then, he finds my eyes instantly, his deep, almost-maroon eyes piercing me. I nod, slow and sure. I don’t care if the entire parish is just on the other side of this door. I don’t care if they walk in on us, or hear us. It’s time for confessionals, and Marcelo is ready to confess that he loves me.

He spins me around on his lap, facing the dark brown wood of the door, my ass sliding over his cock as he does. Marcelo moans in my ear, sending shudders all down my spine. With quick fingers, he unbuttons the cardigan and slides it from my shoulders, leaving me in just my dress.

Digging his fingers into the hem of the dress sitting at my thighs, he pauses. It’s so dark in the confessional booth, just enough sunlight making its way in to see, but the shadows are everywhere, his dark clothes one with the room.

“May I?” he asks, and it sends a funny tingle between my thighs, him asking for so much permission when he knows full well he could take what he wanted and I’d like it. But I like this too.

“Please,” I breathe, leaning my head back. I’ve only had a taste of what his fingers felt like till now. When he let me use his hand, and when he toyed with me in the dressing room. And only once did he slip a finger inside of me, just to the knuckle. But nothing has even been there , and I want him, now, to be the one to break that barrier.

Marcelo slides my dress up my thighs, over my hips, and around my ass. A small gasp escapes him when he sees I’m also not wearing any underwear, the sound making me wet.

“You naughty little thing,” he jokes, biting at my earlobe. “Were you hoping I’d fuck you in the confessional when you brought me my collar?” He keeps sliding my dress up, leaving it scrunched high at my waist.

“No,” I admit. “But . . . I do now.”

My words send him wild. He falls to my neck, kissing and sucking my skin between his teeth as he thrusts his hips up, letting me feel just how big and hard he is.

“Don’t regret those words, mi amor .” Marcelo slipped his hand to the sleeve of my dress, yanking it down. “You know I love to play with these,” he says, revealing my breasts and pulling my arms out of the sleeves so I’m fully exposed. “Your tits are so full and heavy, and these hard little nipples just beg me to pull on them.” He cups my breast, pulling at my nipple then rolling it between his fingers to soothe it. “Fucking perfect,” he utters.

Outside, I hear Mass begin, the singing of hymns, the first prayer led by Father Callum—all while Marcelo touches me in ways that make every part of my being feel alive.

His hand slides down my stomach, pausing between my thighs. “I want to touch you here. To push my fingers inside of you, and feel how tight you are.” He kisses my neck between words. “I want to feel you squeeze around me as I stretch you for my cock.”

I don’t wait for him to ask for permission again, I don’t wait for him to make his move. I buck my hips up, forcing his hand to touch me exactly where I want him. He startles, but his fingers quickly find my clit, putting pressure exactly where I like it. “How about you show me exactly what you did in here, right before I first met you? I can’t get the ideas out of my head. Your hand between your sweet thighs. Your beautiful musician hands circling your swollen clit to completion.” I feel his smile against my neck and it makes me desperate, so desperate, I grab his wrist and push his hand farther down. Marcelo hisses as his fingers graze over my wetness, and he bites my neck—the smile still there. “Maybe I’ll have you show me another time.”

He is loving every second of this.

“Look at me, June,” he orders. I turn my head, leaning back against his shoulder. His lips are only a breath away from mine, as he looks down on me and demands, “You can’t make a noise, not if I’m to fuck you like you want me to. We can’t let anyone know you’re in here with me. Not yet. No one is ruining this for us. So, no singing, my little songbird. Got it?”

I nod feverishly. I just want him to touch me.

He presses against my core with his index finger, moving so slow, it drives me wild. I feel the immediate pressure as his finger pokes into me, it’s such a small amount, but it’s a pressure I’ve never expected, never experienced.

“Easy, mi amor , easy,” he coos against my neck. “Be a good girl and relax for me.” With his other hand, he grabs my hip, digging his thumb into my lower back and massaging me. His hand cups my curves, pressing into my skin, and for once, I’m not embarrassed by the extra skin there, the stretch marks that line it. For once, I feel like they’re being loved and cherished and . . . goddamn treasured .

I lean back on his shoulder, his beard tickling the curve of my neck as he keeps whispering into my ear.

“You are so beautiful. Every single inch of you is absolutely perfect.” He squeezes me as he kisses my neck, and I feel all the affection.

Marcelo presses his finger deeper inside me, the pressure once again there, but as he kisses me and whispers, I relax immediately.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “So, so well.” He pulls his finger out, before going back in, and I feel how slick it is as it smoothly moves inside again. He repeats this, going deeper and deeper each time, and I grab onto his knee for support, closing my eyes to just feel . I feel it—him—inside of me, pressing against those inner walls, and it makes my toes curl. I fight hard not to moan, biting my lip, and winding my body tight to hold in all the pleasure.

“How does it feel?” he breathes.

“So,” I stop myself, holding back a moan. “So good.” Before I realize, I find myself rocking my hips in tune with his movements, greedily taking his fingers deeper and deeper, faster and faster. “More,” I beg, reaching for the cloth as his chest and clutching it between my grip. “Please, please.”

Marcelo smiles. “My needy little songbird,” he coos. “Beg me some more.”

“Marcelo, please,” I moan, unable to help myself as he cups his finger inside of me. My God, does it feel amazing.

“I like when you beg.” He pecks my cheek and then adds a second finger, sliding it into me with the other, spreading me even wider. I bite my lip on another moan, trying to stay as quiet as possible. On the other side, Father Callum is preaching the Bible and in the confessional, I’m pleading to God to make this last forever. Now, with both fingers, I feel Marcelo move even deeper, rubbing my walls and adding all the blissful pressure.

“Does anything hurt?” he asks.

I shake my head against his shoulder. “No, no—it feels good.”

Marcelo keeps going, his hand still massaging my lower back as his other hand fucks my pussy. And just like with his tongue, it feels like total bliss.

He licks my neck, kissing me again. “I want to play with you, June. I want to keep playing with you till you can’t take it anymore. And then, I’ll finally fuck you. I want you dripping by the time I shove my cock in you. And then I want you to come all over me as I tell you I love you, over and over again.” His fingers find that spot I like so much, and he cups them against it, harder and faster. “You may not be able to scream for me in here, songbird, but you’ll definitely be coming for me. Again and again.”