Page 5

Fuck, fuck, fuck . This is bad . I’ve trapped myself, with no damned way to escape now.

I told Callum I didn’t want to catch the eye of the parish. Not for the first Mass. I wanted to watch, to take in, to see everyone in their natural state, without knowing a stranger was in their midst. I wasn’t here for the congregation. I was here for the demon, and getting to know the parish always managed to complicate things.

And, damned me, the confessional booth seemed like the best place to simply observe.

I began my prayers, asking God to guide my hand in this town, this church, this exorcism. Thanking him for my safe journey and apologizing for the sins I keep fucking making—swearing being my number one offense. I’m working on it.

But I wasn’t expecting a damned test of faith today.

The little organist caught my attention the moment I saw her. She was . . . different from the other women of the parish. Reserved, quiet.

Scared.

She didn’t ogle at Father Callum like her mother had. She didn’t pay much attention to the gruff man beside her mother and his lingering stare. I clocked the man as the mother’s boyfriend—no, fiancé. The mother wore a ring. He did not.

The little organist just left, sauntering behind the sanctuary, and next I saw her, she sat high in her mezzanine, her fingers playing the organ like she was born for it. Sculpted of clay and given life by our Father to play that instrument.

It was a shame this would be the farthest her talents would reach.

As she played something . . . quieted within the church. Nothing tangible, but an energy. A feeling.

Then, next thing I knew, I saw her Mother roughly grabbing her wrist, the fiancé staring at his soon-to-be-stepdaughter’s tits, and then she was on her knees before Father Callum, opening her pretty plump lips for him.

A streak of violent jealousy shot through me when I saw his thumb near her tongue. I wanted to jump from my hiding place and pull her away, take her far. But then she was standing, and a moment later, hurrying toward me.

No, not me.

The confessional booth.

No one but Father Callum knew I was in here, and no one but Father Callum should’ve been available to be in here. She wasn’t here to confess her sins, so . . . why?

I turn, peeking through the small window, but the patterned metal over the opening obscures my view. I hear her take a deep breath. All I see is an orange sweater, the wisp of light, mousy brown hair, and her head pressed against the inside of the door as her pale white, delicate hands fist next to her.

She makes another small sound, almost like a whimper, and—for some reason—I’m left entranced. Entranced and stuck, afraid to give away my position.

She sits roughly on the wooden bench, and I hear the shuffling of clothes, then silence for a long beat.

“Oh, God ,” she moans.

My cock reacts before it even fully processes what I’m listening to. And before I can stop myself, I lean closer to the window. I see one of those delicate hands pressed tightly between her milky thighs. God, they’re so thick. I want to press my face between them , I fleetingly think. Fuck.

Chastity, Marcelo, purity.

I can’t help but watch. She rubs herself as tiny, heated breaths and whimpers continue to escape her full lips. It may just be my new favorite sound. The little songbird can sing too.

My cock throbs in my pants, pressing against the fabric hard enough to cause pain. But I can’t touch myself. I can’t give in to temptation. No matter how much I might want to simply hearing her.

I’m so fucking hard right now, though, it hurts.

“Oh, God!” she moans again, a little louder this time. And part of me likes how daring she’s become in solitude.

I can’t just leave. If I do, she’ll know. She’ll be terrified. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

God, why did you put me in this position? Is this your will? Or a test of faith?

“Oh Father,” she breathes. “Forgive me for my sins.” She moans again, and the sound nearly ruptures my being. I want to take my hand and pump myself. I want to barge through this wall, take my cock, and thrust in into her wet pussy, fucking her till we’re both condemned to Hell as the fucked-up parish watches at my back.

I lift my hand to the wall, temptation pulling at every fiber of my being. I can practically feel her soft skin under my palm.

Her whimpers decrescendo, muted, and some sick part of me hates her for silencing herself. Her shaky breaths are all that’s left as I hear the shuffle of fabric, and the pale panties I briefly spotted are gone and she fixes her long brown skirt back into place.

My songbird sighs heavily, her voice shaky, and for a moment, it almost sounds as though it’s caught on a sob.

I can just barely make out her shape slumped back against the wall as she regains her breath.

She seems . . . dejected.

I haven’t had sex since I was nineteen years old, when I first became a priest after a short stint in college. I haven’t touched myself since, and—until now—I haven’t felt this overwhelming need to. Yeah, I still get horny. What man wouldn’t? But it’s hard to think of something tempting enough when your day-to-day is killing fucked-up psychopaths and exorcising demons trying to eat babies.

Just jerking it in bed has never seemed worth risking my vows.

Not until I heard this woman’s sounds of pleasure.

Guilt fills me at the thought, but if I pulled my cock out right now, with her sounds still echoing in my ears, I don’t think I’d be able to stop myself from bursting.

I rub my hand over my face, trying to suppress the thoughts of this woman. Trying to suppress my sins, my desires. I’m here on a mission, to find a demon—if there is one—and exorcise it.

But those sweet little whimpers . . .

They’re enough to drive me wild. So much so, I can’t help myself. I graze my hand over my cock, feeling so compelled to just touch myself as she had done. Compelled to touch myself for her.

But I want more. So much more.

I pull my cock out from my pants and languidly stroke myself to the thought of her wet, dripping cunt. Her pussy would already be prepped for me to slide inside of her, to fuck her hard. I wanted more of those sweet moans to crescendo within the confessional booth, to trap each and every whimper and keep them all for myself.

My fist tightens around my dick, and I groan out, “Songbird.”

My songbird stands and I’m snapped to reality. My hands are in my lap, my cock is in my pants, and the girl on the other side of the confessional still has no idea I’m here. My songbird, without a second of hesitation, leaves the confessional booth, shutting the door behind her.

What the fuck just happened , I think to myself. Maybe there is a demon here after all. Something that forced her to touch herself just after Mass. Something driving me to want to touch her, too. Something that just forced that vision on me. It was . . . surreal. I know it wasn’t real, but as it happened, it felt like a video playing in my head. A video where I could feel everything .

Fuck. With that in mind, maybe the demon is at play here. And if so, I have work to do. And I have my first lead. My songbird.

I wait a moment, readjusting to hide the still-hard dick in my pants, and then exit the confessional, walking through the now-empty nave. I was too focused to realize her parents and Callum disappeared, presumably into his office. I cross the room, adjust my collar, and lightly knock on Father Callum’s office door, before pushing it open and entering.

And when I do, all I see is her .

The milky skin, the mousy-brown hair, that orange sweater doing her tits all kinds of favors. I want to run across the room and rip it off, see them for myself. She is fucking gorgeous, and my cock is already straining against my black jeans again.

Her eyes widen when they land on me, and it sends a thrill through me, my lips lifting in a smirk.

“Ah, Father Marcelo, these are the Foresters,” Father Callum explains, but I don’t take my eyes off my little songbird in front of me. Her bangs hang low over her forehead, curled at the ends, dipping into her eyes, which are the deepest shade of blue, like the ocean in the middle of a storm. Her rounded cheeks are rosy red from her little display, and her full lips are parted as she watches me with equal fascination.

She looks even more gorgeous close-up.

A shrill, incredibly thin woman with sagging skin and too-thin lips steps between me and my songbird. “Father Marcelo,” she repeats, mimicking a thick accent I can’t even place; it’s so bad. “How exotic. Are you from Vatican City?”

I tilt my head at her, feeling my eyebrows come together. “Excuse me?”

“You’re Italian, no?”

I press my lips together, and it takes everything in me to smile politely. This is the exact kind of Catholic woman I despise. I can read so much about her, just from the red lipstick she wears, the perfectly curled hair, the outfit so prim and proper, not a wrinkle could be seen—but covered in the tiniest moth holes. I think back to how she grabbed my songbird’s wrist, the dark expression now hidden behind a picture-perfect smile.

This woman is evil.

With a huff of fake laughter, I say, “No, Miss . . . Forester, was it? Latin. Born in Puerto Rico, raised in Miami.” I look at my little songbird, her eyes still locked on mine. “I’m Father Marcelo Serrano. I will be joining your parish for the next few weeks to assist Father Callum in development plans.”

And then, against my own will, I stick out my hand to my songbird. I know she’ll take it, and when she does, it’ll be with the hand she used to fuck herself with. A part of me wonders if they’d still be slick with her come. If they’d taste like her. Smell like her.

She startles a bit, her eyes dropping to my hand. And I know she is wondering the same thing, unaware that I am counting on it.

Her mother elbows her, a flicker of the darkness drifting past the fake smile. Pressing her lips together, my songbird slowly takes my hand, and the heat in her fingers makes my cock throb.

“H-Hello. I’m Junia. Uh—You can call me June.”

June.

“Though she prefers Junia. After one of the apostles of Christ.” Her mother forces a smile, and my distaste for the woman only grows. “And I’m Jill. This is my fiancé, Daren,” she says, pointing at the vile man next to her. “We’re so happy to have you here,” the mother continues, though Daren seems to be sizing me up, staring between me and June.

But I haven’t let go of her hand. And her eyes haven’t broken from mine. “It’s good to meet you, June,” I say, only to—only for —her. Her rosy cheeks turn an even more violent shade of red, bringing a smile to my lips.

“Yo—You too,” she mumbles, pulling her hand back.

All of a sudden, I come to my senses. Remembering the priest I am. I take a step back, closer to Father Callum, and shove my hands into my pockets.

“Thank you for inviting me into your parish. St. Mary’s is beautiful, and I am honored to call it home for the next few days.”

“Days?” Father Callum asks, his eyebrow raised. We haven’t spoken about my process really. I haven’t told him how quickly things could move.

I bob my head back and forth. “More or less. Depends how long the . . . development takes.”

“Surely, you’ll be here until Sunday though, right, Father? For Sunday Mass?” the mother—Joan? Jill?—questions.

I turn to her and weakly nod. Truth is, I don’t know how long I’ll be here. If things go well, I’ll be skipping town tomorrow. If they don’t . . .

I find myself once again turning to June.

Maybe I can stay for just one Mass. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a full service. And I would love to hear her play again.

But I tell myself, she also is my first lead.

Of course, she could just be a horny little church girl, fucking herself like that in private. But it feels like more. And that vision and the raging hard on in my pants seems like a good sign I’m right.

I mean, June is gorgeous. Her ass is fucking phenomenal, and I want to drown in her tits, and squeeze every part of her to hear those little soft noises she’d make . . .

I—fuck. My thoughts spiraling out of control is exactly what I mean. I’m not a horny man. I’m not so easily seduced, I don’t fall to lust. It’s just not one of my sins, and it hasn’t been in a very long time.

But the sight of June? The sound of June?

It is driving me off the fucking wall, begging me to sin. I could be just making excuses, but I feel a heaviness shroud the walls. A primal need settling into my blood.

If there’s a demon here—and I’m starting to truly believe there might be—I think it may just be attached to my songbird.