comfortable rubbing elbows with high society like his brother.
He’d never wanted something that he couldn’t have or that anyone else would say he shouldn’t strive for. Granted, he was a white dude, so there weren’t many things in that category. He knew that.
And he’d never thought that wanting something he couldn’t have would ever actually be delicious. But the way Sasha smiled, the sweet scent of her, the way she was so effortlessly competent and organized. It was intoxicating.
After she left him in the rectory—aching and alone—he went through his bedroom and straight into the shower. If he’d had a large store of extra clothing, he would have burned what he was wearing. He could still smell her on every bit of it, which was wild. They had barely even touched.
He wanted to do a lot more than hug her, and he let himself go there in his mind as he turned the water all the way to hot. He should turn the water to its iciest setting, but he couldn’t do that. He didn’t want to let go of how being around Sasha made him feel alive in a way that he’d maybe never felt.
It was as though his skin was on fire. Perhaps it was a good thing that they could never truly be together. He wasn’t sure he would actually survive being able to dig his fingers in that thick fall of hair, messing it up as he pulled her face to his.
Her lips would be so soft. They would turn a deep red after he kissed her for hours. Even though he knew that—in reality—he wouldn’t last very long if having sex with Sasha was an actual thing that was going to happen, he liked to imagine spending a lot of time exploring every centimeter of her body. He’d want to learn every freckle and scar.
As the hot blast of water hit him, he gave in and took himself in hand. According to the rules, he wasn’t supposed to even allow himself to do this. But this was an emergency. If he didn’t do this, he might actually maul Sasha the next time she gave him a sassy smile as she licked whiskey off her bottom lip.
Of course he could just avoid her, but he wasn’t about to lie to himself. He knew himself well enough to know that he wouldn’t do that. He could try, but he would fail. And the way he felt when he looked at her was sinning—what was one more sin to add to the pile? There was a line—actually acting out what he wanted to do with her—that he would not cross. He promised himself that and hoped that God heard if He was indeed listening to him anymore.
And then he shut thoughts of God out as he imagined sucking on Sasha’s probably cherry-colored nipples, hearing her cry out and moan with a throaty yell as he touched her clit with his fingers and found the spot that made her lose control.
That’s what he wanted—for her to lose control because of him. Maybe it was some sort of lascivious justice in his own mind; she made him feel like he was going off the rails, and he wanted to do the same thing to her. That’s why he’d said those things to fluster her when she was sitting in his kitchen, drinking his scotch, daring to look edible after a full day of grueling work.
He was a mess, and he had a feeling that she knew what she was doing. The part of him that didn’t identify with being a priest, the part that had been sleeping for a long, long time, felt entitled to seeing her fall apart. The brake pedal on that impulse, the vows he’d taken, kept that drive in the realm of his imagination but still allowed him to run free there.
He wondered if she’d like him to wrap his hand around her collarbone, mimicking choking her. He didn’t want to do that, but he sort of did. And he wasn’t going to allow himself to think about how much that turned him on—the thought of her pupils dilating at being totally at his mercy.
His forearm muscles strained as he worked his dick over faster and faster under the blast of the water. He could lube himself up with soap, but he didn’t deserve it. He wanted to know that he was sinning as he worked himself over for the first time in a long time