Total pages in book: 6
Estimated words: 5609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 28(@200wpm)___ 22(@250wpm)___ 19(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 5609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 28(@200wpm)___ 22(@250wpm)___ 19(@300wpm)
Damien grunted deep and low behind me, hips jerking erratically as he came, flooding me with heat, and marking me from the inside in the most forbidden way possible.
We stayed locked together, trembling, breathing like we’d run from the devil himself. He leaned over me, lips brushing my ear.
“No more confessionals,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “From now on, we sin in private. But we never stop.”
I turned my head just enough to meet his eyes. They were dark and still burning.
“Never,” I agreed.
And in the silence that followed, even God had looked away.
Epilogue
DAMIEN
Five Years Later
The rectory kitchen smelled of coffee and vanilla. Morning light slanted through the lace curtains that had been hung last spring. They were delicate, almost innocent, like they could pretend this house still belonged to a man of God.
I stood at the stove in nothing but low-slung sweatpants, flipping French toast while Lyla sat on the counter in one of my old black shirts, legs dangling, bare thighs brushing the edge of the granite.
She was reading the parish bulletin aloud in a mock-serious voice.
“‘Father Damien will be leading the adult faith formation series this fall. Living in Grace Amid Modern Temptations.” She snorted and lowered the paper. “Bold choice, big brother. You sure you want to talk about temptation when you spent last night bending me over the altar rail in the sacristy?”
I turned, spatula in hand, and gave her the look that used to make her blush. It still did… just not for the same reasons.
“Careful,” I said, stepping between her knees. “Keep talking like that, and breakfast is going to burn.”
She hooked her legs around my waist, pulling me closer. “Promise?”
I kissed her instead of answering. It was slow and deep, the kind of kiss that reminded us both why we’d never gone back. Five years since that first night in the confessional. Five years since I’d walked out of the booth, collar in my pocket, and never put it on again.
I hadn’t left the priesthood in a blaze of scandal. That would have been too easy. Too loud. Instead, I’d requested a leave of absence. I’d cited “personal discernment.” The diocese had quietly accepted it. No headlines. No defrocking. Just a slow fade from public view.
I still helped with funerals, baptisms for old family friends, and the occasional Mass when they were short a priest. But the black suit stayed in the closet most days.
Lyla had finished her master’s in social work. She ran a small nonprofit now that housed and counseled women leaving abusive situations. She wore her hair longer, laughed louder, and carried herself like someone who’d finally stopped apologizing for wanting things.
We lived quietly. Obviously, no rings to show our marriage. That would have invited questions we didn’t want to answer, answers no one was entitled to. But we had vows of our own, whispered in the dark, sealed with teeth and sweat and promises no one needed to bless.
I broke the kiss and rested my forehead against hers. “You’re still wearing my shirt.”
“I love that it smells like you,” she countered, fingers tracing the line of my hipbone. She tilted her head, studying me, and then the teasing left her eyes. “Do you ever regret it?” Her voice was whisper-soft.
I didn’t have to think. “Not for a second.”
“Not even when the grannies at the market pester on why ‘Father Damien’ isn’t saying Mass anymore?”
Smirked and kissed the tip of her nose. “Not even then.”
“Not even when we have to drive two hours to find a town where no one knows our names so we can hold hands in public?”
I cupped her face. “Especially not then.”
She searched my face for cracks, but I knew she’d find none.
“Then kiss me again,” she whispered. “Like you mean forever, Damien, like you don’t care people will say we’ll burn in hell for being together.”
And I did like the world was ending and I’d never feel this again..
Later, after breakfast, after we’d left the plates in the sink and tumbled back into bed, she lay sprawled across my chest, tracing idle circles over the faint scar on my ribs—from the night I’d climbed the rectory trellis to reach her window when we were still pretending we could keep this contained.
“We’re still living in sin,” she murmured against my lips, and I groaned, my cock thick and hard and ready to be buried deep inside her perfect pussy.
“I’m ready to keep sinning forever, little sister,” I said, voice low. She arched against me, lips brushing mine. “Good.”
We kissed like the sinners we were, but ones who’d found paradise, anyway.