Possessed Pussy (7)

Possessed Pussy (7)
I go limp again, letting my eyes fall shut as I crumple to the floor.

My father’s prayers have become a distant blur. Then I hear footsteps.

I keep my eyes shut.

My father’s voice rises with relief. “Father.”

Father Martins says nothing at first. He simply walks closer.

My heart begins beating faster.

Don’t move.

Don’t ruin this.

Latin exorcism prayers reverberate off the high ceiling.

It sounds terrifying, but it does nothing to me.

I let out another shrill scream, copying every ridiculous possession trick I’d read about in that book this morning.

Father Martins closes in. The heavy scent of frankincense fails to hide the sweet, sharp cologne underneath.

He presses the cold silver crucifix firmly against my forehead. I roll my eyes back and go completely still, pretending to lose consciousness.

I expect him to keep going.

Instead, his hand stays against my forehead for one second longer than necessary.

Then he removes it.

I can’t tell whether I’ve fooled him.

“Father!” my dad gasps, his voice trembling in panic. “What did you do to her?”

“Catechist,” Father Martins says, his voice low, deep, and smooth as silk. “Go home. She was possessed by a foul spirit. I drove the demons out, but if you stay, they’ll return seven times stronger. You cannot be here for what comes next.”

“But I should stay!” Dad cries out, his footsteps shuffling on the floor. “She’s my daughter. She’s a faithful girl!”

“She’s in the Lord’s hands now,” Father Martins commands, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Leave us. Don’t return until I summon you myself.”

My pulse races.

What’s he doing?

The heavy oak doors of the church slam shut, the echo fading into absolute silence.

“Wake up,” Father Martins murmurs under his breath. “He’s gone. I know you aren’t possessed.”

My eyes snap open.

He stands over me in his crisp black cassock, the crucifix and wooden rosary still in his hands. His expression is unreadable, but his jaw is tight.

“Then why did you let him leave?”

“Because I know a performance when I see one.”

My confidence slips.

“And why… why didn’t you expose me?”

He studies me for a long moment.

“You wanted to be alone with me.” He says.

My throat goes dry.

There’s no point denying it.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he nods. “So did I.”

I stare at him in shock.

I came here believing I was the one setting the trap.

Now, I’m not so sure.

I stand up and wipe my lip with the back of my forearm.

The hall is so saturated with blessed smoke I doubt real demons could cross the threshold even if they wanted to.

A slow smile touches my lips. “Then I guess we’re both guilty.”

His expression hardens.

I step close to him and reach for his cassock pocket.

Oh, wow.

My little present is still there.

I smile up at him. I knew it. That tiny piece of fabric had been an invitation between my thighs, and he’d taken the bait.

I pull the lace from his pocket and hold it between two fingers.

“You still have this?”

His expression doesn’t change.

Am I doing too much?

But I remember the way his fingers lingered on my hips during our embrace this morning.

Then his jaw tightens, and his eyes drop to my partially exposed chest.

Interesting.

Without a word, he snatches the panty from my fingers, drops it onto the cold floor, and steps on it.

My smile fades slightly.

“These are old, Calista,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “If you want to play a bad girl, I’m going to have to take your clothes off myself.”

Warmth floods my chest.

So I was right about him after all.

I start toward him, but he stretches out a hand and stops me cold.

“Why did you do this?” His voice is low, but the reprimand in it is unmistakable. “You’re supposed to be a good girl. This is too risky,” he chides, though the words lose some of their authority when his throat bobs.

I take another step toward him.

“And you’re supposed to be a priest,” I counter. “You shouldn’t want to be alone with me.”

His jaw tightens.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then he exhales sharply, as though trying to force some sense back into the room.

“I’m calling your father to take you home,” he says at last. “This shouldn’t be happening. You’re just a child.”

A child?

The word lands strangely. Almost insultingly.

“I’m not a child, Father.”

Something flickers across his eyes.

It’s gone almost as quickly as it appears, but I catch it.

“How old are you?”

“Almost twenty-one,” I say, unable to hide the small note of pride in my voice.

His gaze lingers on me for a moment longer than it should.

Then he asks, quietly, “What do you want?”

There’s no confusion in my answer.

“I want you.”

His expression changes, subtle enough that I might have missed it if I weren’t watching him so closely.

He looks away first.

“Just this once, Calista,” he says, his voice rougher now. “And not a word to anyone. Understood?”

For a heartbeat, I simply stare at him.

Then a slow grin spreads across my face.

This is easier than I expected.

“Understood.”

He tosses the crucifix and rosary onto the nearby table like they mean nothing.

The sight sends a shiver through me. Watching him cast aside the sacred items just to put his hands on me makes him feel infinitely more dangerous.

I part my lips to say something clever, but he grabs the loose collar of my dress and yanks me forward, pulling my body flush against his.

I should be nervous.

Instead, anticipation curls through me.

His thumb presses firmly over my lips, sealing my words in my throat.

“Not a sound,” he whispers, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “Or I’ll make you regret it.”

His arm wraps around my waist like an iron band, trapping me against his chest.

With his free hand, his index finger slowly traces a burning line down the swell of my neck, sliding over my collarbone toward my chest.

My skin glistens with sweat.

His fingers catch the frayed seam of my dress a second time. Before I can draw a breath, he wrenches his hands apart.

The fabric shreds with a loud tear, leaving the ruined dress pooling around my ankles.

I’m left standing in front of the altar in nothing but my thin lace underwear.

He gently cups my cheek, wiping a rogue drop of sweat from my temple. I stare up into his face, my breath hitching as something unfamiliar blooms in my chest.

This isn’t just lust.

It’s heavier.

Dangerous.

I lean my head against his broad shoulder. His tone softens as his hands slide down my back, tracing the dip of my spine until his palms wrap tightly around my ass.

A shiver shoots straight up my spine, making my knees weak.

He lifts me completely into his arms and carries me toward the main altar pews.

For a split second, the ghost of Father Romanus flashes through my mind—wondering if he’s watching me right now from heaven, hell, or somewhere in between.

I force the thought away as Father Martins lays me back onto the long wooden pew.

The pew is freezing against my bare skin, and I worry it’s hard enough to hurt us if either of us makes the slightest mistake.

Still, I remain quiet and watch him.

He steps back and takes off his cassock, letting the black fabric fall away to reveal a chiseled frame—broad shoulders, a hard chest, and tight, defined abs.

In the dim candlelight, he looks like one of the angels carved into the church pillars, except his dark skin is warm, alive, and breathing heavily.

I want to reach out, to run my fingers along the lines of his chest and pull him down to kiss me.

But I don't dare move.

His hands return to my skin, his palms sliding slowly up my calves and over my thighs until they reach the waistband of my panties. He grips the fabric firmly and yanks it down with one fluid motion, tossing it into the darkness of the aisle.

He hovers over me, spreading my knees wide with his hands. I’m completely exposed on the altar pew, a willing sacrifice waiting to be taken.

He leans down, his gaze fixed on mine, and slowly slides two fingers inside me.

I bite my lower lip hard to swallow a gasp.

The feeling is overwhelming. I arch my back slightly, my hands moving up to cup my own breasts as he begins to move in and out of me slowly.

The nave seems to spin around us. The flickering candlelight blurs into soft golden streaks.

My heart hammers against my ribs with every careful, agonizing stroke he makes.

Just as the tension reaches a peak, he pulls his fingers back.

He brings them up to his own mouth, slowly tasting me, his eyes never leaving mine.

Then, he lowers his hand and presses those same wet fingertips gently against my lips.

“Open,” he commands softly.