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Chapter Text

September 2005

Charlie Brennan sat silently on the ledge of O’Connell Bridge, looking out across the flowing waters of the River Liffey through glassy, brown eyes; eyes that couldn’t truly behold the beauty in front of him.

He felt a heavy wedge of raw emotion, which was lodged painfully inside his throat and chest. The slender young man, now twenty-six years of age, sat there, a broken man; still and solemn. Ruminating thoughts flowed relentless through a mind numb from alcohol and pain.

The pain… It fought ruthlessly to overtake him with such a ferocity as he’d never known before. It threatened to choke him to death with invisible iron fingers. And though the September day was brilliant—for it was still warm like summer, but without the fierce humidity—he felt cold.

Not just cold, but he felt completely hollow. All he’d known and cherished had been cruelly taken from him; lost to an unseen place, forever. All the security he’d once had, all the abundance of love he’d once felt and treasured, all of it had gone away.

But somehow, Charlie knew. He knew, with a blind certainty that declared this knowledge as truth, that Jesus was with him. Somewhere. He couldn’t feel God’s presence at the moment, and, while he yearned for comfort right now, it wasn’t the Lord’s absence he missed despairingly.

He’d allowed himself to wander far from his God. It was gradual at first, a direct reaction to the emotional abandonment he’d felt in his youth as the son of alcoholics. If his own parents didn’t love him, why would God? When he was sixteen, he’d accepted that God wasn’t going to save him from the terror of living under his father’s roof. He’d have to save himself.

But what he’d felt in that time of his life didn’t even compare to the abandonment he felt when the Lord had allowed Colleen to die—leaving him behind, lost and alone in the world. Such loneliness had settled in deeply, into the crevices of his shattered heart. No other could guide him as Colleen had… No one else could ever love him like she had.

Truth be told, he was aware of the fact that he was a grown man, perfectly capable of caring for himself, but… he had no fucking idea how. Not without her. Colleen had been the first person to show him lasting kindness, and it had been during a crucial time in his troubled and complicated teen years. It was Colleen who’d loved him, and who had patiently taught him many important things of life. How could he go on? Colleen’s death haunted him in such a way that he wasn’t all too sure he could keep going like this.

To move on from his staggering loss seemed impossible. And, to try and accept that he was to live without her; to do so for the rest of his life… It was a difficult concept for him to even try to think about accomplishing. He could not—no, he would not—fucking pray.

He felt God had done him the worst injustice possible.

Yes… Charlie was heatedly angry with God, and the Church.

The Church and all its fuckery among the nuns and priests, paedophiles and other wicked men and women in holy orders inflicting untold damage in Ireland, and yet it was Colleen’s soul that was damned. It was Colleen who wasn’t allowed a funeral Mass in her family’s church. It was Colleen who was supposedly burning in hell for all eternity.

Fuck the Church.

For as angry as he was at God, he still knew in his heart that God was loving and understanding, and certainly would’ve understood all that Colleen had suffered. He didn’t care what the priests said. He believed Colleen had crossed the river into heavenly life, to be with Ava and her Lord Jesus. Yet despite his belief, his heart still felt the pain, sorrow, and anxiety of an abruptly different, uncertain future. One that was not going to include Colleen, his source of love and stability since he was nineteen years old.

The loneliness he felt was crushing and insurmountable. He knew he should try to be grateful he’d known Colleen in the first place—that he’d even known her love and had been able to return it. It seemed so heartachingly unattainable.

While he knew God would never actually abandon him, it was hard to feel the Lord’s love right now. His pain ran more deeply than any other he’d experienced in his past. And thanks to having two alcoholic parents and a paedophile for a brother, there had been countless painful events throughout his life. Events which he’d love to forget, now and forever.

Even though Colleen had only been gone a year, it somehow felt like an infinitely longer span than his entire existence thus far… It definitely seemed longer than the sixteen long and tumultuous years when he’d lived under his father’s terrifying reign.

Has this really happened? Is she really gone forever?

He missed Colleen’s easy smile. He could still clearly picture her warm blue eyes along with that smile. They were welcome sights in his mind. He missed the way she could always make him laugh, no matter how fucking terrible of a day he was having. He was heartsick that he couldn’t reach out to hug and kiss her, or to tell her how much he loved her, if but one final time. He hoped Colleen had known how great his love and respect for her was. He thought so much of her, had loved her so deeply, in return for all Colleen had done for him.

Releasing the breath that he’d been holding in, his whole body shuddered as he exhaled. He still felt cold, right down to his bones… His seemingly lifeless bones that should’ve died along with Colleen, to be buried beside her.

And along with his sadness and loneliness, there was the crushing guilt. The guilt that ate away at his insides, the knowledge that he’d left Colleen alone with her grief. In the weeks following the graveside service, she was nearly catatonic. She barely spoke a coherent word to anyone. She barely ate. She slept for days on end. She couldn’t dress herself, bathe herself. Friends would stop by with meals she wouldn’t eat and cards she wouldn’t open. She refused to be consoled, and eventually they found reasons to stay away.

Months passed. He’d sit with her every morning while she cried, and with one last squeeze of his hand, he’d leave her to go to work. At night, she’d sleep in a tight ball, keeping her back to him, completely shutting him out. She wouldn’t take any comfort he offered. She wouldn’t touch him. She wouldn’t talk to him. He’d been at a total loss, not knowing what the fuck to do. So, he took on extra work, looking for reasons to stay at the office late, to put off going home for as long as possible.

They lived in the same house, grieved the same person, but they grieved alone, instead of together.

Then one night he came home and found her in the bathtub.

He called the ambulance, but it was too late.

Unable to speak at her funeral, he felt a deep regret, and was intensely reproachful toward himself for his silence. But the guilt was a heavy weight on his heart, and the words simply wouldn’t form in his mind, nor would they exit his mouth. All he could do was mourn.

Many friends, family, and acquaintances attended Colleen’s funeral. Many offered kind words and support to him. Their time and consideration should have meant so much to him, and yet, it just… didn’t. Not really. Afterwards, he politely declined any offers of help. There was nothing anyone could do to soothe the raw, gaping, invisible wound in his heart. None of them could ever understand his pain and devastation. Kindness or assistance of any kind was too much to take.

He had struggled, even in adulthood, with believing that he was deserving of good things. Well, his childhood had taught him that he didn’t deserve good things at all. That he was worthless and unimportant.

Following the funeral, there was only his pain. And his loss. The deaths he had experienced before—that of his grandparents and a few distant relatives and work colleagues—hadn’t affected him like this. With Colleen, he felt as if he had lost a part of his own being, a better part, a part he had not even known he had until she came into his life. And it was there, something in the center of his being, something bone-hard and still, a sense of strength and peace he had not known before her. But then it was gone. He had felt it dying within him.

And he regretted the loss.

He resented the man he would become again.

And so, he’d spent the past year drowning his grief, jumping back into the sordid rivers of his tumultuous youth—the rivers of alcohol, drugs, and mindless sexual encounters. He stared down at the water of the River Liffey, and considered jumping, wanting to drown, wanting to die. But he didn’t want to jump off a bridge.

He wanted to jump off the whole fucking planet.

Then, he felt a pull at his heart in a different direction as an old yet familiar voice spoke behind him.

“Charlie? Charlie Brennan? Is that you?”

He turned his head to see Father James Fennessy standing there on the bridge. He was the parish priest of St. Agatha’s, where Charlie had served as an altar boy until he was thirteen. It’d been a very long time since he’d been to St. Agatha’s (whenever he had attended Christmas and Easter Mass in previous years, he had gone to Colleen’s church), but he remembered the man as always having been nice to him. The priest was dressed in his black clerical shirt and white collar, and was now walking with a cane. Charlie hadn’t seen him since Colleen’s funeral a year ago, the only priest who had attended the secular service.

He blinked, confused. “Father Jim? How did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t. I was merely on my way to the American sweet shop when I saw a young man sitting over here on the bridge, and I thought I’d come over and see if he needed some help. I had no idea that man was you.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

“Charlie, are you okay?”

Fresh tears filled his eyes and he turned away, blinded. A knot filled his throat.

“I’m sorry I haven’t come round to see you, Charlie. I should have. I hope you can forgive an old man for his lack of consideration.”

His tears brimmed over, cascading down his face.

Father Jim took another step closer. “Today is the anniversary, isn’t it? It was this day last year that you lost Colleen. Am I remembering that right?”

Throat closing over, he couldn’t speak. Unable to see through the tears that were now coming faster than the memories, he wrapped himself in a hug, wishing it were Colleen’s arms he could feel, wishing that he could go back in time and stop the tragedy that had destroyed his life, and left him forever changed.

“Just remember that Colleen is now with Jesus. She’s with Ava, too. And one day, you will join them up there. But I don’t think today is that day, Charlie.”

Sighing in defeat, he turned, moving back off the ledge. He sank down to the ground, not giving a fuck that his clothes were now covered with dirt. He held his hands around his knees, head bowed as he sobbed.

Then he felt Father Jim’s warm hand gently pat him on the back.

*****

October 2017

In the Priest’s small yet busy parish in Highgate, there was plenty to occupy his time. There was Mass every day, twice a day, at nine o’clock in the morning and one o’clock in the afternoon, except for Saturdays which only held a Vigil Mass in the evening. On weekdays he held afternoon office hours for parishioners to pay him a visit or speak to him on the telephone, and two evenings a week he led group Bible studies.

Each week, he made pastoral visits to any aged, sick, or housebound parishioners who requested to see him. Occasionally he was called upon to perform a funeral service. Once a month, he assisted the church’s Parish Youth Leader with one of the youth group activities. He had monthly meetings with the Parish Council and the church’s Finance Committee. He regularly volunteered at a Caritas foodbank in North London, and on occasion had been asked to give a lecture on varying topics at the London Jesuit Centre. And of course, he also kept up with his restaurant reviews for St. Ethelred’s parish newsletter.

He now ran three miles every morning it didn’t rain, and went swimming at the indoor pool of a local gym when it did. He spent most evenings reading, with a goal to read one book a week that had absolutely nothing to do with religion. This week he was in the midst of reading John Grisham’s latest.

He was doing everything he could to keep busy every minute of every waking hour of every day. Otherwise, he’d have to cope with the guilt, sorrow, and regret that threatened to suffocate him. Cope with a continuous stream of “what ifs” that threatened to rise up and plague him at any given moment.

What if, what if, what if…

There were times, no matter how much he busied himself, that proved more difficult than others. Moments where no matter how hard he tried to focus his thoughts and give his undivided attention to God and to his sacred duties, his efforts failed him. Moments that became increasingly difficult each passing day. Moments like right now.

This fucking confessional booth.

He tried his best to focus his thoughts when inside the booth, keep his rapt attention on his penitent of the moment, whoever they may be, and whatever problems, small or large, that weighed on their hearts. Something that had never proved to be all that difficult for him in the past. Unlike now.

This booth.

It only made him think of her.

Practically everything did. No matter how hard he tried to forget, God help him.

And it was starting to make him miserable.

I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far, I think I’ve been getting it wrong.

Maybe she wasn’t the only one, but he didn’t want to think about that too much.

Even now, with a penitent speaking to him from the other side of the screen, it was her voice he could hear inside his head. He’d thought with time the sound of her voice would fade. The memory of her face. The feel of her touch. The love he felt for her—it would pass. It would all pass.

And it had passed, he told himself. It had passed. It was over. He was over it. It was in the past, where it belonged. And that’s where it would stay.

That’s what he told himself every day. Maybe today he would be right.

Just fucking tell me what to do, Father.

Kneel.

“The truth is, Father, that I’m just really angry at God.”

Fuck. His mind had drifted. He tried to re-focus his attention back on the penitent. “I know what that’s like. There’s been times I’ve been angry at Him myself.”

“Really?”

“Yes, many times.”

The woman went on to rant about how her life wasn’t where she wished it was, and she didn’t know why God was doing this to her, why she couldn’t get what she wanted. Didn’t know what she was doing wrong, why this was happening to her, and why on earth God would do this to her. Then she took a deep breath. “I just wish I had a really good boyfriend. I’ve looked for a long time, and I’m starting to think he doesn’t exist. What should I do, Father? Should I just give up?”

The Priest thought carefully before he responded. “Perhaps God has a plan for you, and if you had what you think you want right now, it might only cause you problems later on that you don’t foresee at the moment. You have to trust, to give God the benefit of the doubt, and assume that your current circumstances are for your benefit. You need to be grateful for both what you have, and what you don’t have. You need to have faith. If you don’t have something you want right now, then you don’t need it.”

Are you sure about that, Father? purred the sly, challenging voice inside his head. A voice that sounded an awful lot like hers.

He sighed as he closed his eyes, forcing her from his thoughts.

The woman wasn’t saying anything. She sat there quietly, thinking over what he’d told her. “That was… more insightful than I was expecting.”

He chuckled at the sound of surprise in her voice. “Really?”

“I mean, it all sounds good in theory, of course… But you got right to the heart of it. I used to think that only religions in the East had insights. Really, as silly as it sounds, I always thought of the Catholic Church as high on doctrine and rules, and low on insight and heart. You’ve got skills, Father.”

He laughed again. “And please forgive yourself for buying into the belief that something is wrong with you. You didn’t do anything wrong. You are not defective. You don’t need to change who you are. God made you perfectly imperfect… and He kept you that way.”

After prayers and a final blessing, his penitent was gone. Minutes later, the curtain of the booth next to his slid open once again.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” spoke the familiar voice of a young girl, whom he recognised as Lizzie Martin, the little sister of Oliver, one of the church’s altar boys. “It’s been one week since I last confessed. I have told a lie and I have committed adultery.”

He stifled a laugh. A few weeks ago, she’d confessed to not keeping the sabbath day holy. Her mother had told him at Mass one Sunday morning that sometimes Lizzie liked to read the Ten Commandments before confession and would pick one out to confess to if she didn’t know what else to say.

“Oh, macushla,” he murmured almost to himself, laughing breathlessly, shaking his head with amusement. “I don’t think you have committed adultery.”

“Yes, Father, that is what I have done,” she answered assertively.

He spoke and forgave her, encouraged her to tell the truth to whomever she lied to, to never commit adultery again, and to say her prayers every day, and then after a final blessing, off she went with the clean soul of a nine-year-old.

After hearing the confessions of Lizzie’s three older siblings and their parents, he had a brief respite before another penitent arrived in the booth. He looked over at the screen.

A woman cleared her throat. “I, uh, haven’t done this in a very long time, Father. Forgive me if I’m out of practice.” Her voice was charming and pleasant, not the kind of voice he especially wanted to hear inside this booth. Again, her face swam in front of his eyes.

Focus, you bastard, he ordered himself.

“First, we must make the sign of the cross. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit…” He could hear the woman speaking the words along with him.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been… ages… since I last confessed.” She paused. “I made my last confession at Christmas, nearly a year ago.” She sounded young, possibly in her twenties.

“Why so long ago, my child?”

“I was ashamed, Father.”

“God sees all our thoughts and deeds. He already knows our sins; He just wants us to humble our pride, openly confess them, and ask for forgiveness. Were you not sorry for your sins before now?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know how to talk about it.”

“Tell me these sins, my daughter. You’ll feel better.”

She proceeded to confess to some minor sins, but in a general sense, and nothing too specific. “This is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all my sins.”

Since he did not know the woman, he wasn’t sure what kind of penance to assign her, what would be best for her personal situation, what would do the most spiritual good for her. He also sensed that she was holding something back. Something still weighed heavily on her heart. “Is there a particular penance you were hoping for?” he asked. “Prayers, or an offering? Or perhaps works of mercy or service?”

“You mean, I get to choose?” she asked, dumbfounded.

“Well, I don’t know you, and I assume you would know what would do you the most good.”

She didn’t respond.

He began to wonder. “What was it that made you want to come to the church for confession? What made you walk through the door?”

“I, um, I saw the church while I was walking to my mum’s house. I recently moved back home from the States. And I thought I would… I wanted to—well, I have some things that are bothering me. I hadn’t confessed, or even been to Mass, since last Christmas, but I thought maybe…” She trailed off for a moment. “Sorry. I’m just… I don’t know how much I want to say. And… wait…” Silence. “Who are you? Where’s Father Patrick?”

He smiled at her question. “Father Patrick sadly died in February. Following his passing, I was appointed priest here at St. Ethelred’s parish. Before this, I’d worked for a few years as an assistant priest at Our Lady of Sorrows in Chiswick.” After he told her his name, she remained silent for a long moment. “Is there anything I can do to help you feel less nervous? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. We can talk about whatever you want to talk about.”

“The screen helps,” she told him. “It’s easier to not see an old bloke wearing, you know, the robes and stuff, sitting there judging me.”

He laughed as he looked down at his long-sleeved black shirt with the white collar, and black trousers— his usual clerical uniform. “Well, I don’t wear the robes all the time. I’m also not here to judge.” He thought again about what she said. “And I’m not old! I’m thirty-eight.”

“A lot younger than Father Patrick, then.”

“Yes, a lot,” he replied, laughing again.

There was another long silence. “I was just wondering… and I know this probably makes me sound like an idiot… but do you have to be a virgin to become a nun?”

He considered his answer carefully. “The vow of chastity is made upon becoming a nun, it’s not a requirement for the life a woman may have led beforehand. I know many nuns who used to be married.”

“To men?”

He shook his head in amusement. “Yes, to men.”

“Really? When I was in school, it just seemed like all the nuns I knew… had been, you know, married to Jesus since puberty.”

He laughed again. “So, why are you interested in becoming a nun? Do you feel like you’ve recently been called to that life, or is this something you’ve contemplated for quite a while?”

A long moment passed before she answered. “It would be a lie to say that the idea had never occurred to me while I was in school. I certainly thought about what it would be like if I ever decided to do something like that. You know, become a nun. But I wanted to be a mum someday, have children, so I knew being a nun wasn’t the life for me. But then… some things happened earlier this year, I went through a lot of shit—” Catching herself, she gasped. “I’m so sorry, Father. I’ll try really hard not to swear.”

He chuckled. “It’s quite all right. You don’t have to censor yourself.”

“Wow, you’re nothing like Father Patrick. He would’ve made me say a Hail Mary right here on the spot for swearing.”

He smiled at that, and stifled a laugh. “I’m a firm believer that if you closely censor your words during confession, you’ll also censor your emotions, your thoughts, and you won’t be as honest with yourself or with God. I feel it’s best to allow freedom of expression.”

“Um… well, okay.” She paused again. “I just… I don’t know how to talk about this. But it’s been weighing on me, and I feel like I’m going to explode.”

“That’s why I’m here. To listen and help you unburden yourself. This is your chance to be heard… by me and by God, and to receive the comfort and guidance you need to help you sort out whatever may be troubling you.”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t really know where to start.”

“I’ve found the beginning is usually the best place.”

That earned him a small laugh. “Well, my name’s Charlotte… Charlotte Crawford. I grew up here, went to St. Anne’s. Then I went to the States for uni—to New York. NYU. And that’s where I met Kevin. After graduation, we moved in together. We were going to get married, have kids, the whole lot. I really thought we were going to grow old together and… be together forever. I thought we were soulmates.” She sighed. “That probably sounds stupid to you.”

“It’s not stupid. I think that’s what most people want out of life, and it’s a true gift to find the person who will be your lifelong partner.”

“Right,” she replied, her voice thick with emotion. “Kevin suffered with depression from time to time, but after a while it got much worse. And then last spring, he left for work early one morning, but instead of going to work, he drove to Central Park and shot himself in the head. They found him later that afternoon, in his truck.”

Jesus Christ. The Priest was stunned into silence for a moment. “I am so, so sorry, Charlotte.”

“He didn’t leave a note. No one seems to know why he did it. And it kills me to know that I’ll never know why.” He could hear her breathing. It sounded like she was trying not to cry. “Kevin was baptised Catholic. He wasn’t practicing, but his family were very devout. They weren’t allowed a funeral Mass for him. I know suicide is a grave sin, Father, but…”

He hung his head and sighed.

“Do you think that there’s any chance Kevin could be in heaven?”

He knew the Church’s official stance. He knew it all too well. But he also didn’t take such a black and white approach to God’s love and forgiveness. “I believe God looks at each and every one of us as individuals and takes into consideration who we are and what we’ve suffered in life. There’s so much about mental illness we just don’t know about, and I believe God, as our Creator, understands the human mind better than we ever will.

“I can say that I personally would never make someone who already suffered enough in this life, suffer for eternity in the afterlife, and if I can have compassion for someone who suffered so much that they couldn’t bear to be alive anymore, I can’t imagine our Heavenly Father not having the same compassion.”

“That’s not very Catholic of you.”

“I’m not a fire-and-brimstone kind of priest.”

“And your bosses allow that, do they?” She smacked her lips. “Sorry. Just a bit of a joke, Father.”

He frowned. He certainly had been at odds with the diocese lately. “I’m allowed to tend to God’s flock within my parish as I see fit. Within reason, of course. I don’t speak for the Church. I only speak for myself and my own relationship with God. Personally, I think a lot of priests and pastors and churches out there have got it wrong. When someone takes their own life, their mental health is poor, and taking one’s own life goes against every natural human inclination, against the very wiring in our brains, against our very humanity. Every cell in our bodies wants to keep living, and humans have proven they’ll go to extremes to stay alive under harrowing circumstances. So, when someone suffers from depression or other mental illness and the wiring in their brain is actively trying to destroy them instead of save them, I don’t believe God would punish that person for something that was clearly beyond their control.

“Anyway, this is not about me and how I feel about it. How have you been coping with this?”

She took a deep breath. “Not well. I knew Kevin’s depression was getting worse, but I didn’t know what to do about it. I feel like there was something I could have fucking done to prevent it. Maybe if I’d just paid more attention and noticed something was off that morning, or if I’d just rung his mobile to say hello and tell him I love him. Maybe he wouldn’t’ve…” Her voice trailed off. 

He was forced to shove down his own painful memories, the guilt and regret that threatened to rise up like a wave and take him under.

“I feel like I fucking failed him. And now I just feel… lost. I don’t know what to do with my life. I’ll never love anyone the way I loved Kevin. I don’t see myself ever wanting to be with anyone else. I won’t want to have someone else’s children.”

Charlotte’s voice choked. Though compassion and empathy for this young woman filled his heart, he couldn’t prevent his thoughts from straying to another tearful woman who’d sat on the other side of the screen three months ago.

Just fucking tell me what to do, Father.

But in this woman’s voice—the same as in her voice last summer—there was real pain and uncertainty and confusion. And he wanted to give her the comfort she so obviously needed.

“I need to know that I will be able to move on from this,” she continued quietly. “That I will be able to forgive myself. It feels like I’ll never be happy again. I just need to know that eventually everything will be okay.”

There was a sharp stab in his chest. How often had he whispered those same words while lying awake in bed, staring up at the rectory ceiling, consumed with thoughts of what his life could have been if he’d made different choices?

What if, what if, what if…

And for the first time in a long time, he remembered a different period in his life. A different city. Lying awake in a different bed, staring up at a different ceiling. He remembered the guilt and the pain, the uncertainty and confusion. He remembered the anguish of his broken heart, his broken life. He remembered praying for the first time in years:

Please God, I just need to know that everything will be okay.

When the Priest spoke again, he told her honestly, “I don’t know if everything will be okay. You may think that nothing could possibly be more painful than this, that this is the worst that it gets, only to find out one day that you were wrong.” Unwanted visions came unbidden to his mind, the memory of pulling his wife’s lifeless body from the bathtub in their flat. He closed his eyes and forced the image away.

“It’s hard to lose the people we love. No one wants to say goodbye, and death… well, without the hope of God’s eternal love, it can feel like you’re saying goodbye forever. The hole they leave behind can be very hard to fill. But time goes on, and…” He paused, taking a breath. “You may find something takes you down a different path, a different way of life that leads to real contentment and peace of mind.” His mouth curved into a sad smile. “Or, if you’re fortunate, you might meet someone you never expected, and this person fills your world with the kind of friendship and love you thought you’d never have again, and it makes everything… not as painful anymore. You might think right now that you’ll never be happy again, but life finds a way.

“Is this why you’re thinking of becoming a nun?”

She was crying now. He could hear her sniffles. “I just thought that if… if I devoted the rest of my life to God’s service, I’d never have to feel this kind of pain again. And maybe if I spent my life doing good deeds, it would somehow help me to forgive myself for failing Kevin the way I did. And maybe God is calling me to be the best Christian I can possibly be, and if I serve Him the way He wants me to, then perhaps He will hear my prayers on Kevin’s behalf and forgive him for taking his own life.”

Something inside his chest clutched at him and ached while his stomach knotted. He shoved the feeling down and carefully thought over his reply. “Taking holy vows, devoting one’s life to God and becoming a nun is a serious decision. It’s important to take the necessary time to think about your reasons for choosing such a life, and to fully understand all that life entails before making the decision.”

“I understand that, Father.”

“It is a way of life that has brought many young women peace and happiness, both of which I wish for you, no matter where you may find it. There are several convents in London and elsewhere in Britain. I can get you the information of some people at the diocese you can speak to.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “For what you said… It means a lot.”

After leaving the confessional and stopping by his office to get the information she would need as well as phone numbers for some different support groups, she was gone, and then he was back inside the booth. He checked his mobile for the time, and saw his confessional hours were nearly over. It was Saturday, and he wanted to get to the Camden Town Foodbank on Arlington Road by noon.

He sat there quietly, deep in thought. A penitent soon arrived in the booth and began speaking, but he found it difficult to listen. Memories from his past assaulted him, and he tried to fight them off. He didn’t want to go back there, to live in that darkness, even for the briefest of moments. The trauma and grief that young woman had been through, he could relate in ways he didn’t ever want to think about.

He never wanted to experience that kind of pain again. His heart had been shattered, nearly destroyed. He’d barely survived it. He never again wanted to face the possibility of a wife who dies, or children who die. Because he was afraid of loss, he’d resisted close contact. Then he thought of her, remembered that first time she showed up to Mass at the church. Remembered telling her that he wasn’t cool, that he was a reader with no friends. People had tried to be his friend over the years, both laypersons and fellow clerics. But he’d resisted meaningful friendships, getting too close and attached to anyone.

Was that the real reason he had left her at that bus stop?

Not because he was afraid of losing his vocation, but it was the fear of potentially losing her? The fear of another broken heart?

His mind was a flurry of “what ifs.”

From the moment he met her at that restaurant table, he’d felt something. Something different from any other women he’d known. It was an instant connection—almost like a lightning strike. The more their eyes met and held, the more the feeling intensified. He fell for her the very night they met, he realised now. Not expecting it, caught totally unaware, he’d let his guard down, and had been completely open to the connection and attraction he could feel sparking in the air between them. And then he’d spent the following weeks trying in vain to close himself off to her. He knew deep down she could be the one to break his heart into a thousand pieces.

More than fearing what she wanted from him, he was terrified of his own need that rose up in him every time he was around her. Most nights, as he lay in bed and thought about her, it felt too intense to be real. A throbbing awareness that was more than sexual desire. More than simply enjoying the company and friendship of a beautiful woman. More intense than anything he’d experienced before.

It wasn’t just that as a priest he wasn’t allowed to fall in love. It was a matter of self-preservation that he did everything he could to prevent it.

He’d failed, though. Failed abysmally.

His affection for her had grown with each passing day. He knew what he was doing that night he showed up at her door. It wasn’t just to tell her he’d changed his mind about the wedding, or to explain why he couldn’t let the relationship become physical. He could’ve said all that on the fucking telephone. He didn’t have to show up at her door, late at night, to tell her.

He knew why he went to speak to her in person. He’d known exactly what would happen if he went to her flat. He knew they’d wind up in her bed. He knew it. That was why he fucking went. Because he’d wanted it, he’d wanted her. But he’d wanted not only physical satisfaction, but to satisfy the intangible yearning that had begun the first moment he’d looked into her eyes.

He had fallen in love with her, no matter how much he’d tried to convince himself otherwise. How much he tried to stay away from her. Up until the very moment he finally gave up the fight and allowed himself to take what he wanted the most, it had been a fierce battle of wills raging inside his heart. She was perfect to him, physically, mentally. He couldn’t get within a metre of her without her drawing him in like a magnet. He was helpless. He’d hated that the love and desire he felt for her had become stronger than his love for his job, his church, his God.

“Dae ah hae ony penance, Faither?”

Fucking hell. His thoughts had drifted. Again. Was this his punishment for breaking his vow? To be tormented with these thoughts and feelings day and night? But he’d made a full confession. His sins had been absolved, forgiven. And that had been three months ago. Why couldn’t he just forget her?

But do you actually want to forget me, Father?

Frustrated, he pushed the intrusive thought away.

“Faither?”

He needed to focus. His penitent of the moment was Craig Munro, Tesco employee and avid Rangers Football Club supporter, who attended Mass every day. The man was unmarried and had no children, was a devout Catholic, and could be counted on to show up for confession every week without fail. His confessions rarely varied over the past eight months. Often, he’d harbour impure thoughts and fantasies about women in his cardio class. There were times he felt envious to the point of anger over a much-younger colleague’s promotion, or his brother’s seemingly perfect married life. Every week he’d go out drinking with his mates, and there were times he became so intoxicated, he’d wake up the following morning lying beneath the hedgerow outside his back door wearing urine-soaked trousers.

Craig’s life was stagnated—going nowhere.

“I don’t want to assign penance just for penance’s sake,” he answered. Craig was a good guy, a good Christian, and he wanted to see the man happy and living a more fulfilled life. He had a great sense of humour, in that dark, dry, and direct way the Priest appreciated about the Scots. Craig often spent weekends volunteering at a foodbank or an animal shelter. He’d give the shirt off his back to help someone in need. His sins were the result of his profound dissatisfaction with his life, and no amount of Hail Marys and Our Fathers would help him unless he made some real, lasting changes.

“For penance, I just have one request,” the Priest said. “I want you to think about what you want out of life. You don’t seem to have any direction or ambition. Besides your faith, what are you passionate about? What makes you get out of bed each morning? What do you really want to do with your life? What would make you feel truly fulfilled and happy? Happier than you ever thought possible?”

Craig didn’t answer, but he sat there in silence, clearly thinking it over.

Maybe you should take your own advice, Father.

“Oh, fuck off,” he whispered harshly in reply.

“Whit wis that, Faither?”

“Oh, er, nothing, nothing.” Damn her. And damn this fucking booth. Her voice always seemed louder in here. “Craig, I want you to carefully think about the answers to those questions, set some personal goals, and then pray to God to help you achieve them.”

“Yes, Faither. I will.”

After Craig prayed an act of contrition and the Priest said the prayer of absolution, the last penitent of the day was gone.

Confessional time was finally over. Fucking hallelujah.

He quickly left the church and walked down to the Hornsey Lane bus stop. He didn’t have to wait very long, and was soon on the ride to the Camden Town Foodbank. On the bus, he thought back to his morning spent in the confessional.

He wished someone else had come to give him confession. That she’d just shown up in the booth, out of the blue, completely unexpected. The exact same way she’d shown up in his life last summer. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to hear her laugh. He wanted to see her smile. With him. For him.

He still wanted to learn everything about her, every heartache, every regret, every painful thing she had ever been through. He wanted her to trust him enough to allow herself to be vulnerable. To open up, instead of shut him out. To trust him enough to reveal everything going on inside that beautiful, clever mind of hers, and completely unburden her heart.

He wanted to go to the other side of the booth and take her in his arms again. He wanted to kiss away all her tears. God, he wanted to touch her again, the silkiness of her skin, the softness of her hair. Wanted to feel those sparks. Feel the lust. The need. He wanted to obliterate whatever in her past had made her afraid to open up and reveal her inner self to him. He wanted to give her absolution, peace, love. He wanted to give her happiness. And hope. He wanted to give her all the good things in the world, tied up with flowers and ribbons, and watch her face as she opened them. He wanted her to feel loved and cherished and worshipped.

And he wanted to give her pleasure. He knew what it felt like being inside her, making her scream his name. He could imagine it right there in the confessional booth—giving her such unimaginable pleasure that she would want to come back to see him again and again.

Kneel.

Just kneel.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

*****

It was after eight o’clock when the Priest returned to the rectory following the Saturday evening Mass. He opened the refrigerator to see the plastic containers with the delicious meal Pam had prepared for him before she’d left for her daughter’s house to spend the evening with her grandchildren. She had spent the majority of the afternoon cooking, and the rectory had smelled glorious when he’d returned from the foodbank earlier in the day.

After choosing a container, removing the lid, and tossing it in the microwave, he sat down at the kitchen table while he waited. The rectory felt so quiet and empty without Pam around, which was the case most Saturday nights. As he watched the Tupperware spin inside the worktop appliance, his mind drifted to a similar Saturday evening last summer when Pam had come home and found him sitting in the kitchen. The night when he’d walked home from a certain bus stop following a certain wedding three months ago.

July

All was dark and quiet when he returned to the rectory. He sat at the kitchen table, not knowing what to do with himself. Part of him wanted to run to her flat, bang on the door, and tell her he was a fool. He didn’t want it to end. He loved her, and didn’t want to give her up. Tears filled his eyes as he realised once again that he couldn’t have what he wanted. He’d chosen a life, and he’d worked hard and sacrificed a lot to have this life, and to risk throwing it all away on something that might not even last…

And he could almost hear her voice inside his head, inside his heart, challenging him as usual.

But what if it did? What if you could spend your life with me and still be a man of God? What if you’re walking away from true love? From your best chance at real happiness? At having the family you’ve always wanted? What if you’re just scared?

What if, what if, what if…

The thought only made him feel miserable, but he’d realised over the years that sometimes the best decisions were the ones that required the most self-sacrifice.

She was simply the most stunning woman he had ever seen. Tall, slender, beautiful. It wasn’t just her looks, though. It was everything about her, every aspect of her personality. Her smile lit up any room she walked into, and her laugh was so infectious he found himself filling with warmth all over just at the sight of her smile or the sound of her laugh. She was so intelligent and quick-witted, and he loved that she challenged him constantly. It was like God had assembled his most perfect woman and partner in life and then dangled her in front of him like a piece of forbidden fruit.

At first, he’d tried to convince himself that the attraction he felt for her was nothing more than overwhelming lust mixed with crippling loneliness. He wanted her friendship, and that was all. That’s all he could allow it to be. He’d repeatedly reminded himself that the romantic feelings he had for her were purely chemical. Controllable.

In spite of this, he’d begun to imagine dozens of scenarios of what a life with her would look like. A happy and fulfilled life. Forever.

But the icy knife of fear always stopped his thoughts in their mental tracks. He knew the feeling, and he was afraid of it. There was no possible way he could fall in love with her. He couldn’t, and he wouldn’t. He wasn’t allowed. He was a Catholic priest, for fuck’s sake.

He’d been in denial. He wanted her. It wasn’t just her friendship. It wasn’t just the potent sexual attraction. More than that, he loved her with a passion so great it was now impossible to deny. The love he felt for her, he believed, had an almost desperate intensity the like of which he had never felt for anyone else before, not even his first love. The love he felt for her was based on who she was, the awe in which he held her (an atheist wanting nothing more than to spend her time with a Catholic priest?!), caring for him when she certainly didn’t have to, loving him despite how foolish and hopeless the situation was.

A love that could never be his tore at his heart.

The door suddenly slammed shut, and he jumped out of the kitchen chair, thinking maybe she’d shown up at the rectory again. He wouldn’t be able to resist if she did. He’d be done for. He’d be fucked. But it was just Pam, with her purse over her shoulder and a few plastic containers of food in her arms.

“Anna Thomson baked you two dozen homemade Jammie Dodgers, Father,” Pam said cheerfully as she moved past him into the kitchen. “I tried some at her house—they’re delicious.”

“Does she truly expect me to eat two dozen biscuits?” he replied, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. Anna Thomson was a widow in her forties and attended the same Catholic Women’s League meetings as Pam. She wasn’t a member of his parish, but he had met her years back when he first started to work for the diocese. She was very active with Caritas charities in the city, and she was always making him biscuits and pies and cakes.

“You can freeze the ones you don’t eat right away!”

“I appreciate her kindness, Pam, really I do, but there’s only so many sweets a man can be expected to eat in a month. Maybe she should bake for a cleric more in need of her generosity.”

“You know she has a soft spot for you, Father.”

He heaved a sigh and sat back down in the chair. He folded his arms as he watched her put things away in the cupboards and inside the fridge. He’d also known Pam a long time, since he was first made a deacon after he finished seminary, as she was very active within the diocese. She knew everyone, and everyone knew Pam. She had accepted him with open arms when he first moved into the rectory back in March. He was new to the parish, new to being in charge of an entire congregation by himself, new to living the clerical life on his own, in his own house, instead of living in a monastery or sharing a rectory with other priests.

Except tonight he felt unworthy of it all—Pam’s care, this rectory, his job. He hadn’t even had his very own parish a full year before he’d gone and fucked it right up. He was overcome with the sudden urge to drink until he blacked out.

He’d be punished for this somehow. He knew he’d be, and he welcomed it. He wanted to be punished; he wanted to suffer. He knew he deserved it.

But did he want to punish himself because he’d sinned and broken his vow? Did he truly feel sorry for that? Was that something he actually regretted? Or did he want to punish himself for leaving her and breaking her heart? For breaking his own heart. Is that what he truly regretted? Not sinning against God, but the loss of her?

At the very least, he wanted to drink himself into oblivion so that he didn’t have to think anymore.

“Are you okay, Father?” Pam asked, sitting at the table and folding her hands together, watching him closely. “Looks like something’s troubling you.”

He did his best attempt at a natural smile. “I’m just tired, Pam,” he said, and started to stand.

“No, that’s not it,” she retorted, and nodded back to the chair. “Sit.”

He did as told and sat back down. “Nothing’s wrong,” he insisted, keeping his voice casual. “I’m fine.”

She arched a skeptical brow. “The thing about being both a mum and a grandmama, Father, is that I know when people are lying to me. So, are you going to tell me the truth?”

About getting drunk and almost having sex up against the confessional booth inside the church? Spending hours the previous night repeatedly committing mortal sins of a very carnal nature?

“You look sad, Father. You can always talk to me.”

Suddenly, he wanted to tell Pam about last night, about the past month, about allowing himself to develop romantic feelings for someone and violating his holy vows. Instead, he stared down at his hands and didn’t answer. Because he was heartbroken and angry with himself. But again, there came the same nagging questions:

Was he angry with himself for sinning, or for being a coward and giving her up when he wanted nothing more than to be with her?

But he’d be risking everything by being with her, his career and his parish and this entire life he’d made for himself.

Elbow on the table, he covered his face with his hand. “I can’t talk about it right now,” he said. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to talk about it.

Pam hummed in response. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the pretty young woman who showed up at the church once or twice this summer? The tall one with dark hair who volunteered to help out with the fête? The one who showed up here late one night a couple weeks ago? The one with the widowed father who got married today?”

He’d dropped his hand from his brow and stared at her, eyes going wide. “I—what?”

She laughed. “I saw the look on your face when she showed up at the fête. It was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. And I saw the way you smiled when you were around her, the way you seemed frustrated and disappointed whenever someone drew your attention away from her. And I saw you walking down the street together in Soho earlier this week. You both looked very happy.”

Fucking hell. Did she know? Or did she only suspect?

“We’re just friends, Pam. She was helping me pick out what to wear for the wedding, and then she went with me to a Quaker meeting.” He thought it best not to mention that she was an atheist who stood up in said Quaker meeting to talk about her tits… Or that those tits felt like velvet against his chest, her nipples like ripe berries in his mouth. Or that her cunt felt like tight, hot silk around his cock.

“Will we be seeing more of her at the church? Maybe I’ll have to ask her about joining the Women’s League,” Pam said with a knowing smile. “Unless… you’d rather keep the friendship as a private thing just between the two of you.”

His mouth went dry and he swallowed. Unable to speak, he simply stared back at her.

“I won’t say anything about it to anyone. You can trust me. I kept Father Patrick’s secrets for him—not that he had many—but I’ll take them to my grave, same as yours.”

He felt his face grow hot as his stomach churned. He lowered his gaze from hers and said nothing.

“Father, you of all people should know that what you’re feeling for this woman is completely normal. Do you recall the very first lecture you gave at the Jesuit Centre? You were so nervous. You practiced it in front of me right over there in the sitting room two or three times.”

He chuckled darkly. “Yes, Pam, I remember.”

“And I remember it causing quite a wave in the diocese.”

“And I also remember receiving a pointed letter from Bishop Harington with instructions to never speak on such a topic again.”

She pursed her lips. “Never mind that. In the lecture, I believe you said part of the solution to all the troubles within the Church, and as a way we could all heal from such scandals, would be to honour sexual relations the way God intended them. Not to suppress sexuality as something unnatural or immoral that needs to be kept hidden away and never spoken of. We should appreciate sex as a God-given gift to be held sacred, something special to be enjoyed by two consenting adults as an expression of their love and commitment to each other. And that it starts at a young age, parents teaching their children that Godly sex is nothing to be ashamed of. That it was feelings of shame, and the repression of the natural desires God created in us, that could lead to emotional problems and deviant sexual behaviour. Didn’t you say all that in the lecture, Father?”

He had. He firmly believed in the importance of healthy sexuality to the human psyche. Almost every denomination of Christianity had been guilty of suppressing sexuality, which was the polar opposite of healthy. Sex itself was not from the devil. It was not the root of all evil. Sex was a gift from God, natural desires created for our enjoyment as something that added greatly to our happiness, and strengthened the bonds of our intimate relationships. Suppressed sexual desires created feelings of guilt and shame, low self-esteem, and worst of all, could lead to violence and abuse.

But the message of that lecture had technically been intended as something for clerics to teach to the people in their congregations, not for the clerics themselves—men who’d taken a vow of celibacy.

“But I’m a priest, Pam. A priest.”

Suddenly, a quote from The Eternal Priesthood by Cardinal Manning came forward in his mind.

“Since Satan fell like lightning from heaven there has been no fall like the fall of a priest.”

He would be risking not only his career and his sacramental duty by violating his vows, but he could even be risking his eternal soul.

She scoffed. “And the Apostle Peter was married, as were most of the other apostles. Could anyone doubt St. Peter’s love and devotion to the Lord? Certainly not. You are a good priest, Father. You’re also a good man. It’s entirely reasonable to be both at the same time.”

Her words sent a jolt through him, and he stared, eyes widening. He’d heard them the night before, but it was someone else who’d said them.

You’re a good priest, Father, but you’re also a good man.

He closed his eyes and tried to force her voice out of his head.

“Did you think that becoming a priest meant you would no longer have the feelings of a man?”

“No,” he replied. “But I chose this life, Pam. I swore holy vows in front of God and my bishop.”

She shot him a look. “Well, if you ask me, Father, I’d say vows of celibacy are straight outta the fourth century, and not exactly the most realistic requirement of any person, male or female. I’d say it’s a vow that has done more harm than good for the Church.”

“So, I should leave my vocation the very first time I fall short of living up to my vows? Or I should lead a double life? Become a hypocrite?”

“I’m simply saying, Father, that you don’t have to punish yourself, and instead it might be a good idea for you to find some sort of balance between fulfilling your spiritual obligations and… your basic human needs. I wouldn’t say that was living a double life. I’d say that was simply living. And living as God intended all of us to live. A man and a woman falling in love is nothing to be ashamed of.”

He swallowed, and averted his eyes from her penetrating gaze. “I’m not in love with he—”

“Are you lying to me, Father, or to yourself?”

Pam left him sitting at the kitchen table, a storm of emotions raging inside his heart.

October

After eating his supper in solitude, he retired to the sofa in the sitting room, and picked up his copy of John Grisham’s The Whistler. He read until late in the night, delaying going to that empty bed until he had to. He read until his eyes hurt and he could barely hold the book, then he marked his place and laid it aside. After changing into pyjamas, he crawled into bed.

He’d felt exhausted and ready for sleep, but the moment he lay on his back, his head hitting the pillow, he was wide awake, trying in vain to push thoughts of the woman he longed for from his mind. As the seconds passed, he felt his cock start to fill, hardening, lengthening, tenting the fabric covering his pelvis. After years of underuse, it was now regularly demanding gratification.

His aching cock strained for the rectory ceiling through the slit in his boxer shorts. He shoved his hands under the pillow beneath his head and willed his dick to empty. The whisper of air circulating from the fan above him felt torturous, as did his memories of her, and the passionate love that still burned brightly within his heart, yet he refused to touch himself to relieve the pressure.

This was his punishment. His penance. He didn’t want relief or any kind of pleasure. He wanted peace.

Or maybe he just wanted to be touched by someone who actually loved him.

It’ll pass, he reassured himself for what felt like the millionth time in three months. He closed his eyes in fervent prayer. It’ll pass, he promised Him.

But the more he said those words, the more he began to doubt and wonder if Pam was right and he was simply lying to himself. Lying to himself and to God.

He tossed and turned until he couldn’t stand it anymore, and then, feeling desperate to quiet the thoughts inside his head, he sat upright and leapt off the mattress. After assuring his bottle of whisky was within easy reach, he crawled back into bed.

Despite feeling warm and relaxed from the alcohol, he simply couldn’t sleep. Each time he started to doze off, her voice came back to tease him once more. The memory of her was driving him mad. He sighed as he finally allowed his mind to wander, giving himself over to the thoughts he always tried so hard to drive away. He remembered her face the first time he saw her, as she approached the restaurant table in that black jumpsuit and those red lips. He remembered the way she’d smiled as she walked away from him in that alley behind the restaurant, the way their eyes kept meeting while they sat at the table, the tension and spark of attraction intensifying each time.

He remembered the sight of her standing there in a pew inside the church, the smile she gave him as she sat down, and how flustered she’d made him, suddenly being unable to string a sentence together. He remembered the feeling of joy filling his chest, the way his heart had started to pound with excitement. The flush of heat creeping up his neck and into his face.

He remembered sitting with her outside the rectory. Remembered the way they stared at each other, their eyes locked in a battle of wills, and with every passing moment his heart beating faster, a languorous heat spreading through his body, the unwanted fascination he held for her only increasing.

He remembered her voice as it carried through the screen in the confessional booth. He remembered when he’d thrown his professional and spiritual ethics aside the moment his lips first touched hers. Gently, cautiously at first, then expertly pressing into her more urgently. He remembered the way his stomach rolled, completely unzipping his insides as hot charges of lust detonated inside his brain. All thought fled. In the pit of his stomach, desire had swirled into a boiling frenzy as lust rioted through his veins. Ridiculously potent, it had stunned him with its intensity. He remembered her frantic fingers trying to free his aching cock from his trousers.

Remembering that first kiss killed him, as did all the kisses after. But those memories weren’t as acutely painful or as annoyingly erotic as the memories of what happened the night that she was naked in his arms. Remembering her naked… now that… that was pure agonising torture. The way her body looked, the way her brown eyes glowed when he looked at her, the way she stood in front of him with not a care in the world other than the pleasure they both knew they were going to give and take in one another. It was excruciating remembering her absolute perfection.

He always remembered with crystal clarity the first time she came on his fingers, the first time she came on his tongue, the first time she came on his cock, and with that he now remembered the first time he spilled himself in his hand when fantasising about her. The first time he came in her body, down her throat.

He vividly remembered the glorious night he spent in her flat. Remembered her whimpers and sighs and moans. Her filthy words and her screams of pleasure. She’d rocked him to his fucking core and made him see stars.

If there was heaven on earth, he had found it that night.

With those delicious visions inside his head, suddenly he felt the contractions of orgasm rock his body. Without even touching himself, he’d climaxed. A guttural moan tore from his throat as long, arcing jets of cum spurted from his throbbing cock across the old T-shirt covering his chest and stomach, even hitting the headboard and his pillow, gradually decreasing until the last few drops pooled on his shorts and pubic hair.

As he lay there, his heartbeat and respiration gradually returning to normal, memories of their night together still dancing in his mind, tears began to fill his eyes. Gasping, he tried to hold back the tears, but it was no use. The physical release did nothing to relieve the ache in his mind—and his heart. It had only deepened the longing for her company, had only intensified his love for her.

His tears dampened the pillow. He couldn’t help remembering her sounds and smells, her taste and her touch. He remembered her laughter, and her voice as she told him she loved him. But most of all, he remembered those brown eyes that haunted him relentlessly.

What if, what if, what if…

Chapter Text

July 2017

That coconut scent was filling his head as her mouth moved with his. Sparks of pleasure ignited inside him. Her mouth was so soft. Her tongue brushed his lower lip and it went straight to his groin. The feel of her breath on his neck had satisfaction ripping through him. He felt a vital piece of his life shifting back into place. His blood roared in his ears. The butterflies in his stomach were detonating like grenades. He simultaneously felt like he was dying in this moment and more alive than he had ever been.

He was in love with her. Completely in love with her. He knew it now, knew it without a doubt.

His heart swelled, full to bursting. She tasted like everything he had imagined, like a paradise oasis in the desert. She tasted like everything he had ever hungered for, but had been forbidden him for so long. She tasted like everything he had ever needed, but had spent years denying it until now. His head reeled with the rightness of it, the sweetness and the hunger.

“Show me your bedroom.”

She smiled at his sultry command.

They made their way to her room, kissing passionately as they went. His black clerical jacket was soon pushed down his arms and then thrown to the bedroom floor. He deepened the kiss and he pressed closer and closer until the backs of her legs hit the bed. She let out a sound that could only be described as half frustration and half satisfaction as she sank deeper into his kiss. When he finally broke them apart to breathe, she was looking at him with a hunger that was beyond palpable, it was overwhelming, fierce.

“I can’t wait any longer,” she purred against his lips.

He claimed her mouth in another passionate kiss. His long abstinence only made the fire within him burn hotter. He groaned with the want of her, and as his mouth continued to draw out her own desires, he reached for the collar of her black coat and pushed it down off her arms, fully revealing her body, clad in lacy, dark red lingerie, and tossed the coat aside.

His lips moved to her neck and she whispered his name. “I need you,” she pleaded.

“Get on the bed, then,” he ordered, and almost didn’t recognise the husky, lusty sound of his own voice.

The pink flush that gilded her skin pleased him, as did the darkened widening of those velvet brown eyes. He ran his eyes over her neck and past her pretty chin to cheeks that were the color of red apples against the Ivory. He’d never seen such beautiful skin on any woman in his life—smooth and perfect and softly glowing. He caressed the soft ivory of her neck, wanting to devour every shudder, every hitched breath.

She turned, crawling on the bed on her hands and knees, but he stopped her at the edge of the bed. Then she threw him the sultriest look over one shoulder. It was a dare and a challenge to the animal buried deep inside him—the animal that was currently roaring its need to be released from its cage. And then he placed the flat of his palm in the space between her shoulder blades and pushed her forward and down.

As he stood behind her, she was rubbing her thighs together. He watched her hands grip the duvet. He ran his hand from her shoulder to her hip, feeling the curve of her covered breast, the soft skin of her waist, the firm swell of her arse. And then he repeated the action with both hands this time, letting his hands drift down to the waistband of her lacy underwear. Hooking a finger on each side, he slowly drew the strips of delicate material over her hips and down her thighs to her knees.

She drew in a breath.

He knelt down behind her and spread her legs so that her cunt was gloriously laid bare to him. “You’re so wet,” he whispered.

Wetness of desire slicked her entire center. Her pussy wasn’t just wet either—it was fucking trembling, pink and soft and clenching right in front of his face. He grabbed her arse with his hands and dug his fingers in, leaning forward so that he could inhale that gorgeous scent.

She whimpered.

He moved his mouth even closer. He could smell her, and she smelled divine, like coconut and clean skin and that uniquely female scent that men hungered for. “God in heaven… You smell so damn good.”

He traced his way from her clit to her cunt with his tongue and he believed nothing on earth or in heaven had ever tasted sweeter than this. Eagerly lapping up her juices, he flicked her clit with his tongue, sending a shudder up her spine.

“Fuck, you feel good.”

“Oh, I’m just getting started.”

His licked her puckered rosebud for a few tantalising moments before burying his face into her cunt once again. She gasped as he explored her soft, swollen folds and nibbled at her clit. At the same time, he reached up and massaged her lace-covered breasts, really making her squirm.

“Please,” she begged, her breath becoming ragged.

He flattened his tongue against her clit and sampled her again, his cock now so hard that it throbbed and ached. She cried out, and he almost died for her delicious sounds in his ears and her taste in his mouth. He spread her arse cheeks exposing her further. He leaned into her and ran his tongue from her clit to her slit and back. He nipped at her cunt, flicked her clit with his tongue ruthlessly. She could not hold still, grinding herself against his greedy mouth, moaning helplessly.

He dove into her like a man possessed, his fingers gripping her arse cheeks to hold her open. He fucked her with his lips and his tongue, eating her like a starving man. Her cunt was more perfect than he’d imagined during all those sleepless nights and cold showers.

He wanted to make her come so hard she forgot that Nine Times guy even existed, he decided right then. He would make her come all over his face, and just the thought made his balls tighten and his cock jolt in his trousers. There was a very real possibility that he might come all over himself like some fucking teenager.

He caressed one finger over her pussy and then he slid it inside, before pulling out and adding a second, then curving them down to find the soft, textured spot that he knew could push her over the edge. She was shamelessly grinding back into his face now, little sighs and moans issuing from her throat, her knuckles going white as her hands gripped the duvet cover.

All he could breathe and taste was her, and then suddenly his conscience stabbed at him. What if someone happened to walk in right now and saw a Catholic priest with a woman bent over on all fours, kneeling in front of her arse with his tongue up her cunt?

What would they think? After he had been so outspoken in his homilies against the rampant sexual immorality and depraved wickedness within the clergy? So outspoken that he’d heard some fellow clerics in the diocese had been snidely wondering if he was “on a crusade.”

But then she came, her cry of orgasmic bliss the most beautiful sound he’d heard in his life, and everything else vanished except her and her sounds and her taste and her smell and the feel of her pussy clenching around his fingers.

He sat back on his knees on the floor, breathing hard, his cock aching with need. Gaping at him as if in amazement, she quickly moved towards him, pulling her underwear free and tossing it onto the floor. She pulled on his arms, urging him to join her on the bed.

“That felt so fucking good,” she told him as he moved to sit on his knees in front of her. “That was amazing, but I want to make you feel good.”

“Oh, God,” he breathed. and the desire heating his blood pushed all other thoughts from his mind.

She pressed a palm to his erection, and he looked down to see her hands at his trousers, unbuckling his belt. “Oh, my God,” he repeated, still watching as she freed his cock. The moment her fingers brushed over his heated skin, he thought he would come undone right then and there. He couldn’t even remember the last time a woman had touched him.

He saw her pause, saw her eyes widen at the sight of his thick hardness, saw her delighted smile. Her hand moved down to explore lower, cupping his balls. Then she raised her hands to his black clerical shirt.

“You’re a good priest, Father,” she whispered as she pulled his white collar free. Then her fingers went to the shirt’s buttons, working on them slowly, unbuttoning them sensually, flicking one open, then another. She slid her hands inside his shirt to his chest, caressing his skin.

“But you’re also a good man.” She grinned cheekily as her hand returned to his cock, stroking him, feeling how hard and heavy and thick his erection was. “A very good man, I see.”

He smiled at the way she made him laugh, affection for her filling his heart. The way she made him feel inside was something he hadn’t felt in so long, something he’d believed he’d never feel again. He was in awe of his emotions and a little scared as well.

She gripped him tighter, started to stroke in earnest, while her lips were warm on his neck, his chest. He shuddered and giggled when she circled his nipples. His body was one single erotic zone. Everywhere she touched, everywhere they brushed, increased his desire for her, an intense rising heat he could see she shared.

He watched her hand moving up and down his swollen flesh like a man hypnotised. Jolts of pleasure shot up his spine. “You keep doing that and this’ll be over before we’ve really started,” he said raggedly, closing his eyes to the sight of her milking his cock.

She giggled. “No one ever said it has to be a one and done thing. We have all night.”

“I haven’t done this in quite a long time, you know.”

Her mouth curved into a smile, and he saw that some of her red lipstick had smudged.

“I know I said I wouldn’t ask, but… why did you only have lingerie on underneath that coat?” he asked, fighting a grin.

She hesitated a moment before answering. “Because I had called, um…”

“That nine times guy?”

“I just get so… hot and frustrated and lonely when I think about you, and I think about you all the time. And… I needed a distraction to make me stop thinking about how the only thing in the world I really wanted was to be with you.”

He moved forward, forcing her to lie on her back. He knelt between her legs, then took hold of her hands. He stretched out over her, bringing their hands to the mattress above her head and threading their fingers, his dick brushing against her pussy. “Are you telling me, that you don’t wish he were here instead, giving you another nine orgasms?” he teased.

She shook her head. “I don’t want him. I never wanted him, or those nine orgasms. You’re the one I want. The only one I want.”

It took everything he had not to shove into her right then and there. Every time he rocked his hips, his cock slid against her folds, and they were so warm. So soft. So wet.

He dropped his head, burying his face in her neck. She smelled like clean skin and coconut. For some reason, this scent, and knowing she’d put it on expecting an entirely different man to show up at her door and fuck her, fueled his need to make her forget she ever had those nine orgasms. He kissed and sucked on her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone, all while he ground his cock against her clit, driving her towards another orgasm.

“Oh God,” she moaned. “I’m going to—oh, my God—”

She squirmed underneath him, panting and gasping. She was so wet, it would be so easy, just a slight adjustment of his hips, and then he could thrust inside her.

He wanted to. He wanted to take her right there. But that wasn’t how he’d imagined it all those times since he met her. He didn’t want a quick fuck. He wanted to hold her in his arms. He wanted to take his time. He wanted this moment to last.

An especially hard drag of his cock against her clit had her crying out as she came a second time, her back arching off the bed, her hips bucking beneath him. Gasping as she came down from her high, she stared up at him, eyes wide.

He smirked. “Two down, seven to go—no, eight. I have to beat him. The gauntlet was thrown.”

She grinned widely. “Forget about him. I want to make you come nine times.”

“Jesus.” His blood surged hot in his veins.

She gently bit into the center of her bottom lip as he unclasped her bra and tossed it over his shoulder. A mixture of lust and affection flooded his system as his eyes took in her naked body stretched out before him. He caressed her bare breasts with both hands, circled and pinched her nipples with his fingertips. She buried her hand in his hair as his lips drifted over her breast and his mouth closed over her nipple with hot, wet suction. She gasped with pleasure. He laved and teased and sucked, swirling his tongue over the sensitive tip, before increasing the pressure until she squirmed. Then he moved to her other breast and did the same. He loved the feel of her nipples in his mouth, rolling over his tongue. But more so, he loved how she reacted to him. The taste of her was succulent. And her scent…

His cock threatened to explode as her arousal spiced the air around them.

He pulled on her nipples, rolling and twisting them, making her nearly convulsive beneath him. He was relentless in his worship of her breasts—cupping, kneading, twisting, pulling. He wanted to hear her scream his name. Her eyes rolled back and she was breathing as if she’d just run a marathon.

She moaned his name. “I think… Oh, my God, I think I’m going to come.”

Well, if he thought he was going to lose it before, this could certainly tip him over the edge. His cock throbbed and ached with need. He couldn’t wait to bury himself inside her, but he had to keep her coming. And the thought of making her come without even touching her pussy made another bead of moisture gather at the head of his dick.

Bending his head down to her shaking body, he pulled a nipple deep into his mouth and sucked, hard. She nearly screamed at the feel of his tongue. Sucking, licking, kissing, flicking, she then fell over the edge. She moaned his name as her hips gyrated beneath him, and he pushed his erection against her clit to give her more of what she needed. He could feel her heat, her dripping wet core.

“I want to watch you come,” she whispered, her chest heaving with her ragged breath. “Right now. I don’t want to wait any longer. I want to see what you look like. It’s all I’ve thought about for weeks.”

He lifted his head from her breast, and his eyes met the blazing passion in her face. Moving towards him as if frantic with lust, she rolled him onto his back in the middle of the bed. She pressed her hands against his chest and straddled him so that his erection slid against her clit in just the right way. The moan that fell from her lips told him as much.

He pulled her tight against him, and the world tipped a little as pleasure swooped over him again. Their mouths locked as his hands cupped her arse.

“Your cock feels so good,” she moaned. “And I bet this feels better than your hand,” she teased.

He let out a groan as she slid against him. “God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he rasped as his hands reached up to fondle her breasts. His eyes locked with hers, and he bit his lip as her hips moved over him. “You’re gonna make me come.”

“That’s the idea,” she grinned.

Her slick folds slid against the underside of his dick, and then she started stroking him that way, as if she were wanking him off with her pussy. He raised up on his elbows so he could watch it, watch the way her flesh pressed against his, the way her bare cunt allowed him to see her clit peeking out, still a swollen, hot button of need. She was so goddamn wet, and with all the pressure, her full body weight pressing against his cock, he wasn’t going to last long.

“Oh God,” she huffed. “This feels so good.”

His face contorted in erotic agony as he let out a deep moan. He did nothing to hinder her movements. His eyes were barely open, his eyelids fluttering in pleasure. The tip of his cock was nearly purple and dripping with pre-cum.

“I’m so close,” he moaned.

It was so dirty, the way her breasts moved above him while her hips worked over his. The way she shamelessly angled herself so that his erect cock would press against her in all the right places, the way her hair was in slight disarray, the smear of her red lipstick. The way her pussy was milking him for all he was worth.

He was revelling in the feel of her swollen clit rubbing against him. He was elated as he felt the wet heat of her sweet pussy push down on his throbbing erection. Tearing his gaze from her face to look at where their bodies joined, he groaned as he saw the fat head of his cock slide between her soft, swollen lips. The sight and the feel of her grinding against him made his head fog and his entire body burn with lust.

“Come,” she ordered. “I need to see you come.”

A pleasure more intense than he’d felt in years was building at the base of his spine, but he shook his head. He wanted to last longer than this. He still wanted to give that nine-times bastard a run for his money.

“Give me your cum,” she begged, pressing down even more, and fuck, there it was. The tension coiling tight inside him was about to let loose. “Give it to me. I want every drop.”

She started working her hips faster over him. His mind filled with the sight of her above him, the feel of her perfect clit, pink and swollen and needy, grinding against his dick, and the memory of her taste and smell on his mouth, and then it flooded through him. Suddenly he was groaning with intense pleasure. She let out a moan at the sight of his cum spurting from the tip of his cock onto his stomach. There was so much of it, and it felt like he was suspended in pulsing, total-body release for hours instead of seconds.

He slowly came down from his high, but he could hardly breathe, barely process what the fuck he had just felt. Then she dragged her finger across his stomach, coating it in his orgasm, and he watched her bring her hand to her mouth. His cock jumped as he watched her suck the cum from her fingertip.

She slid down his body. His cock was glistening with her wetness. Holding him in her hand, she used her tongue to dart around his slit, capturing the rest of his dripping seed. She held his gaze as she leaned over him. His eyes, so lustful, followed, watching as she opened her mouth wide. His body jerked uncontrollably. Even though he was through, she cleaned him up, licking and sucking him dry. Then she moved up and leaned over his flat stomach, licking the cum from his skin, stopping here and there to suck a particular spot until he was pretty sure he’d be covered in love bites.

“I told you I wanted every drop,” she purred.

Jesus, she was filthy. With an animalistic growl, he surged forward and flipped her over onto her back. While she giggled, he trailed kisses from her neck down to her chest, worshipping each breast, revelling once again in the feel of her hardened nipples in his mouth, before moving his lips down past her navel.

He shifted on the bed to lie between her legs. His hands slid up the backs of her thighs, bending her knees and spreading them apart. His eyes roamed over the slick, pink seam of her pussy. The lickable, kissable, fuckable pouting folds of her beautiful cunt. The tight rosebud of her anus beckoned him. And her clit was perfect and so swollen, begging to be touched, licked, sucked. He planned to do all three.

“You have the most beautiful cunt I’ve ever seen,” he said hoarsely. “So wet and juicy, so tight and swollen.”

“Oh, yesss.” Her back arched, her lips parting slightly. She looked drunk on arousal, intoxicated by his effect on her.

“I’ve been dying to properly eat your cunt since that night we first met. Just like this,” he growled, before licking a line from her anus to her clit.

He pinned her in place, and she gasped.

“Where do you want my tongue?” he murmured.

His gaze never left her face as he watched her grow red from the shock of desire his tongue had incited.

“Here?” He swirled his tongue over that taut ring of muscle, and she cried out. “Or here?” He stiffened his tongue and thrust inside her pussy, eliciting a moan. “How about here?” He flicked back and forth over her clit three times, then suctioned his mouth over the little bud of nerves and sucked hard.

She shrieked, fisting his hair and pulling on him. She probably would have thrashed her hips if he didn’t have her completely pinned down.

“Which one?”

“All of them,” she confessed, her face burning with lust.

She tugged on his hair again, wanting him to continue giving her what she desperately needed. He planned to drive her mad with his talented tongue. Talents that had lain dormant for years, erupting out of him now. He made a satisfied sound in his throat, and repeated his first move of licking the soft line up her perineum. When he swirled his tongue around her clit, her cries grew more urgent.

Then he thrust two fingers inside her cunt and stroked her g-spot while circling her tight rosebud with his tongue. She was growing unbelievably wet, her sweet juices seeping from her hot core. He made his tongue pointed as he moved his mouth up, sliding it into her heat to fuck her. She cried out. He groaned. His cock was hard again, and it throbbed excitedly as he pressed himself into the mattress.

The firm flesh of his tongue fucked her pussy in a steady rhythm. “Please,” she begged, and she seemed to be on the verge of sobbing with need. “I can’t take it.”

Obeying her wish, his lips found her swollen, needy clit and worked his tongue over it in quick circles. His deft fingers, coated in her wet desire, slid into her pussy and rubbed against that sweet spot inside. She tensed, and began mewling, whimpering, moaning uncontrollably at the intense pleasure.

“Faster, faster,” she said, her voice breaking. “Yes! Just like that. It feels so good, don’t stop.”

He liked that she was so vocal, and encouraged her by working his fingers relentlessly. He felt her body surrender, and his lips closed around her clit and he sucked hard until she had no choice but to come for him. All at once, her body went rigid, and then she spasmed and broke against his mouth and fingers.

She cried out his name. Her high, keening moan seemed to go on forever as she writhed underneath him, waves of outrageous pleasure wracking her body. He had to squeeze the base of his shaft just to keep from coming right then all over the bed.

She was still panting for breath when he moved over her and finally settled between her hips. When she lifted her legs and locked her thighs against his hips, he bent his head and kissed her with ardent passion. For long moments, he revelled in the taste of her mouth, the feel of her hands on his skin, the soft brush of her feminine hair across his groin. She felt so good. Then his erection throbbed uncontrollably and his balls ached. He wanted more, needed more.

So did she. “I want you inside me,” she breathed.

His body trembled as his sensitive tip brushed her silken thigh, leaving a glistening trail of pre-cum in its wake.

Like I’ve marked her.

Another shudder.

“I don’t have a cond—”

“It’s okay. I’m safe. I’ve been tested,” she interrupted. He supposed he was safe as well, as he hadn’t been tested since seminary—there’d been no reason to.

He shifted and nudged her opening with the tip of his cock. He swore under his breath as her slick heat taunted him. Poised over her, he slathered the engorged head with the juices seeping from her core, dragging it up to spread over her clit, before repositioning himself at her entrance.

“Yes. Yes, now. Do it now,” she begged.

And so, he did it now, reaching down and guiding himself between her pink folds. She had such a pretty cunt, with soft, swollen lips, a triangle of dark curls above, and a dewy hole, shining and hot.

He pressed his cock against her and she moaned as he slowly slipped inside her pussy. He gasped at the sensation, and wanted to sob in thanks as he sank into it, slowly, inch by inch. He didn’t dare go any faster—he was big. Not freakishly so, but Colleen had informed him many years ago that he was girthy, and the girthiness “was pleasant, but took some time getting used to.” So, he spread that tight, hot recess open with care, his body tense but eager.

It’s been so long and she’s so perfect.

My God, if this is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she crooned before squeezing him with her legs and thus feeding herself more of his dick. He waited while her insides rippled all along his shaft. He waited while she rocked herself against him, adjusting to his fullness in her snug opening. She reached for his face, pulled him down to her so their mouths could meld, her tongue caressing his lips. He opened for her, then took charge again as he eased in, deeper. Deeper, both mouth and cunt, until he was kissing her breathless and buried so far inside of her that he didn’t know where he ended and she began.

“How does it feel?” she said cheekily, grinning up at him.

“Better than my hand,” he joked, throwing her teasing words from earlier back at her.

She laughed, but then the look on her face intensified as he gazed down at her.

He lowered his forehead to press against hers. “Your cunt feels like heaven wrapped around my cock.” His words had her back arching off the mattress and her pussy clenching around him. He let out what sounded like a strangled moan at the miraculous feel of it.

Her pussy felt like warm silk, and it closed around his dick as snuggly as a glove. It was as if they had been made specifically for each other. It wasn’t just their bodies, though. He had a strong sense that all of her, inside and out, was made for all of him.

She was so tight, her cunt squeezing his tip, and there were no words to describe what the warmth and wetness of her soft womanly flesh was doing to him, because he could feel it changing his mind and his soul, his life and his future. What was the Church and the priesthood and his vows in comparison to this amazing woman and her heavenly cunt?

And once again, he knew it. He was completely in love. Dangerously in love with this woman.

He pulled all the way out, and then slowly thrust back inside her. He felt her body stretching to accommodate his girth, and it was the most exquisite feeling. With the feel of her heat around him, his whole body came alive. How had he gone so long without experiencing this? There was nothing on earth that could ever feel better than this.

“Oh, my fucking God.” The sensation around his cock was overwhelming. She squeezed around him as he pulled out, and it was as if he had died and gone to heaven. “Sweet Jesus,” he breathed against her neck. “You’re so wet. And so warm. So fucking tight. You feel so good.”

Then she was squirming beneath him again, showing him what she needed. He felt her muscles tighten around him and he thrust a bit deeper. Her long legs were wrapped around him, holding him. Just as her wet, silken center welcomed him, caressed him. He drove into her, each thrust more exciting than the last, building into a faster tempo, her begging for more with every hard push.

“Give it—yes. Harder. Fuck yes.” She moaned his name in his ear. “Yesssssss.”

Her fingernails bit into his bare back, not breaking the skin, but scouring hard enough he’d bear marks later. He stared down at her, at her flushed face and wide brown eyes, her lips parted and swollen, and he leaned forward, looming over her, letting his body envelop hers. His cock filled every available bit of space inside of her, filling her cunt, spreading her open. She soaked him with her creamy juices and he didn’t mind at all. In fact, he loved it—the idea of her all over him, drowning him, and he moaned in ecstasy.

His mouth was on hers, kissing her hungrily, then kissing her cheeks, her forehead, down her jaw to her throat, her shoulders. His hand palmed her breasts, rolled and pinched her nipples. He wanted her to feel his love with every touch, every kiss. To hear it in his husky whispers of approval, his moans of pleasure.

She was clenching around him, getting hotter, wetter, tighter. He knew she was close, and sent up a fervent prayer that he could get her there again and again, keep her coming all night long. There was nothing he wanted more in this moment than to feel her come around his cock. Reaching between them where his thick hardness met her wet softness, she slipped her hand between her legs, working her clit.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he ground out. It made his balls tighten as he watched her fingers toy with her beautifully swollen pussy.

“Keep fucking me, just like that,” she breathed, her eyes glued to his face, sweat dotting her hairline. “You’re gonna make me come.”

He watched her rub her clit, then stroke where she was stretched around him. She was so damn sexy. Her body clamped down on his, convulsing. “That’s it. Come on my cock.”

She threw her head back and screamed his name. “Oh, God, don’t stop!” she pleaded, her body in the throes of ecstasy. “Fuck me through it! Fuck me through it!”

Her thighs tightened around him in a vice-like grip, and he thrust harder, faster, wanting to prolong her pleasure as much as possible.

Every movement of her body was tight, wet heaven; a warm, velvet nirvana. Every clench of her glorious pussy, every sound escaping her throat, was starting to pull him towards a void where there was nothing but pure sensation. Tongues of fire licked up and down his legs, heat building at the base of his spine. Her hands were all over him, caressing his face, his shoulders, his arms, his neck. Then she slid her hands up his sides and over his back, down to his hips, her soft fingers dancing across his overheated skin. He shuddered under her touch. Then she ran her warm hands over his arse, gripping him as his hips thrust against her. A growl escaped his throat, his control nearly snapping.

She was kissing him passionately, and then her kisses were on his face, his jaw, her lips brushing his ear. The pleasure she was giving him was intensifying in his lower back, making his balls lift, making his cock so hard he felt invincible, and it was starting to overwhelm his thoughts, his emotions. He could feel his control beginning to splinter at the seams, like a ship coming apart in a storm.

He started to pull out, but she grabbed his hips to stop him. “I want you to come inside me,” she whimpered.

“That’s not—I don’t… I can’t—”

“I’m on birth control, it’s fine,” she assured him. She lifted her mouth to his ear, purring his name seductively. “I want you to fill me up with your perfect cum. I want it inside me, where it belongs. Please.”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head. How could he deny her anything now?

The pleasure had him in its mad grip, and he was suddenly driving for satisfaction like a man possessed. He was lost to himself, lost to her, and lost to everything in the world except her sexy moans in his ear and her wet cunt milking his cock. She was making those mewling sounds that coincided with his thrusts, and her body was begging for his with every downward motion. She whispered encouragement, explicit, exciting things. Words that made his head burn and his entire body feel as if on fire.

She moaned his name. “It’s so good. You feel so fucking good. You’re so big, and so fucking hard… You’re gonna make me come again.”

She stiffened beneath him, then stiffened around him, her body jolting against his as pulse after pulse ripped through her. She cried out, bucking through her orgasm, her mouth finding his shoulder and peppering it with kisses.  And then her soft lips were on his throat, sucking him into her mouth, her tongue tasting his skin. “Your beautiful neck…” she whispered.

All rational thought fled his brain. His control shattered instantly, his orgasm breaking over him like a tsunami without warning, obliterating everything in its path. Time ceased to exist. The earth stopped rotating on its axis. But instead of his orgasm ebbing and retreating, it hit him again as another wave crashed over him. And this time he felt an impact even more powerful than before: he could feel her coming around his cock again, and with her pussy clenching around him, all sensations intensified, doubled, until everything suddenly culminated in an explosion of pleasure.

“Holy fuck,” he growled, as her spasming cunt gripped his cock even harder, wet heat flooding from her body and dripping down his balls, covering his groin and her thighs in a glorious mess of orgasmic release.

He buried his face in her neck. His vision went black and a thousand colours burst behind his eyes. He felt the fire in his balls racing up his cock. With his eyes slammed shut with intense passion, his guttural moans joined with her loud cries, the sounds of their ecstasy filling the room. Her cunt, already unbelievably tight, contracted around his cock, squeezing him, and that was it—there was no more holding back, and he whispered her name as he slammed his hips against hers, burying himself as deep as he could and spurting shot after shot of cum, taking full advantage of the heavenly bliss she’d so kindly gifted him.

She went limp, her skin dewy, her breath coming in uneven gasps. His limbs went numb and he collapsed onto her, breathing just as hard. Mind. Blown. He wasn’t sure he could even remember how to spell his own name at the moment.

She gazed up at him with something akin to wonder. “Amen,” she said, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

He laughed. The maddened haze of lust began to fade, leaving his head in a fog of bliss. As he looked down into her chocolate brown eyes, his feelings for her suddenly rose up inside him like a wave, powerful and all-consuming. An onslaught of raw emotion. His chest cracked wide open and his throat seized. The powerful, gratifying ache of love ripped through his gut and welled behind his eyelids. The feeling was overwhelming, but he forced himself to breathe through it.

It suddenly occurred to him that he must be crushing her, and he shifted his weight. Still hard, he slowly eased himself out of her body, until he was half on top of her, half beside her. His head lay on her breast, listening to the pounding of her heart and the feel of it against his cheek. They lay like that for some time, her fingers running through his hair.

When he finally moved over, collapsing back onto the bed, he chuckled, feeling wonderfully languid and limp as he stared up at the ceiling. “I can’t move. I can’t. It’s physically impossible.”

“Me either. I don’t want to move out of this bed for the rest of my life.”

Neither of them said anything for several minutes, lying there listening to the sounds of their breathing returning to normal.

“Are you okay?” she finally asked, breaking the quiet.

“Yeah. You?” His voice came out weak. He was more than okay. He was stripped down, naked and reborn. He was rippling with pleasure from his toes to the roots of his hair. She had blown his mind.

“Never better,” she replied, smiling at him.

“You’re a fucking goddess,” he said, smoothing one hand over her breast and leaving it there for a long moment, a warm, comfortable weight in his palm. “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever known.”

“Now really, Father. Could you be any more perfect?” she teased. “Multiple orgasms and compliments. If I could bottle you up and sell you, I’d make a fortune.”

He laughed breathlessly, feeling more at peace than he ever thought possible.

Hours later, he woke in the middle of the night to the feel of her curled on his side, her fingers making lazy circles on his chest, and his dick demanding attention again. She was awake. “Can’t sleep?”

She shook her head.

“What do you need?”

She rose up and straddled his hips. “You,” she whispered in her shadowed bedroom.

“You got me.” His voice was shaky, already rough with need.

She hummed with passion as she gripped his cock and, without hesitation, positioned him and sank down, taking him to the root. Then she fell forward, her hair falling around her face and his, and she kissed him, matching the way she stroked his tongue with the way she rolled her hips.

He gripped them and lifted his, meeting hers, taking her even deeper. “That okay?”

She nodded. “So good.”

She started moving faster, inner muscles tightly clenching his cock over and over.

“You’re gonna come for me already?”

“Yes. Oh God.” She fell forward and kissed him again, and then she was coming, her pussy convulsing around his dick as her orgasmic moans filled the room.

He wrapped his arms around her, rolled her to her back, and then took over. His gaze locked with hers, and neither of them could look away. He watched as she came for him again, her lips parting before she called out his name. The way she pulsed around him set him off. He went with her, burying his face against the side of her throat, chanting her name over and over as he came hard for the third time that night.

She kept her arms around him, soft hands moving over his back, stroking his skin as he continued to roll into her gently, savoring every last second that he got to be inside her. He slid his mouth up the side of her neck and along her jaw, and sucked on that soft spot behind her ear, chuckling when she squirmed.

I love you, he wanted to say, for the words were welling up from his heart, sounding wise and beautiful, and so very right. Nothing, no one had ever felt so right. I love you. He slowly collapsed onto her, taking as much weight on his arms to spare her.

She was having none of that. Instead, she pulled him tightly to her and kissed him along his throat, nipping at him playfully. “Stay,” she whispered when he would have moved.

“I’m too heavy.”

“Stay.”

He sighed and let her take a bit more of his weight. The heated scent of their bodies was as potent as alcohol. Strength flowed into him. With an arm around her, he turned them to the side, placing her long leg over his hip so they could remain connected a little while longer.

An eternity of contentment went by.

He soon drifted back to sleep, but it wasn’t long before he sensed he was being stirred back to wakefulness. He murmured uneasily in his sleep. Then he awakened from nothingness to pleasure—unbelievable pleasure. Her, it had to be her. Nothing else could make him feel this good. Sucking, stroking—slowly, languorously, up and down the length of his erection, bringing him closer and closer to ecstasy and release. He soared and began moving his hips as he worked along with the pleasure-giving warm suction of the wet mouth, enjoying it, luxuriating in it. His eyes fluttered open, and he looked down to see the woman he loved.

He moaned in appreciation and shifted beneath her. “You sure know how to wake a fella up,” he said.

She grinned at him. “God, how I’d love to wake you up like this every morning just to see that look on your face.”

He brought his fingers to her hair, moving it away from her face so he could watch his cock slide in and out of her mouth.

“But maybe I wanted to wake you up like that.”

She smiled. “You can wake me up like this another time.”

Then she flicked her tongue over his slit, licking up a bead of his pre-cum, and he drew a sharp breath. “I’m not complaining, mind you,” he quickly added, prompting her to continue with a smile.

She chuckled around a mouthful of cock, and then continued working over him.

“Oh, Jesus, your mouth…” His head lolled as he touched the back of her throat. “Oh, God, it’s so hot.”

He was totally in thrall to her, moaning and helpless. She swirled her tongue around the swollen head of his cock at the end of each long, suckling pull. An electric pulse of energy tingled and rushed through her body from his, to his, with each slow, dragging caress.

He propped himself up onto his elbows to watch her, his face flushed with arousal. She consumed him with her passion, with exquisite pleasure. He could feel his balls tightening, his cock growing even harder in the hot slide of her mouth.

His hand touched her cheek. He stared with a dazed look. “Do you, uh…” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Do you want to have sex?”

She rubbed the sensitive head of his cock against her soft cheek, nuzzling him. “What do you want to do?”

He shook his head. “Anything. Any fucking thing you want.”

She flicked her tongue tenderly against the taut, shining underside of his cock. “I want you to come in my mouth. Is that something you want?”

He tightened and swelled against her tongue as her words filled him with burning lust. “Christ, you’re killing me.” He took several gasping breaths.

In the past, he sometimes felt like it made him a greedy, selfish bastard, wanting women to do this for him—an act that he clearly got a lot more out of than they did—but he loved the reassurance in the intimacy of it. “I would love to come in your mouth,” he replied hoarsely.

“Well, lucky for you, since that’s exactly what I want, too. I’ve wanted to suck you off and swallow your cum since that first night we met.”

She stroked his engorged flesh with her tight fist. “Oh God, I don’t think I can take much more of this,” he moaned.

“Try to think of something else,” she suggested, always ready to help. Then she licked her lips before once again closing them over the sensitive head of his erection.

He was deaf to the cry that broke from him. He ached as if tortured, the muscles in his back and legs clenching so hard he froze in a posture of exquisite torment. All he knew was how good she made him feel—the wet suction of her mouth surrounding him, the hot silk of her lips and relentless teasing of her teeth and tongue against the super-sensitive ridge. If he lived to be a thousand, he’d never be able to get enough of her, and that was what had lain at the heart of his need to push her away.

He’d been terrified to fall in love with her and have the carefully constructed life he’d made for himself topple over like a house of cards. But he’d also been terrified to fall in love with her and then lose her. She was his match, in every way, and he knew it to the very depths of his soul.

To love her and then lose her—his life would be fucked, indeed. Well and truly fucked.

But he didn’t want to think about that right now.

She curled up comfortably and settled into a sensual, lazy rhythm. Slow and steady, making it last. He struggled not to thrust deep into the warm suction of her mouth, but she didn’t make it easy when she took him deeper, sucking harder. He wanted to prolong his tumble into oblivion, but she was too good—a master with her hands and mouth. It seemed like she wanted to please him yet torture him at the same time. Because as soon as he got close, just as he was about to come, she backed off until the wave eased down, and then she would suck him deep into her mouth again.

He shoved his fingers into her hair, watching beneath lowered lids as her beautiful lips stretched around his wide shaft and she sucked him in further. Deeper still, and he muttered an oath at the velvet strokes of her tongue and the warmth of her mouth. Just when he thought he couldn’t experience any more pleasure, he felt the vibrations in the back of her throat. Even without the warm suction of her mouth, it would have been perfection, but she gave it to him, gave him her throat and fuck. His shout emanated from the deepest pit of his soul, sounding distant to his ringing ears.

His hands tightened in her hair and his body shook. She was so good at this, knowing how to keep him teetering on the edge of sweet madness. The way she so freely gave him this pleasure, and obviously enjoyed giving it, only enhanced the experience. He only wished he had the strength to enjoy it for a lot longer. His need for release was quickly becoming a desperation.

“Please,” he begged, watching her love him with her mouth. “Let me come. I can’t take it anymore.”

She smiled her assent, and then tightened both hands around him, pumping hard and fast. He couldn’t stop moaning—his cock was throbbing and pulsating; a powerful orgasm was about to hit him hard. Pleasure rocked through him, and he arched off the bed with a choking sound as he pumped his hips through the agony of release, his cum spurting inside her mouth. Her lips closed around his throbbing head, the tight suction intensifying his orgasm.

Writhing between his legs, her fingers circling her clit, she moaned in an orgasmic release of her own and drank in every last drop, sucking him dry, swallowing everything he gave her.

Tears blurred his vision, sharp and stinging. He didn’t have words. He couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to. A knot of emotion in his throat suddenly threatened to choke him. He tried to breathe around it and found himself closed off.

After she licked him clean, she wiped her mouth, kissed his sensitive flesh, tenderly, affectionately, and then nuzzled his thigh, making him smile. His heart was pounding. His body tingled with lingering spasms. His mind was a pleasurable fog. 

“Am I ever gonna get any sleep tonight?” he chuckled as she crawled up to lie beside him.

“Well, I did tell you I wanted to make you come nine times,” she teased. “By my count, you have five more to go before the night is through.”

He expelled a heavy breath. “I’m not gonna make it,” he said, laughing, before he closed his eyes and sank back into the pillow.

The next time he opened his eyes the early morning light had started to fill the room. He could hear birds chirping outside. A glance at the clock told him it was just past six. He’d slept for maybe three hours, by his guess. He wasn’t sure why he was awake except he knew he didn’t want to miss a second of this feeling. This feeling of total contentment. He smiled as he lay awake there in her bed, eyes closed, unwilling to move and break the spell. Then he felt her fingers in his hair, brushing against the back of his neck.

“What?” he mumbled.

He heard her laugh softly behind him.

“What do you think?”

“I just…”

“Go on.” She obviously had something she wanted to say.

She chuckled, and he turned to look at her so he could see the expression on her face. She was smiling, so that was a good sign. The sight of her there beside him, naked underneath the sheet, warmed his blood.

“I just…” she chuckled again.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“I just can’t believe you did that.”

“I know,” he whispered with a shake of his head. Even he was surprised at himself. He’d never thought anything like this would happen to him again. And waking up next to a beautiful woman was wonderful. He had forgotten the feeling. He could not keep his eyes off the lovely face next to him. The makeup she’d worn last night was gone. Her hair was in slight disarray, but on her it looked sensual.

He leaned across, seizing her lips in a slow, drugging kiss. “I don’t have to leave for another hour,” he murmured against her mouth.

“Sounds promising,” she grinned.

His mind floated in a pool of euphoria, and his body tingled as if alive for the first time. He grabbed gentle hold of her and moved her until he was cupping her slender frame in an intimate spoon position, and brushing her shoulders and neck with butterfly kisses. His body was quickly stirring to life. Her luscious bottom pushed against his returning erection. He felt the goose pimples rise on her skin. He nuzzled her face, pressing a soft kiss to her mouth, and she sighed as if melting into his affection.

He planted more kisses on her shoulder blade. Seconds later, he slid his arm around her hips, and then glided his hands up to cup her soft breasts. She had just the right amount: a handful.

She moaned and hiked her arse higher. The little game continued until her light giggles floated on the air.

He smiled into the crook of her neck, and then inhaled her body’s musky sweetness, with just a hint of coconut lingering from the night before. He loved the feel of her breasts in his hands and his hard cock sliding between her legs, begging for entrance. In an ideal world, they would never leave this bed.

His whisper-soft kisses moved up the column of her neck before he settled on nibbling her earlobe. He rolled and pinched her nipples while he rubbed his dick in the wet proof of her arousal. Within moments, she was panting with need. He turned her body slightly to face him. His eyes held a possessive heat.

Without breaking her gaze, he lowered his head and took her breast in his mouth. Soft lips suckled in that persistent rhythm he’d discovered she liked, and soon she was mewling and squirming in his grasp. His tongue began to flick over her nipple, his steady gaze never leaving hers. She arched as her eyes rolled. She moaned and writhed on the bed.

He gently moved her to lay again on her side, and he pressed soft kisses to her neck and shoulder. As he nudged her legs open, a lazy smile ghosted around her lips as she complied to give him better access. Almost immediately his hand abandoned her breast to dive in between her legs. At the first stroke of his fingertips inside her, he heard her breath rush from her lungs.

“Ooh,” she sighed as his fingers made lazy circles around her swelling clit. “That feels nice.”

One.

Two.

Three fingers slid deep into the tight heat of her pussy to find her slick and ready. She rocked her hips against his large, thrusting hand.

“Will you please stop teasing me now and give me what I want?” she said in a tone of frustration.

He chuckled as he glided in and out of her, her wetness coating his fingers. He wanted it to coat his cock. Then he withdrew his hand for a few torturous seconds as he grasped hold of his erection. She was still squirming as he nuzzled her neck, lifted her leg, and entered her. She closed her eyes as he pushed in farther. Slowly. Making her experience every throbbing inch of him. Then he had slid inside her, fully and completely, burying his hard cock deep. So deep.

“You are so fucking wet,” he whispered.

She sighed his name as if the bliss of his possession overwhelmed her.

He paused. She opened her eyes, begging him to move. He waited. She whimpered. Still, he waited. His body was shaking in anticipation of her losing herself around him. He pressed into her and moved his hips in small circles. She gasped.

He felt her tighten around his cock as her desire coated them. Her warmth around his cock felt too good to be rushed. Pulling out, he thrust in again, setting a slow rhythm designed to heighten both their experiences. He rasped out her name each time he withdrew and sank into her.

This was bliss. This was heaven. This was his salvation.

She moved her hips as he thrust, drawing him in deeper, and he let out a growl. One hand locked with hers, their fingers entwined, the other cupped her breast. His need for her felt more intense than he’d ever imagined. She turned to look back at him, and then reached for him, pulling his head down to kiss him hungrily. She ran her fingers through his dark hair, her fingers gripping him as he slid in and out of her.

They danced to a primal age-old rhythm, their instincts honed to each other’s wants and needs. His heart thundered from the feel of her cunt contracting all around him. His hand crept down to her clit. He felt her orgasm begin. He turned her head and captured her mouth with his. Her body stiffened and the walls of her pussy pulsed and squeezed his dick. He pumped deep into her, over and over, her cries of pleasure filling the room. He fucked her through the orgasm the way he knew she wanted and felt her body begin to rise toward another one.

He turned her and climbed on top. She lifted her long legs and wrapped them around his waist.

“Oh, God,” she moaned as he thrust inside her once more.

“Come on, just feel. I want you to feel like you’ve never felt before,” he growled in her ear. That was certainly the way she made him feel. He had never had sex that felt like it did with her. She had orgasm after orgasm. He’d never come that many times in one night. He’d never wanted to. He’d never tried. But with her? The sex was mind-blowing. He’d never felt such an intense connection.

“Your cunt feels so good,” he whispered in her ear through gritted teeth, holding back his own orgasm to give her this last one before he had to leave her. “Come for me. Let me feel your pussy squeeze my cock one more time.”

Her body exploded. He captured her scream with his mouth as she did. She clenched around him until he groaned and thrust faster. He cried her name as the blinding pulse of his own climax shattered through him. His cum pumped hard and deep inside her, and he moaned at the sheer pleasure of it. He felt her go limp, and he collapsed on top of her. They were both trembling.

He finally lifted his head when he felt the sticky wetness of their orgasms seep from where they were joined. “I think I passed out.”

“I think I’m still passed out.” She grinned as she slowly opened her eyes.

“As much as I don’t want to let you go, I really should get cleaned up. I can’t go home and have Pam smell your cunt all over me.”

“Tell her it’s a new cologne you’re trying out.”

He laughed, shaking his head as he moved off of her.

October 2017

Against his better judgement, he’d allowed himself to remember, to fantasise, and now a burning ache had flared back to life in his groin. Inside his boxer shorts, he was hard, harder than he’d been in a while. His cock ached with pressure to the point he thought it might explode. Nevertheless, he welcomed the aching.

He stretched his legs out and ran his hand over his chest. He closed his eyes, his mind in a state of turmoil. His heart pounded as he slid his hand down over his stomach, gently caressing. His cock ached for a touch. Hell, it ached for her touch. He groaned. It had been far too long since he’d seen her, and he yearned for her. Yearned for her touch, her kiss, her voice. He wrapped his hand around his thick length, wishing it was her hand and not his own.

With a slow, firm stroke, he arched his back, his mind telling him her lips closed around him. He remembered her touch being soft, yet confident, sure. As he fantasised that her lips closed around the head of his cock, his grip tightened and the speed of his strokes increased. His breath caught in his throat. He could almost feel her mouth, the heat of her breath, the silky touch of her tongue, just with the strength of his memory alone. His thighs tightened and he grit his teeth. With a final stroke, his body shuddered. He had to bite his tongue so he didn’t make a sound as he came in his hand. The sticky warmth of his orgasm spurted over his fingers and spattered onto his shorts and stomach. His cock twitched for at least a minute, his breath coming in heavy pants as his body tingled all over with his release.

Immediately, a storm of emotions battled inside him: guilt, sadness, longing, love.

He wanted to curse, wanted to scream obscenities until he was hoarse. But that would only wake the sound tyrant sleeping upstairs.

It was a long time before sleep claimed him.

He woke at first morning light, feeling drained. His sleep had been restless, fitful. The dreams had started soon after that night when he last saw her. Dreams of erotic moans and warm female flesh, dreams so real that he woke up each morning remembering her taste, her scent. It was forever in his brain. He would forever wake up craving the taste of her in his mouth, on his tongue. But lately the dreams had started to morph from his delicious memories into strange visions of foxes and guinea pigs. A lit candle on the altar of the church blowing out with a gust of wind, the sanctuary door slamming shut. Bathtubs filled with red water; coffins being lowered into the ground. A graffitied bus stop. Brown eyes wet with tears, red lips frowning in perpetual sadness.

No amount of hard work during the day, no amount of prayer and study and penance, made the dreams go away. And he had no idea what they meant, except that she was still very much inside his heart—the love he felt for her, the regret he felt for leaving her—no matter how much he distracted himself while he was awake.

He wanted to see her again. He needed to see her again. Just once. Maybe he could stop by the café for a cup of tea and a friendly chat. Nothing more, nothing less. Could be simple, harmless. He just wanted to look in on her and see how she was doing. That would be the Christian thing to do, he told himself.

Yet each time he made the decision to try to see her, he would talk himself out of it. But he had no idea if it was courage or cowardice that was keeping him from her.

He silently begged God for forgiveness, knowing he was sinning in his heart, knowing he was falling short of the holy vow of chastity he had made.

What if he’d made all the wrong choices? But what if he’d made the right ones?

What if it wouldn’t pass? What if he would never be able to get her out of his system? What if she was locked inside his heart and was never getting out? With a sinking feeling, he realised that he still wanted her just as much as he ever did, maybe even more now, despite of—or perhaps in spite of—this self-inflicted separation from her, and that was an unwelcome realisation for his self-control and his nagging conscience. The self-doubt was only growing stronger by the day.

What if, what if, what if…

Chapter Text

December 2017

Friday evening, two weeks before Christmas, and the Priest was at Kentish Town Community Centre along with his parish’s youth group. They’d rented out the kitchen and the large attached dining room inside the centre for a combined Christmas party with the youth group from a neighbouring parish in Camden, Church of the Sacred Heart. Pam was there to help chaperone as well as a few parents. Callum Murphy, Director of Youth Ministry for the diocese, was also in attendance along with his wife, Fiona.

The party atmosphere was joyful and gregarious. Holly Cook, the Parish Youth Leader for St. Ethelred’s, was officially in charge of the event, and had worked closely with the Parish Youth Leader at Sacred Heart, Aleksandra Fehling, to bring it together. It had been a busy operation in the weeks leading up to it, planning food, soft drinks, and presents as well as a Christmas tree and decorations to make the kitchen and dining area look festive. Holly had arranged for her grandfather to arrive dressed up like Santa Claus with a sack full of wrapped gifts. Father Michael Thomas, the parish priest of Sacred Heart, played the piano and led the room in singing Christmas carols.

Father Michael was young. He had been an ordained priest for four years, and was only on the verge of turning thirty. He had light brown hair and hazel-coloured eyes. He was tall and handsome, with an athletic build, and his good looks made most of the teenage girls’ heads turn whenever he moved around the room. The Priest had to stifle a laugh whenever he overheard the giggles and whispers of the girls from his own parish as Father Michael roamed from table to table. The girls probably wished the two youth groups could mingle together more often.

The Church was also taking advantage of Father Michael’s youth, movie-star good looks, and friendly, approachable manner. A ten-week court trial in London had just recently come to its conclusion. The conclusion being the sentencing of a former priest to eighteen years in prison for crimes committed against children at a Catholic school attached to one of the abbeys in the city. The priest had fled the country, and with the help of friends in the Church, had gone into hiding in Europe. Earlier this year, he’d been found, arrested, and extradited back to the UK.

The Archdiocese of Westminster had promptly ushered out their golden boy, Father Michael Thomas, to the media to do damage control. Morning news programmes, television chat shows, radio interviews, newspaper editorials—Father Michael was sent out to apologise to the masses for “the sins of the past” and assure the British public that the Church was actively making amends with the victims and their families. That the Church was also making changes to not only hold men of the cloth accountable for past behaviour, but also to prevent something like the current scandal from ever happening again.

All across social media and the tabloid press, people couldn’t get enough of Father Michael Thomas. He’d gone viral, as they say, and the glaring attention on the disgraced former priest and his heinous crimes had been at least partially diverted.

The whole thing had left a bad taste in the Priest’s mouth, but he tried not to think about it, and instead allowed himself to enjoy the party atmosphere with his youth group. Jake Hoffman and the rest of St. Ethelred’s youth band were there, and he found himself doing all he could to avoid interacting with the kid. He wouldn’t be able to help asking Jake after his family—his aunt, specifically—and thought it best to not let the opportunity present itself.

The youth groups had rented the large space at the community centre from four-thirty until seven o’clock, and it was after six-thirty when parents started arriving to pick up their children. The Priest stood at the door greeting them and saying goodbye to the kids. Eventually Jake walked out the door, slipping on his coat as he joined him outside.

“A bit chilly out here tonight.”

The Priest nodded. “A bit.”

“Cheers, Father. The party was excellent.”

“Oh, well, it was really Holly and Aleksandra who did all the work,” he replied with a smile. “I just turned up when they told me to.”

“Question for you, Father,” Jake said. “We were playing a game earlier. If you could have a meal with anyone, living or dead, who would it be?”

“Er…” Your aunt. Trying to think of something else, he hesitated giving an answer. “Well…”

The sound of heels on pavement saved him from answering, and he turned to see Jake’s stepmother approaching. The sight of her made his stomach drop in nervousness.

“Hi, Claire.”

“Hiya, Jake. How was the party?”

“Great.”

She turned her smile on the Priest. “Hello, Father.”

“Hello, Claire. How are you?”

“I’m really good, thanks.” She looked good. She looked happy.

“She left my dad,” her stepson said, smiling, obviously pleased.

“Jake!” she admonished, her cheeks going a bit pink with embarrassment.

The Priest cleared his throat. “Yes, I… I know.”

“Sorry about him, Father.”

“Oh, no, he’s… he’s fine, Claire.”

“We were just talking about who we’d want to have a meal with if we could have a meal with anyone, alive or dead,” Jake said to her.

“Oh! Interesting.”

“I picked James Corden,” he told them.

The Priest blinked. Fuck me.

“Oh, well, that’s… a choice,” Claire replied, forcing a smile.

“I’d love to be on his Carpool Karaoke, wouldn’t you?” Jake said.

“Personally, I’m hoping he’ll do Carpool Kamikaze next,” the Priest deadpanned.

Claire burst out laughing. Then she abruptly stopped as if embarrassed and took a breath, collecting herself. Still smiling, she gave him an appraising look. “Yeah, I can see why she likes you.”

His stomach fluttered. His mouth went dry. He had to swallow to speak again. “Er… right.” The window had been opened. How much did Claire know? Did she know everything that had transpired between them? Would it make him more of an arsehole to ask about her sister, or not to?

“So, um, how is…” He couldn’t bring himself to speak her name aloud. “…she?”

“Kate? Oh, you know, she’s… she’s getting on with it.”

Vague. What exactly did that mean? “With what?”

“Oh, well, you know… life.”

“Is she… is she okay?”

Claire forced another smile. “Yeah, of course. She’s, er, she’s fine.”

Another evasive response. He sighed. He wasn’t going to pry any further. It wasn’t his business. “Well, have a good night, and… Happy Christmas, if I don’t see you again before the holiday.”

“Happy Christmas, Father,” Claire said, and then placed her hand on her stepson’s arm. “Come on, Jake.”

After watching them go, the Priest turned towards the door.

Once he was back inside, he found Pam and asked what he could do to help with the clean-up. She was reluctant to allow him to assist, and instead told him to head on back to the rectory. Ignoring her, he carried one of the empty food platters to the kitchen. They had some washing up to do before they left the centre. Inside the kitchen, he saw that Father Michael was sitting at a small round table with a girl, Henrietta Frank. From their brief introduction earlier, he remembered her as being a quiet girl of fifteen years and not a regular member of the Sacred Heart youth group, but had attended the party at the insistence of her lively and outgoing younger sister, Louisa.

As the Priest entered the kitchen, he seemed to have walked into the middle of a conversation.

“—it’s not just what you believe, Henrietta. It’s how you live your life that entitles you to God’s grace. You cannot obtain forgiveness or find peace without good works. We don’t receive grace as some treat, like a sacred digestive biscuit, just for recognising Christ’s divinity. That’s the false hope that Protestants, God bless their souls, adhere to. Without sanctification through hard work and effort, you cannot come into God’s grace. Understand?”

The Priest’s brow furrowed as he set the platter down beside the sink. The conversation had a rather preachy tone he hadn’t expected to hear at a Christmas party.

“I’m boring you, aren’t I?” Father Michael said to the girl.

Henrietta smiled shyly and her eyes sparkled as she gazed at the handsome priest. She tucked some of her dark blonde hair behind an ear before she spoke. “No. Not at all. It’s just, well, I’ve never really thought about that stuff, to be honest.”

Father Michael reached out and pressed two fingers to her forearm. “Ah, I forget myself. You’re a young lady in the throes of fighting off suitors. You’ve little patience for such deep discussion. But that will change.”

The Priest turned and stared, frowning at the flirtation he thought he’d heard in Father Michael’s voice, at the way his fingers were still touching the girl’s skin.

The door to the kitchen suddenly opened, and Louisa, a beautiful girl of eleven, pranced into the room, her chin lifted regally, her long, golden blonde plaits, accented by her black dress, trailing behind her. Instantly, she noticed Father Michael’s hand resting on her sister’s forearm.

“Oh, was I interrupting something?” she accused in a jealous tone, her eyes narrowing.

Father Michael grinned. “Just a little pep talk. Your sister seems down tonight.”

Louisa stopped and placed her hands on her hips. “Father, you’ve got to do something about that Joe Miller. He’s impossible. He keeps holding mistletoe over my head and trying to kiss me. I told him to knock it off, but I’m not sure it did any good.”

Father Michael removed his hand from Henrietta’s wrist. “You’re a very pretty young lady, Louisa. He’s a young man. These things happen.”

The kitchen door opened, and in walked Pam with Holly, Aleksandra, and Fiona Murphy, chatting and laughing.

The older girl stood up from the table and moved towards her little sister. “Come on, Mum will be turning up any minute.”

As the Priest watched Henrietta take her sister by the hand, walking her back out the kitchen door, and then saw the look exchanged between Father Michael and Louisa just before she disappeared on the other side of it, it was at that moment that the light came on. He knew there was something going on between them.

It was a realisation that went off like a bomb inside his head and landed full force in his gut.

Father Michael slowly turned in his direction. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Father, that I thought the lecture you gave the other night at the Jesuit Centre was quite… interesting.”

He worked hard to keep a passive expression. “Did you? I didn’t realise you were there.”

“Oh, I wasn’t,” Father Michael said as he stood up from the table. “But I hear it’s making waves.”

Shooting him a smooth, charming smile, he then left the kitchen. A chill went up the Priest’s spine. Before he could speak, Pam and the other women shooed him out of the kitchen so they could do the washing up.

Back home in the rectory, he retrieved a whisky bottle and sat in the dark kitchen in deep gloom. He felt sick to his stomach. He played the scene in the community centre’s kitchen over and over again in his mind. He drank and brooded until after midnight. He was lost in a troubled reverie when suddenly Pam joined him in the kitchen.

“Hello, Father,” she said as she entered the room. She walked around the table to where he sat, wordlessly took the bottle of whisky from his hand, and went over to the worktop. “I’ll make us some tea.”

“Okay.” He watched her for a moment as she started adding water to the kettle. “What are you doing up, Pam?”

“I can’t sleep.”

He heaved a sigh. “Neither can I.”

Minutes passed, and then she was seated in the chair across from him, two steaming cups of tea on the table between them. “There’s something troubling me, Father. I’ve been praying on it, and I think I need to say something to you.”

Fucking hell. Was it his drinking? The fact he still moped around the rectory like a heartbroken, lovesick teenager? The wank stains in his laundry? “Go on.”

“I know it’s not right to speak ill of a holy man of God, but…”

He frowned. “It’s okay, Pam. I can take it. I’m sure it’s something I deserve to hear.”

Her face contorted with a confused expression. “It’s Father Michael I want to talk about.”

His stomach twisted, and he postponed giving a response by taking a sip of his tea. He cleared his throat as he set the cup back down. “Okay.”

“Well…” She played with her fingers on the tabletop. “At the party earlier… well, I think he was a little too familiar with some of them young girls for my liking.” He nodded, and Pam drank from her cup before continuing. “Now, I know he’s very popular with everyone, the young people especially. I’ve seen him on the Twitter. The memes and the funny videos and all that.”

He blinked. “What’s a meme?”

She stared at him. “You really need to get on the Internet, Father. It’ll help you connect with the young people. Would you like me to ask my grandson to set you up on the Instagra—”

“No, I don’t think so, Pam.”

“Okay. Well, as I was saying, Father, in my nearly sixty years on this earth, I’ve met all kinds of men. And I’m not fooled by Father Michael’s looks, the charm. I saw it in his eyes. I saw it in his smile. He’s a fake. He’s like all the other men I’ve known who are incapable of having any respect for women. Like the other men I’ve known who… enjoy… disrespecting women, who… enjoy hurting them.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Father?”

He’d seen it, too—the charming veneer. Beneath the good looks and charm, he saw a glimpse of the cunning, calculated hunter. He saw a glimpse of the damned soul Father Michael truly was underneath.

“Yes, Pam. I understand perfectly.”

While he still wanted to believe that the Catholic Church as an organisation truly sought to do good in the world despite its failings, he knew what individual priests were capable of. Father Michael Thomas was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, the “shitten” priest, as Chaucer had put it in the prologue to the Canterbury Tales.

“What are you going to do?” Pam asked.

“I’ll have to speak with the bishop about it, but…” He sighed. It was a conversation he wished he didn’t have to have. A conversation he already knew wouldn’t go over very well. The diocese was in a tricky spot at the moment, and it couldn’t afford to have its golden boy fall from grace. “It’ll ultimately be my word against Father Michael’s. There’s a likely chance he hasn’t actually done anything immoral. There’s no way to prove someone’s thoughts are wicked unless their actions give evidence of what’s in their heart.”

“Someone should at least speak to those girls’ parents, advise them to be on their guard with Father Michael.”

When Pam finished her tea, she returned to her upstairs bedroom. He remained at the kitchen table for a long time.

The next morning nothing had changed, and he feared it never would. The Priest awoke after another night of restless sleep and disturbing dreams. The woman he yearned for consumed his mind. His missal was on top of the bedside cabinet. He opened it and attempted to do the reading for the day. It was from the book of Hebrews. 

“You are a priest for ever of the order of Melchizedek.”

When he’d first entered seminary at the age of twenty-seven, he’d truly believed he would be a priest for the rest of his life. He was excited to leave his former life behind and start all over. He felt he’d needed that at the time.

But as he sat there on the side of his four-poster, staring down at the scripture, he tried to imagine being a priest forever, but now he couldn’t. He thought of her, and a different life that might have been. And perhaps still could be. Surely, there would be an end to the solitude and the loneliness, to his yearning for all the ordinary human consolations of love and intimacy? Surely, he wouldn’t grow old and die alone? God was the source and end of our deepest desires. He tried to remind himself of that, but it wasn’t God he wanted right now. It was her, and he knew he couldn’t be a priest forever and at the same time long for her as his heart’s greatest desire.

He somberly moved through his morning routine of shaving, showering, and dressing. With every other stroke of the razor he drew blood, and he seriously considered crawling back into bed and calling it a day. But greater than the pain of cutting his face was the headache he’d had since he woke, worsening since he moved to the bathroom. He could tell it was the kind of hangover that would last all day.

Perhaps he could put the feelers out to see if someone could say today’s Mass for him. While he had many times celebrated Mass with this kind of headache, the ache in his heart compounded the pain and made the thought of saying that evening’s Vigil Mass for a handful of apathetic and unresponsive souls nauseating. (“People who regularly attend Saturday evening Mass are the most dull and mechanical Catholics and should technically be considered Presbyterian,” Father Brady often said, something that had amused him at the time.)

He made his way into the kitchen and made a pot of tea. He then took a steaming cup to his office. Sitting at the desk in his brown study, he lifted the telephone from its cradle and dialed the number for the Archbishop’s House on Ambrosden Avenue. A secretary answered the phone. The Right Reverend Paul McClenaghan wasn’t currently available, nor were his assistants, and he left a message stating he wanted Bishop McClenaghan to return his call as soon as possible regarding an urgent matter he needed to discuss.

Saturday trudged by agonisingly slow. He tried to prepare his homily in the customary manner, but he found his heart wasn’t in it. His mind kept wandering to the conversation with Claire the night before. He wondered about her sister and whether she was truly fine, if she was truly okay. He thought of Father Michael Thomas. He thought of young Louisa Frank and her sister Henrietta. He thought of all the other young ones in Father Michael’s church, wondering whether they were safe or in danger.

In such a distracted state, he had to use the real priest’s Bible, Reflections on the Joy of the Gospel: A Guide to Writing Homilies in the 21^st Century. A lazy seminarian introduced the book to him at seminary school as a means of overcoming writer’s block when preparing a homily. He swore at the time that he would never use such a tool and that a truly inspired priest, faithful to his calling, should have no difficulty in preparing an inspiring homily.

Except back then, he hadn’t counted on meeting someone like her. What had begun over the summer as a very pleasant distraction had now become a torment. After he had severed ties with her, he’d intended to honour the vow of celibacy without question. He’d promised himself and God that he’d never fall short again. Now, however, he feared his allegiance to celibacy was fighting a losing battle to his desire to have her back in his life. He didn’t see how he could keep suppressing his sexuality without subjecting his soul to constant torment and spiritual degradation.

It wasn’t until he had already dressed into his black shirt and white collar as he prepared for that evening’s Vigil Mass when the rectory phone rang.

“Father!” Pam called out. “The bishop is on the phone for you. You can take it in your study. And I’m leaving now. I’ll be back later tonight.”

Stomach twisting into anxious knots, he walked out of his bedroom, crossed the sitting room, and entered the study just as he heard Pam go out the front door.

He sat down and lifted the telephone from where it laid on the desk beside its cradle. “Hello.”

“Father Brennan.”

A wave of disappointment rolled through him. The Right Reverend John Harington had returned his call instead. “Yes, Your Excellency. How are you this evening?”

“I was told by my secretary that there was something urgent you needed to discuss.”

He frowned at the bishop’s clipped manner, and cleared his throat. “Yes.” He paused, not quite knowing what to say.

“Well, out with it, Father.”

The impatient, exasperated tone added steel to his spine. “I wanted to talk to Bishop McClenaghan about Father Michael Thomas.”

Silence. A silence that lasted so long he wondered if the call had been lost. “Your Excellency? Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here,” the bishop snapped. “What about Father Michael?”

“I just… well, I have some concerns that are deeply troubling me.”

Another long moment of silence. “And what concerns might those be?”

He took a deep breath and then told the bishop all that he’d heard and observed at the youth group Christmas party the night before, and also Pam’s thoughts on the matter, although he kept her name out of it.

“What exactly do you want me to do, Father? Did you actually see or hear him do anything explicitly inappropriate? Did the young ladies in question accuse him of anything?”

“Well, no. It’s just a very strong feeling. Something is terribly wrong there. I know it in my gut. I hope you will give this your attention, Excellency.”

“So, what are you saying the diocese should do? Excommunicate him because you have a hunch?”

He clenched his jaw out of frustration. “No, of course not—”

“Are you sure, Father? Don’t think I didn’t hear all about that little speech you gave at the Jesuit Centre this week. Any priests who have an unnatural affection towards children should be forcibly laicised against their will, whether or not they’ve even acted on it? But homosexual priests should be allowed to be openly gay without censure or discrimination as long as they are living up to their vows of celibacy? Have you gone mad? These statements are practically heretical!”

“It’s a known fact that paedophile priests are rarely ever successfully rehabilitated, Excellency. Leaving them on duty or wandering from diocese to diocese is contributing to scandal and, more importantly, the further harm of untold numbers of children. What’s come out so far is only the tip of the iceberg, and we all know it. Sending these priests off to some centre in the countryside for spiritual rehabilitation doesn’t solve the problem. They need psychological help, medication, psychotherapy, and they need to stay away from children for the rest of their lives. It can be argued they chose a clerical vocation purely for the reason it would bring them into close contact with children, and that isn’t a calling at all, but a means to an evil end.

“The Church’s actions continue to be reactive. Priests are only ever laicised once they’ve been arrested or go to court or receive a prison sentence, and even then, there are times they’re not laicised when they should be, and instead get a slap on the wrist and a nice comfortable retirement in a monastery somewhere. Men of God do not harm the innocent and vulnerable! Striving to do the right thing once allegations are made is indeed a vast improvement over decades past, but the Church should be working hard to prevent harm in the first place. To protect our children from wickedness before it happens. If you react to paedophile priests the same way you unfairly react to homosexual ones, the Church might actually make some real progress.”

“You forget who you’re speaking to, Father Brennan! Homosexuality is a mortal sin, expressly stated in the Holy Scriptures! There is no explicit condemnation of attraction to young ones.”

What the fuck? Charlie opened his mouth to give a sharp reply, but the bishop went on before he could speak.

“And what exactly are you implying, Father? Are you accusing Michael Thomas of being a paedophile in the making? Has he actually done something that can be substantiated, or do you only presume to know his private thoughts and intentions? No one has come forward with a complaint about how he’s conducting himself at Sacred Heart.”

“I’m coming forward right now! I’m telling you, there is something going on with Father Michael and at least one young girl in his parish, possibly more. All I’m asking is that you look into it before the situation turns into a catastrophe, not only for the families in his parish, but for the diocese.”

“With no evidence other than your gut feeling?! Am I to insult the man who’s done us a tremendous amount of good these past few months? Do I need to remind you that slander is a sin?”

Do I need to remind you that pride comes before a fall, is what he wanted to say to Bishop Harington. Instead, he replied, “I’m not making this up, Your Excellency. I hope and pray that I’m wrong, but I know what I saw… I know what I heard.”

“Well, perhaps you’d been drinking at the party, Father, and don’t really know what it was you saw or heard. Don’t think I haven’t been made aware of your… problems. And if the real issue you have with Father Michael is the possibility that he’s not living up to his vow of celibacy, then I don’t think you have any freedom of expression on this matter, what with your own recent immoral indiscretion. And if you can’t get these problems of yours under control, then perhaps a sabbatical is in order for you to get rehabilitation treatment yourself.”

How the hell did the bishop know about her? He was so angry that he wanted to scream. The raw emotion emanating from his rage choked any attempt at speech; he wanted to rant and rave incoherently against the insanity that threatened to swallow him whole.

“Well, Father, since you have nothing further to add, I am a very busy man. Goodbye.” The bishop concluded the discussion with a click in his ear.

He sat for some time with the phone to his ear. His mouth was sucking air like a dying goldfish on the carpet. Replacing the phone in its cradle, he moved mechanically into the sitting room and dropped onto the sofa. Tears ran down his face, channelled through the grim lines around his mouth, and hung shortly on his jaw before falling onto his collar, the cloth slowly absorbing his sorrow. He sat in a stupor for some time, unable to summon the motivation to act, until his eyes lifted to the clock on the wall.

Fuck. The seven o’clock Mass was due to start in fifteen minutes. The altar boy for tonight’s Mass was probably pacing along the back hallway of the sacristy, wondering if he was going to show up on time. If he didn’t leave soon, he wouldn’t.

After he fastened the last button of his cassock and pulled on his anorak coat, he was out the front door. The air was colder than he’d expected, and wondered if they might actually get some snow tonight. He picked up his pace. When he opened the back door to the church, a burst of warmer air lightly coated with a hint of stale wine grabbed at his face. As he entered the other side of the sacristy, the altar boy stood, nodded, and headed for the entry door to the altar. The Priest hastily dressed, hurriedly muttering the vesting prayers. He secured the maniple to his left arm and walked to the door.

“Okay,” he said to the altar boy. “Let’s go.”

*****

It was after eight o’clock when the Priest had once again donned his anorak. Not in any particular hurry to return home to an empty rectory, and feeling the urge to speak to someone about the things weighing on his mind, he walked to Archway Station, where he caught public transport, and after changing buses at Tottenham Court Road, he arrived in Chiswick shortly after nine. A three-minute walk from Chiswick Police Station brought him to Our Lady of Sorrows Church, his old stomping grounds.

To his relief, the lights were still on inside the rectory. He knocked on the door, and soon it opened to reveal a very surprised-looking Father Marcus Brady. Born and raised in County Antrim in Northern Ireland, where he’d enrolled in seminary at the age of twenty-one, the older priest was now sixty-five years of age, and had lost most of his greying hair. He was dressed down, wearing a pair of brown trousers and a dark blue cardigan.

“Charlie!” The man’s eyes had gone wide and he scratched his bald head.

“Hello, Father. I’m sorry I didn’t call first. I know I shouldn’t have just shown up like this—”

The man smiled. “Nonsense. Come in, come in!”

He was ushered inside, where he was invited to sit at the round kitchen table.

“I’ll make us some tea,” the old priest said.

“Thank you, Father.”

“Marcus. At home here in this kitchen, I’m just Marcus. I don’t know how many times I’ve told you before, Charlie,” he mildly admonished, throwing him a grin over his shoulder.

“All right.” He watched Father Brady stand at the sink and add water to the kettle.

“You know, I was wondering when you were going to come and see me.”

“You were?”

“You haven’t been to confession in two weeks. You know as well as I the disciplinary mandates you need to be following since your… lapse over the summer.”

He breathed a deep sigh and drummed his fingers on the table. “You’re right, I haven’t been to confession.”

“So… what? You have nothing to confess?”

He supposed he had plenty, but he found he didn’t feel sorry. He wasn’t sorry for thinking about her, dreaming about her, fantasising about her. He wasn’t sorry for wanting to be loved, touched. For giving in to his basic human need for physical release. The drinking, though, he was sorry about. He’d been indulging in way too much and too often lately. The more miserable he felt, the more he drank, and then the worse he felt after he drank. But he’d managed to keep from Father Brady just how much his drinking had increased these past few months, feeling too embarrassed and ashamed to bring it up.

“This is more of a… social visit, Marcus.”

“I see.”

It wasn’t long before Father Brady had joined him at the table. “Was there something in particular you wanted to talk to me about?”

He drank from his cup, thinking over what exactly he wanted to say. “Delicious tea, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So, er, last night our parish youth group had their Christmas party.”

“Oh, delightful,” Marcus said with a smile.

“It was a combined effort with the youth group from Sacred Heart. You know, Father Michael Thomas’s parish. He was at the party as well.”

Father Brady sipped from his cup. “Uh-huh.”

He swallowed, hesitating. “Have you ever met Father Michael?”

“I’ve met Michael Hudson at a few events, conferences and such. I can’t say I know him all that well, but I’ve heard him spoken of a great deal, of course.”

“At the party, there was something I found…” He cleared his throat. “Well, something unsettling.”

Marcus’s expression became grim. “Did this something involve any young ladies?”

He stared, his eyes as wide as two pound coins. “Why would you say that?”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but… how do you know?”

Father Brady pushed his cup of tea away. “I think this conversation calls for something a bit stronger,” he said, standing up. “I don’t have any cans of G&T on hand, which I know you like, but we’ll have to make do with what I’ve got.”

He returned to the table with two glass tumblers filled with ice and a bottle. He removed the cap and poured the brown liquor over the ice. Retrieving an orange from the fruit basket in the middle of the table, he cut two slices and slipped one in each tumbler. Then he slid one glass across the table.

“I remember you were always partial to Old Fashioneds,” Charlie said, smiling as he accepted the drink.

“I got it at a shop in Catford. Already mixed for you.” He took a drink and hummed appreciatively. “So… tell me what happened at this Christmas party last night.”

He took a drink from his own glass, and then went into the events of the night before, the disturbing behaviour he’d observed from Father Michael Thomas, his conversation with Pam, and then the contentious discussion he’d had with Bishop Harington earlier.

Marcus coughed, took a sip of his Old Fashioned, set his glass down, and stared fixedly at him. “Look, Charlie… did you ever meet Terry Clifford?”

Terry Clifford… Terry Clifford… Why did that name sound familiar? “Do you mean Father Terrence James?”

The older priest nodded. “One and the same.”

“I met him once, just briefly at the reception put on by Our Lady when I first arrived here for my assistant priest assignment. That was over three years ago. Why do you ask?”

“How much do you know about him?” enquired Marcus.

“Not much. He was the priest at St. Mary’s up until…” The sentence trailed off. Things were starting to click now. “Until Father Michael took his spot. I think that was a couple years ago.”

“Yes. He had that position for twenty-five years.”

“And Father Michael was his curate, wasn’t he?” asked Charlie.

“Yes. First, he was a deacon at St. Mary’s, assigned there straight out of seminary. After a year, he was ordained, and then served as assistant priest with Terry for a little over a year.”

He shook his head as he lifted his tumbler to his mouth, drinking the cocktail. “And after Father Terrence retired, for Michael to take his place as parish priest after only having been ordained a year…”

Father Brady gave him a knowing smile. “I know you wanted St. Mary’s parish. A lot of curates in the city wanted that gig, as you like to say. Anyway, Terry didn’t exactly… retire.” He expelled a heavy breath. “Charlie, I want to caution you because you could end up going the same way as Terry.”

Marcus’s sudden change in demeanor puzzled him. “What do you mean? What has he done?”

“He reported Father Michael Thomas to the archbishop.”

He stared, lips parting, eyes widening, as he processed this information.

“While Father Michael was an assistant priest at St. Mary’s, he started having an affair with one of its parishioners—a girl of sixteen. Terry discovered it, of course, as did others in the parish, and some of the more conservative elements in the congregation came to Terry and voiced their strong displeasure at Father Michael’s behaviour. Terry then informed the bishop and requested that Father Michael be disciplined. Well, Father Michael comes from a very wealthy family in Kent, a family that willed a great deal of money and property to the Church, and they threatened to withdraw their support if Father Michael’s career was, shall we say, interfered with. The bishop couldn’t ignore their wishes. Also, Father Michael was so popular with parishioners, especially the young, that St. Mary’s was one of the few parishes where church attendance actually increased that year. So, Father Michael stayed in place as assistant priest, and nothing was done.”

“Jesus.”

“But Terry soon discovered that Father Michael was having affairs with multiple girls, inside the church and out, some of them even younger than sixteen. Terry wrote letter after letter to the bishops and then finally Archbishop Nicholson, demanding that something be done about Father Michael.”

He shook his head in disgust. “But they did nothing.”

Marcus gave him a grim smile. “Oh, they did something… about Terry. You see, Terry had been in a relationship with one of his parishioners, a man, and the relationship had been happening for twenty years or something like that. And this man was essentially Terry’s husband in all but name. He served on the Parish Council, he worked in the church office as an accountant. Well, the bishop threatened to excommunicate Terry if he didn’t terminate all ties to his companion. It was easier for the bishop to get rid of him instead of Father Michael, the Church’s rising star. The archbishop placed Terry on an indefinite sabbatical, and he left St. Mary’s. Last I heard he was living with his longtime companion in a cottage in Hertfordshire.

“Father Michael is setting himself up for a hard fall, and it will come one of these days. We can hide things from each other, hide things from the public, even hide things from the Church, but we can’t hide anything from God.”

Charlie shrugged his shoulders as if at a loss. “Well, what about the safety and well-being of these girls in the meantime? What should I do about it?”

Father Brady’s expression turned even more serious. “I don’t want you to do anything about it. Try not to worry. Even the most complete deception inevitably gives way to discovery.”

“Discovery can take decades. In the meantime, people will suffer. If the bishops won’t listen, then I’ll be forced to appeal to Rome to intercede and do something.”

“Are you mad, Charlie? Go over the archbishop’s head? You’ll be committing career suicide. I want you to be careful with the complaints you make about Father Michael. Do you remember the advice I gave you three years ago at this very table?”

“Yes, I remember. Keep your private life separated from your professional life,” he answered, paraphrasing Marcus’s advice.

“Just watch yourself, Charlie. I want you to be careful with your own behaviour, for the archbishop has spies everywhere. And if you give him a good enough reason, there will be people who will make it their business to know your business, and they will use it against you,” the older priest warned.

He said nothing, and instead downed the rest of his Old Fashioned. How could he just sit by and do nothing like Father Brady wanted? Turn a blind eye to evil within the clergy? How could the bishops do so? Did they not have a Christian conscience?

“So,” Marcus said, smiling and leaning back in his chair, his posture once again relaxed and at ease. “How are things going with your heart case?”

Charlie laughed bitterly. Heart case. In decades past, there used to be a rehabilitation centre in Gloucestershire, the Paraclete Renewal Centre, where priests were sent to receive spiritual treatment for alcohol and substance abuse problems, and problems with “abnormal behaviour,” including paedophilia and homosexuality. Priests who received treatment at the centre because of problems involving sexual affection towards women were called “heart cases.”

“I don’t know how to answer the question. I haven’t seen her, or spoken to her.”

“Good.”

He frowned.

“But you still want to see her? You want to speak with her?”

More than anything in the world. “I’ll always want to, Father.”

“It’ll pass, Charlie. Just give yourself more time. You’re doing well. Just keep your head on straight and stay the course.”

He nodded, but an image of that glorious night spent in the bed of the woman he loved came to mind, the memory rushing forward like a wave crashing on the beach. He remembered the feel of her soft skin as she lay wrapped in his arms. The air around them smelled like her, smelled like sex and coconut, and those were all good smells.

How he wanted to smell that coconut as he kissed her. He wanted to smell her again and feel her lips on his again. He wanted to smell her on his own skin. How he wanted to hear her laugh take them somewhere they had never been before. He loved her laugh; he missed her laugh. He wanted to taste her, and watch her. He wanted to touch her soft skin and feel it pressed hard against his body; to bury his face in her neck, between her breasts, and taste every part of her with his tongue and more. And then he wanted to be inside her. He wanted to stay buried inside her forever, the sweet walls of her tight cunt gripping his cock like a wet fist, her body taking every thick inch of him. Nothing existing but the two of them.

“Yes, Marcus. It’ll pass.”

What if, what if, what if…

*****

If was nearly eleven o’clock when he shrugged his anorak jacket back on and left Father Brady’s rectory, starting his walk back to the bus stop. When the bus arrived at Leicester Square, he was informed there would be significant delays before he could catch the next bus to Archway Station. Not wanting to stand around in the cold and wait, he decided to walk. He put his hand in the pocket of his anorak and rolled his Rosary beads through his fingers as he walked. He strolled slowly, thinking over his disheartening conversation with Father Brady, and coming upon an off licence that was still open, went inside and purchased a pack of G&Ts.

He drank as he walked through Soho, heading in the general direction of North London, and soon felt light-headed. His body felt ephemeral, drifting through the streets as if invisible. He thought of the rectory waiting for him, empty and cold, and he wanted to prolong the journey home as long as possible. Not even Pam would be there waiting for him, as lately she had been spending Saturday nights with her young grandchildren so her daughter could have a night out with her new boyfriend, and she wouldn’t be back until the next morning.

The atmosphere of the city changed as he weaved through the lanes away from the rush of the traffic and the bustle of the pavements. An anarchic spirit of defiance emanated from the bright graffiti amid the strange juxtapositions of age-old poverty and newly acquired wealth. Gentrification over the past few years had transformed narrow buildings that were once flats used for prostitution into bijoux residences with glossy front doors. It was fairly easy to differentiate between the habitual residents and the upwardly-mobile newcomers.

Well-dressed couples strolling arm in arm as they made their way home from fashionable pubs averted their eyes from the ragged blankets of homeless people huddled in doorways, and from the blank-eyed gaze of drunk or drug-addled youths clustered on corners. A few women were there too, lounging against lamp posts, sauntering along the pavement, defiant and determined to earn some money tonight.

With a jolt of surprise, he recognised one of the women. She wore an animal-print mini skirt over skinny legs and heels that seemed unsafe to walk around in. Her hair was long and red and he guessed it was a wig. Her name was Roxy, at least that’s what she’d told him those times she occasionally came to confession when he served as assistant priest in his old parish. It most likely wasn’t her real name. She was in her mid to late forties, and she had some remnants of what used to be beauty in her youth, but many years of hard living had aged her prematurely. He knew her to be a kindhearted person with an awful past. He hadn’t seen her in nearly a year.

Her eyes went round as she caught sight of him. “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. “Looky here, ladies. It’s Father Charlie!” She hurried towards him, which was worrisome with those mad heels. A smile spread across her face as she closed the distance between them, and then she pulled him into a hug. “Fuckin’ ‘ell. Where you been?”

He laughed as he stepped back from the unexpected embrace. “I’m at a new parish now.”

“A promotion?”

“Father Patrick at St. Ethelred’s passed away, so I took his spot.”

“Movin’ on up in the world, aye? I thought it was something like that. I knew you weren’t one of those sick twats they send to a church in the middle of nowhere after they get caught out as a kiddy fiddler.”

He scowled, and instantly felt a wave of hopelessness.

Her perfectly shaped brows knitted in confusion. “What? I said I knew you wasn’t like that. You’re one of the good ones.”

He shivered in his jacket, and gazed over her flimsy clothing and ridiculous high heels. “It’s getting colder out here, Roxy. You should head indoors.” He took the fifty pounds from his wallet and held it out to her.

She ignored the gesture, and gave him the once-over. “Are you all right, Father? You haven’t been… you know… drinking too much of the communion wine, have ya?”

He hung his head and sighed.

She looked him over again. “Ain’t you scared to be out so late in this neighbourhood, Father? A nice fella like you should be home where it’s safe.”

He shook his head. “I grew up in the dodgy areas of Dublin—I can go anywhere without fear.” Yet all the same, he began to glance around, looking for signs of danger.

“Although… you haven’t seen any foxes around here, have you?”

She gaped at him. “Foxes?”

“Yeah. Foxes.”

“I ain’t seen any foxes.” She suddenly looked concerned. “You really should lay off the communion wine, Father.”

He sighed, saying nothing. Again, he held out the cash to her, and again she ignored it.

“You’re a sweet man, Father. You’ve always been sweet to me. But do you know how much I need to buy enough skag to keep me going? Give me three hundred pounds and I might stay off the streets for a couple of nights, but I’ll have to come back out sooner or later, and I’m not sure what people would say if they knew a priest had given a prossie three hundred pounds to spend on skag. I think you blokes are already in enough trouble with all that kiddy stuff, and now with this priest being convicted. It’s all over the news, you know.”

“What’s skag?” he asked, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Heroin to you, Father,” she said, putting on a mock posh accent.

He looked away, feeling helpless and frustrated. There was a McDonald’s sign with its red and yellow logo on the other side of the road. “I’d like to buy you a coffee and a Big Mac,” he said, thinking he would have someone to talk to and that way at least she would be safe and out of the cold for a while. “You look like you could use a meal.”

“Why are you bothering, Father? I’m just an old slag. I’m going to die soon one way or the other. Why should you care?”

Why did he care? “Because… because you’re a human being. Because it’s freezing tonight. I really don’t want something to happen to you. I’ve always liked you, Roxy. Whenever you came to confession you always helped me to understand things I never understood before. You helped me see the world through different eyes, and I thank you for that.”

She smiled, and in that smile, he saw kindness and humility. “Jesus,” she said. “You’re a bleeding oddball, you know that? Here’s you, a Catholic priest, thanking a slut like me. C’mon then, I’m fucking starving. Let’s go and you can buy me a milkshake.”

He was starting to slightly regret the offer as they began to walk toward the brightly-lit shops. He remembered Father Brady’s warning earlier about the archbishop. What if somebody saw him? What if people suspected him of purchasing her services? He felt as if his body was floating beside her. He should have gone straight home to bed. He’d been drinking, and he wasn’t thinking clearly.

She said she wanted a chocolate milkshake and a Big Mac and chips. He ordered a cup of coffee for himself. They sat opposite one another at a table for two in the bright glare and bustle of the place. He felt ashamed of himself because he was a little worried that somebody would recognise him.

She ate with gusto, chewing noisily on the burger as if she hadn’t eaten for a long time. Maybe she hadn’t.

“When did you last have a meal?” he asked her.

She shrugged. “I had a bag of sweets this morning, I think. I don’t remember.”

“You ought to eat regular meals, you know.”

“Yeah. I ought to stop using crack and smack, I ought to stop fucking strangers for money. So many things I ought to do, Father.”

He looked at her, slurping her milkshake with a look of childlike satisfaction on her face. He wondered if that look came from drugs, or if it was the genuine delight of a woman who had few real pleasures in life.

The first time she’d ever turned up at confession, she told him her life story, as horrid as it was. Her mother came from Ireland. She ran away from home and ended up on the streets in London. She had Roxy when she was sixteen, and in the following ten years, she had five more kids with three different fathers. Roxy’s two stepbrothers started raping her when she was eleven. When she was fourteen, she met someone. (“Same old story. Always the same old story, Father.”) He told her he loved her and wanted to marry her. He was thirty. He got her started on drugs, then he said she had to sleep with his friends to pay for her drugs. She put up with that for a while, but it got worse. The violence. The number of friends she had to fuck to get a fix. She then decided if she was going to sell her body for a living, she might as well cut out the middleman.

“There are worse ways to live, Father, really there are,” she’d told him from the other side of the confessional screen.

He’d tried to imagine what they might be. He couldn’t.

“At least I’m self-employed. Self-sufficient, too. Not like those poor girls who end up locked away in basements and cellars. The men I see aren’t bad, Father. Just lonely. The paedos and the sadists, they know where to go. They don’t bother with us slags on the streets.”

Sitting there, he suddenly wanted to weep. Being across from her in the glaring bright lights he could see the deep wounds behind the mask of that rotten-toothed grin and those vacant, hopeless eyes.

“You know, I tried going to confession after you left. But that Father Brady didn’t appreciate my confessions too much. What an old prude. Not like you. You was never shocked.”

He chuckled. Father Brady was first ordained as a priest some forty years ago, and he had enjoyed working alongside him as an assistant priest for the several years he was at Our Lady of Sorrows. He thought Marcus was a good man, a kind man, funny, generous, but traditional. Very traditional. Listening to the vivid confessions of a drug-addicted sex worker was probably just too much for the man to take.

“I was plenty shocked, Roxy, believe me.”

“Yeah, but you never made me feel like some dirty slut who didn’t belong in church. Father Brady wouldn’t tell me where you was, and then I just stopped going. I tried so many churches in the city before that, and you were the first priest I found who didn’t preach at me about my sins and how I was going to burn in hell and all that if I didn’t change. After you left, I gave up. Haven’t been to confession in months. You wasn’t like they was. You was always kind to me and spoke to me like I was a real person.

“Remember the first time I sat in that confession box with you?”

He nodded, trying not to cringe at the memory. “Yes, I do.”

“Remember when I told you about that man… the man I met when I was fourteen?”

The one who promised to marry her, and instead whored her out to his friends to pay for her drugs. He grimaced. “Yes.”

“I never said this at the time because I didn’t know if I could trust you. But I know you’re the trustworthy sort. You’re one of the good ones.”

Roxy toyed with the straw in her milkshake for a moment before continuing.

“He was a priest.”

His jaw dropped. He felt stunned as if by a physical blow.

“Yeah, I know. Shocking, ain’t it? But now that I think of it, not that shocking anymore to find out what some of these bloody priests get up to. But I was a good Catholic girl. My mum was a good Catholic girl. She took us all to church every Sunday. Made us go to confession, ‘cause if we didn’t go to confession, then we weren’t allowed to take Holy Communion on Sunday.”

She took a bite of her burger. “Father David Francis Pickford,” she told him while she chewed. “I’ll never forget him till the day I die. I took a shit on his grave a couple years back. That felt good.”

His stomach twisted. He didn’t want to know, but he had to ask. “And were his friends also…?”

She nodded while she swallowed her bite. “Priests? Some of ‘em were, some of ‘em weren’t.”

Jesus fucking Christ. He felt horrified and outraged. He sat there in appalled silence, not knowing what the fuck to say. He could only say, “I’m so sorry, Roxy.”

“Not your fault.”

Neither of them said anything for some minutes while she ate her chips. “When you think about it, there’s not much difference between you and me,” she said, finally breaking the quiet.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we both make money giving people something they want, telling them what they want to hear so that they’ll feel better at the end of the day. At least I haven’t got a pimp, though, do I? Can’t say that about you, I’m afraid.” She laughed.

With a sinking feeling, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, and ran a hand over his forehead.

“Don’t look so miserable,” she told him. “I don’t remember you ever looking this gloomy. What’s happened to you?”

The urge to confess everything to her welled up strongly inside him. He wanted to tell her about what had happened to him this past summer, about the amazing woman he’d met, how he’d fallen in love and then left her behind for the Church, and now he felt tortured every day because of it.

Instead, he said nothing.

“So, there’s this punter, right? And he comes to me and gives me a lot of money. He’s a consultant for the hospitals ‘round here. He’s filthy rich. Every week he gives me two hundred pounds to sit in his car and hold him in my arms while he wanks off, and all I have to do is keep saying, ‘Mummy’s here, Mummy loves you, you’re a good boy.’ That’s all. He never wants sex or any funny business. He always says thank you afterwards. He’s a real gentleman. You know, most of the punters are like that. I mean, usually they want some kind of sex, but they’re not bad men. They’re just… kind of… well, kind of hurt by life. We girls understand that. We’re hurt by life, too. No bloke would pay for sex from an old prossie like me if he could get it at home from a woman who loves him, would he?”

She gulped down the last dregs of her chocolate milkshake and crammed the remains of her burger into her mouth. “I need a cigarette,” she said through the mouthful. “Can we get out of here?”

He followed her outside. Her back looked heartbreakingly vulnerable in its thin pink top, with her shoulders thrust back in defiance against the world. They crossed the roadway. She perched on a low garden wall and lit a cigarette. She offered him one, and he lit up as well, leaning back against the wall next to her.

He took a drag and exhaled smoke into the chill night air. “Aren’t you worried about getting arrested?” He felt like he still needed to convince her to get off the street tonight. If she wasn’t going to seek shelter because of the cold, then maybe the threat of police might do the trick.

“Coppers are just blokes. Last time a pig stopped me, he came and asked my name and tried to charge me for soliciting. I told him to fuck off, so he goes and parks his car and comes back. I gave him a blow job and he went back to work. That’s how we live, Father. That’s what happens when you live like we do. The laws can’t touch us because we know things about them. We know the lawyers and the policemen and the judges, and they know we know. Out here on the streets, a punter is a punter. There’s no difference between a judge and a doctor and some poor bugger who just needs to get his cock wet, spending his dole on buying cunt, then going to the sisters up the road for food the next day because he’s broke.

“Sorry about my language, Father. I forget I’m talking to a priest.”

He had no idea what to say to any of that.

She ground out her cigarette beneath her heel. “Look, Father, this was really nice. Really. But I need to go now. Don’t worry about me. I can look after myself.”

He pulled his remaining cash from his wallet. “Roxy, please take the money. I know it’s not enough. I’d give you more if I could.”

She looked down at his outstretched hand and then she took the money, rolled it up, and tucked it into her cleavage.

“And let me give you my phone number. If you’re ever afraid, if you’re ever in trouble or if you just want to talk, you can phone me anytime. Anytime at all. And you’ll always be welcome at St. Ethelred’s. So, come see me once in a while. Please. I want to know you’re okay.”

She stared at him. “You’re not real, are you? Fuckin’ ‘ell, Charlie, you’re fuckin’ Jesus Christ, that’s who you are.”

“No. No. Roxy, don’t say that. I’m just… I’m just like the rest of them… I’m like you—I’m also wounded by life. I know what it feels like.”

“D’you think he fucked Mary Magdalene?”

He blinked, not having expected such a turn in the conversation. “Who?”

“Jesus.”

“No, of course not.”

“Why the ‘ell not?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t think he would have taken advantage of her like that.”

She nibbled at her fingernail. “Why d’you think God made us the way we are, needing sex and all that, if He thinks it’s so bad?”

“It’s not bad. Sex is a beautiful thing. It’s just… there are other important things in life, and sex is… sex can get in the way of those things if we don’t keep it in its proper place. And sex can bring a lot of heartache if we’re not careful with it. Same as driving a car. It’s fun, but people can get hurt. It comes with responsibility, not only to yourself but to others.”

She narrowed her eyes and peered at him. “Did you ever read The Da Vinci Code?”

“Yes, but it’s fiction. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t true.”

“What’s real? What’s true?” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“We’re real. You’re real. I’m real. This is true.”

“I’ll tell you what else is real. My fuckin’ habit is real. So, I’m outta here, Father. I need some punters.” She leaned down and planted a kiss on his cheek. “G’night, Charlie,” she said with a warm smile.

“Please be careful, Roxy.”

“Always am,” she said over her shoulder as she sauntered away on her ridiculous high heels and skinny legs. He wanted to call her back. She didn’t take his phone number. He wondered if she was trying to protect him.

After getting his bearings, he walked to a bus stop, pondering Roxy and her history, the tragic details of her youth which had led her to the life she was living now. He couldn’t help thinking of little Louisa Frank and Father Michael. 

A powerful sense of helplessness washed over him once again.

Eventually he reached Archway Station. He knew he should walk straight on towards home. Instead, he crossed the road and turned left towards Dartmouth Park. He told himself he was simply enjoying the evening and prolonging the walk, despite the cold. He simply wasn’t in any hurry to go home to an empty and cold rectory. He told himself he had no intention of going anywhere near her flat.

It started to rain, and he lifted the hood of his anorak. The weather had gotten even colder. He wouldn’t be surprised if the rain turned to ice before the night’s end. And still, he didn’t turn and make for home. He told himself to turn around and go back. It was the middle of the night. He was cold and drunk and had to say Mass in the morning and shouldn’t be out this late. Even so, he found himself on her street, staring through the rain at the darkened windows of her flat.

He wanted to knock on her door.

He wanted to knock on her door and just… talk.

He wanted to knock on her door and invite himself in. And then once inside he would sit her down on the sofa and tell her how much he still thought about her and that she was still driving him absolutely mad. He wanted to tell her he loved her, and he wanted to hear her tell him the same.

He wanted her to lower him into a hot bath, to let the heat seep into his frozen bones. He wanted her to wash his hair with her fragrant shampoo, and he wanted her to wrap him in a warm towel. And then he wanted to undress her, feel her warmth and her softness, he wanted to smell her hair, her skin, and kiss her neck. He wanted to feel the extraordinary delicate touch and sweet affection from the woman who was so brass and fearless with her words. He wanted to put his hands on her waist, feel the curves of her arse, and draw her close to him. He wanted to kiss her, to memorise her, and to know her. To really know her, inside and out.

He never wanted to wonder again about his needs being fulfilled, or experience this melancholy that tore through his body and spirit. He wanted to belong to her, and for her to belong to him. He wanted to make love to her; he wanted to make her pregnant, he wanted to create a little miracle of life inside her, a miracle they could share for the rest of their lives. And even more babies if that was what God wanted. He was sure he would be a wonderful father and husband if given another chance.

And that scared the shit out of him.

He stood there, terrified of his own desires.

He tried to force these thoughts away, this dream life he shouldn’t be allowing himself to indulge in, but all he could think in this moment was how important this woman was to him. He’d do anything to make her his.

He had been watching her door for several drunken, lovesick minutes, when he suddenly became conscious of the fact that he probably looked like a psychopath, standing there in the rain, across the street from her flat. He should go, he should leave. Or maybe he should grow a pair and go over there. But it was almost two o’clock in the morning. He couldn’t very well just march up and ring her doorbell. Not when he didn’t have any reasonable excuse for being there. What the fuck would he even say?

“Oh, hello, I just happened to be out in the freezing rain, strolling through your neighbourhood at two o’clock in the morning like a fucking lunatic.”

What if she were furious that he had come unannounced? What if she told him to turn around and get out? She would have every right to. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so unsure of himself. What if she wasn’t even home? And what if she was, but she was with another man? He didn’t want to see her with someone else. And what if it was that nine times arsehole?

He shouldn’t care, but he did.

Then he forced himself to walk away. It almost felt like that night at the bus stop, when he’d forced himself to walk away from her, tears streaming down his face. He’d had to, for if he hadn’t walked away at that moment, then he would’ve never walked away. For there had been too much at stake, too much to lose. Walking away from her had been like walking away from a part of himself, a part of himself he’d thought he’d lost and would never find again.

This was why he’d said love was awful. It wasn’t the love that hurt; it was the loss of it.

Fifteen minutes later, he entered the rectory, as cold and empty as he’d anticipated. He could remember Kate lying beside him in her bed, smiling at him. He imagined she was there now, gazing into his eyes as he gazed back into hers. He pictured her as real as life itself. He reached out and took her in his arms, and felt the warmth of her life and love.

As sleep began to take him, he imagined she was still there, curving her body to fit his, her arm protectively across his body, loving him as she had done that night.

I fucking love you.

I love you.

“I love you, too,” he whispered in the dark.

He heard her words inside his head, and a warm feeling spread through his entire body, but he knew she wasn’t real. She wasn’t truly there. It was a dream, a fantasy. His hazy, intoxicated mind had tricked his senses. As he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, he tried not to think of his aching heart, and prayed for deliverance from the war that still raged inside him.

What if, what if, what if…

Chapter Text

A week before Christmas. Following Sunday’s morning Mass, the Priest set up in his church office, preparing to return to the rectory for a few hours before he had to come back for the afternoon worship service. As he was donning his black jacket, in walked Maria Delgado, who had a very specific, last-minute request. She sat down in one of the chairs on the other side of his desk, tears in her eyes. He listened to her concerns, and after agreeing to do all that he could for her, she left his office. Then he was the only one left in the church, besides Pam, of course.

It had been a good Mass this morning, he thought as he sat at his desk with a steaming cup of tea. The congregation had seemed to really enjoy his homily. And he’d been pleased to see that Charlotte, the young woman with aspirations to become a nun, had been in attendance. She was now coming to Mass every Sunday, and confession every week. She still maintained her desire to become a nun, and had informed him that she was now volunteering at a convent in the city. He wished her all the best and hoped it was a life that would bring her peace.

He thought back to that Friday afternoon in October, when she’d turned up in the confessional booth for the first time. He pondered the trauma she’d been through, the grief, and the reasons that compelled her to seek a different life than the one she had been living. The emotions and memories her tale had stirred in him brought his own trauma and grief to the fore, the choices he’d made, and his own reasons for them.

There had been a similar moment in his life, a crossroads, where he felt so utterly lost, as though his soul was broken beyond repair, that he was willing to do anything to stop the pain. He remembered the genuine surprise at being the recipient of true kindness, forgiveness, and love. To know he was redeemable, that he wasn’t broken beyond repair, that his life could have purpose again, filled him with the kind of hope he’d never expected.

He couldn’t risk his life going back to what it had been. He’d had to make drastic changes, do whatever it took to prevent himself from experiencing the kind of heartbreak that had propelled him into a life of shame and debauchery. Treating his insurmountable grief with whisky, drugs, and women didn’t kill the pain the way he thought it would, and eventually realised he was only punishing himself, hurling himself towards an early grave.

After six months of living a totally clean lifestyle, six months of prayer, daily Mass and Bible study, and six months under the kind, loving guidance of his old parish priest, Father Jim, he thought he’d found the life that could save him.

March 2006

Saturday afternoon. He was on the sofa in the rectory sitting room. His cup of tea sat untouched on the table in front of him. Father Jim Fennessy was sitting across from him, sipping from his own cup. The priest was dressed casually in dark trousers and a burgundy knitted pullover. His walking cane hung on the back of the chair. He smiled over his cup of tea.

“You know, Charlie… I happen to know of a few young ladies in the parish who’ve had their eye on you. Nice Catholic girls from good families. Maybe you should… oh, I don’t know… try dating again.”

“Again,” he scoffed derisively. “I’ve never dated. I met someone, by chance, when I was nineteen, and it was instant—I wasn’t even looking, and there she was… Bam!” —he hit his left palm with his right fist— “I fell hard the moment I met her, and she turned out to be absolutely perfect. And I can’t… I can’t see that ever happening again. I’m just gonna bump into the perfect soulmate on this planet of six billion people? Like that’s gonna happen twice in the same lifetime. There’s no point in dating. I don’t see the point.”

“Well, you’ve dated in the last year, haven’t you?”

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t call waking up next to random women and not knowing who the fuck they are, or where the hell I am, dating, Father.”

Father Jim heaved a sigh and set his cup down on the table between them. “You’re in pain right now. But the thing you lost is the same thing that can stop that pain. You’ll find love again. I promise you. Relationships and the love they bring can be a source of great happiness. You yourself have experienced it.”

“But the joy experienced in a romantic relationship is not worth the pain endured when it ends.”

The priest thought a moment before he answered. “It’s true that while love can bring tremendous joy, it is a person’s love life that often brings their greatest suffering. There is a painful gap between the pure love we feel for someone in our heart and the difficulties that arise in our relationship. This disparity presents a maddening riddle which each of us must ‘solve or be torn to bits,’ as D. H. Lawrence once put it.”

“I’ve already been torn to bits.” He leaned forward, head bent, elbows resting on his knees. “And never again. I’ve made up my mind. I know what I want.”

“That is just your heartache talking, lad,” said Father Jim with a gentle smile. “It’ll pass. You’re a young man. Give yourself the time you need to fully heal from your grief before you make such a serious decision. You’ll find love again, in time. And when you do, you’ll want to marry. You’ll want children. Just the same as you did before.”

Lifting his head, he replied, “No, I won’t. I’ve made my choice. Seminary is what I want. I know it, and there’s no changing my mind.”

Father Jim expelled a heavy breath and folded his hands in his lap. “Okay. It’s your choice, and I can’t make it for you. It’s between yourself and God.” He paused, running a hand over his mouth. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be able to enroll this September when term starts. You should apply soon. I know the president of Conliffe Colle—”

“No,” he firmly retorted. “I don’t want to go to seminary in Dublin. I was thinking… London… could be the place for me.”

“London!” The priest’s eyes widened.

“Well, there’s no denying the Archdiocese of Dublin is having a lot of trouble right now, Father.”

“And so, we would need a good man like you here to help heal the wounds of abuse, to care for God’s flock and restore their trust and faith in the Church.”

He said nothing for a long moment and merely stared down at his hands. “I need to get out of Ireland,” he said quietly.

“Charlie,” Father Jim said, his gaze full of sympathy and concern as he studied him. “Are you sure you’re not running away from something, instead of running to something? This vocation is a divine calling to do God’s will, not an escape so we can avoid our life.”

He swallowed, averting his eyes, not quite able to meet the priest’s penetrating gaze.

Father Jim leaned back against the chair, crossing his legs, pausing to think for a moment. “You studied some philosophy in university, am I right?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Did you ever read any of the works of Russian philosopher George Gurdjieff?”

He nodded. “Yes, I did.”

“Gurdjieff once said that making the right choice for the wrong reasons is not good enough when endeavoring to walk an enlightened path. In order to mature, we have to make the right choices for the right reasons. You might want to think on that, my dear boy.”

That night he lay awake, deeply troubled by the priest’s words, perhaps because he heard the ring of truth in them. He’d once believed without a doubt that he was meant to be a husband, a father, and then life turned cruel and ripped that dream away from him. He’d since come to believe that he was meant to be a father in a different way, and he couldn’t afford to have doubts now. Emotionally, he couldn’t go down that path again. He had to take a different path. His life had to change, completely, irrevocably.

He had to move forward and leave the past behind.

But as much as he had insisted that he believed God meant for him to spend the rest of his life in His service and become a father to His children, Father Jim had maintained reservations and doubts right up to the end of the summer when bidding him goodbye at Dublin Airport.

In front of the busy terminal, Charlie got out of the passenger seat of the car, popped the boot, and retrieved his two bags. After selling or giving away most of his possessions, he’d managed to fit his entire life into two pieces of luggage.

Father Jim walked around the car and stepped onto the curb beside him, and then fixed him with that heavy, portentous stare of his. “I know I’ve said this to you before, Charlie, but it bears repeating now. I hope you give it some serious thought over the next four years.”

He nodded. “Yes, of course, Father.”

The priest lifted his hands to take gentle hold of him by the arms. “The priesthood was not built as a place for us to hide from our problems—we can’t run away from them; we have to face them. Nor does the priesthood serve as a way for you to do penance, as a way to repay God for past sins, to bargain with Him for forgiveness. The gift of His grace is freely given to all who truly repent. A life of celibate service isn’t something He is owed. And you don’t owe me for anything either, just so you know. I hope you don’t feel like this is something you need to do because you think it will please me.”

Unable to speak, he only shook his head.

The older man then held his face in his hands and, eyes brightening with unshed tears, said softly, “My son, you have to live the life you were born to live.”

He nodded once more, and then with the realisation that this could likely be the last time he ever laid eyes on the man, he suddenly moved forward and enveloped the priest in a tight hug. “Thank you, Father,” Charlie whispered in a voice choked with emotion. “Thank you for everything.”

December 2017

The Priest sat deep in thought for a long time, his tea forgotten and cold. He sat with a slight stoop to his shoulders as if he were carrying the weight of all the choices he’d made. Were the choices he’d made all wrong? Had he made the right choices, but for all the wrong reasons? And what if he had? What did that mean for him? Did that negate all the good he’d done in the last ten years? What if he could go back? Would he choose differently? No. He didn’t regret becoming a priest, no matter the reason behind the initial choice. He loved being a priest, he loved his job, he loved his parish.

But he also loved her. He loved her more than he ever thought it would be possible for him to love anyone. His feelings for her were both intoxicating and terrifying, for he feared the love he felt for her was truly above and beyond the love he felt for his church or his God, a vocation and a calling that he was starting to doubt now more than ever.

And what if he could go back to that night in July, back to that bus stop—would he choose differently?

The question was becoming a constant battle in his mind.

What if, what if, what if…

Later that night, as he lay on his bed, staring up at the rectory ceiling, he felt like weeping. He was sick with love. The bad kind. The tight-fist-around-his-heart kind. For while he felt he couldn’t bear the pain of separation any longer, he was not so foolish as to cherish any hopes.

He was an ordained Catholic priest, and he’d sworn holy vows in front of God and the bishop. He’d taken the vow of celibacy. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with someone. He wasn’t allowed to fall in love. And he’d taken a vow of obedience, promising to put the good of the Church before his own personal good. A promise that his sole focus would be the betterment of the community and not his own personal life, dedicating himself wholly to God’s service. He was supposed to love God more than his own humanity, his own human needs.

And she was a pretty, vivacious woman. He didn’t think it was in her to pine for him, to put her life on hold in hopes that he may soon change his mind. She had most likely moved on by now. Maybe, probably, definitely with someone else. He wasn’t sure whether the pain and finality of finding out would be worse than the pain and uncertainty of never knowing whether or not she still loved him.

He’d ended the relationship, months ago, and he hadn’t seen or contacted her since. But there had been no escaping it. His love for her was a heavy burden on his heart, tormenting him. His love had neither faded nor withered with time. The yearnings of his heart had only grown stronger and deeper the longer he’d kept himself away from her. He tried to reason with himself, to argue against the hopelessness of his desires. But as the Priest lay there, the love in his heart pained with the realisation she could never be his, he silently begged God to free him of this conflict, to send him some kind of sign in his hour of need, but all night long he tossed sleepless because of her.

*****

On Tuesday, the Priest chose plain black robes and once again began going over the funeral liturgy he’d been preparing for the service that afternoon. His thoughts kept straying to a meeting scheduled for tomorrow morning, wondering at its purpose, at what exactly would be discussed. He had some fairly good ideas regarding several possible reasons. A ball of anxiety began to tighten in his gut, but he forced his mind back to the task at hand: the graveside burial.

Maria Delgado, one of his congregation’s most faithful parishioners, had asked him to perform a graveside service for her granddaughter, a child of three years, who had tragically lost a battle with meningitis last week. Maria was deeply disappointed and shocked that her daughter Grace had not arranged for a funeral Mass for Rosie. She feared for the immortal soul of her beloved granddaughter, as well as for Grace’s. It was unconscionable, an act of deadly defiance, as far as Maria was concerned, which she had told him following Mass on Sunday.

Unable to make sense of it, Maria had attributed Grace’s decision to the insanity of grief. She was sure Grace would regret this egregious oversight once she was able to think clearly again. So, Maria took matters into her own hands, as she had that weekend two years ago when her daughter was on holiday, and she and her husband had Rosie baptised without Grace’s knowledge or consent. Only back then, it had been Father Patrick who had baptised Rosie in secret and in not an entirely official way.

Maria and her family, including her daughter Grace, were seated at the gravesite. The Priest’s eyes wandered over the casket; a small wooden box with a cross fashioned into the center of the lid. Small enough for a toddler. Raw emotion clawed at his chest. Sadness flooded his system, the gut-ripping pain of losing a child. After nearly fourteen years, it still hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the memories away. He tried so hard not to live in the past. It was a dark void of pain and regret, and he’d learned long ago that constantly mulling it over did him no good. That only led to more darkness, more pain, more regret.

The Priest officiated the emotional burial service. “It’s important for us to understand that faith is trust. Faith is trust in God, even when you hurt.” He looked at the small casket and choked back his own tears. “We know that this little girl is in heaven,” he continued. “But separation is painful. I want you all to know it’s okay to hurt. It’s okay to cry and grieve and feel that pain intensely. How we feel has nothing to do with our faith. Even Jesus wept for Lazarus, knowing he was going to raise him back to life. He still felt the pain of the loss of his friend, he felt the pain that everyone around him was feeling.

“And I know personally the pain of loss when hopes are ruined, dreams are dashed, relationships end, and loved ones die. All of us will experience the pain of a broken heart and glimpse the abyss of hopelessness more than once during our life. But I also know firsthand that it is God who will comfort us when we are most in need of it, and sometimes that comfort may come from someone or something we never expected. Our faith in God gives us hope that the comfort we need will be given to us in times of distress.”

The Rite of Committal was concluded with a blessing, and then the service was ended. Mourners began to stand and make their way to the front to express their condolences to the family. The Priest watched Sister Mary Frances Ward approach the young mother, Grace, her thick black nun’s robes protecting her from the chill winter air. She took Grace’s gloved hand in both of hers, and leaned towards her.

“Your child is with God now,” the nun said. “She’s in a better place.”

He saw something twitch in the corner of Grace’s eye. It was a look he’d seen before, and decided it would be best to separate her and Sister Mary Frances before this became the second funeral he’d attended where a well-meaning yet insensitive nun was violently accosted by a grieving mother.

April 2004

Sisters of Mercy Cemetery in Dublin. It had rained earlier that morning and the grass was still damp. Charlie sat beside the gravesite, staring at the tiny coffin that held the mortal remains of Ava Máirín Brennan, his stillborn daughter. Colleen was sat beside him, numb with grief. She hadn’t spoken a word in two days. Not to him, not to anyone.

The priest soon arrived at the cemetery with a small contingent of South African nuns. The three grey-clad sisters stood solemnly off to the side, weeping like paid mourners for an infant they had never seen, whose parents they didn’t even know. One of them, Sister Bernadette, came over to Colleen at the end of the service, after the coffin had been lowered into the ground. She sat down beside her and took Colleen’s limp hand in both of hers. The large crucifix of the Rosary she had been holding in her palm pressed against the back of Colleen’s hand. Colleen stared straight ahead at nothing, glassy-eyed and absent.

“Your baby is with Jesus and the angels,” Sister Bernadette said to her in a strangely musical accent. “We must rejoice in God’s goodness and His eternal love. Your child is in a better place.”

Charlie frowned from where he sat on Colleen’s other side. Something twitched in the corner of her eye. He watched her sit up a little straighter, and she turned her head slowly until she locked eyes with the small, wrinkled woman. She pulled her hand away roughly from the nun’s grasp, causing her Rosary to fall to the ground in a rattle of beads. Sister Bernadette bent quickly to retrieve it. She kissed the cross, and blessed herself with it.

“In a better place,” Colleen rasped.

Closing his eyes, he hung his head. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, here it comes.

She stood up. “A better place?” she growled. Sister Bernadette cowered. “My baby is DEAD,” Colleen screamed. “My baby is DEAD! That is not a better PLACE! THAT IS NOT A BETTER PLACE! You stupid, fucking—”

“Colleen!” both her parents shouted over her in horrified unison.

“—ignorant CUNT!”

The word echoed through the cemetery like shotgun fire. He shook his head. He’d always said she had a temper to match her hair: fiery red. Colleen’s parents were too stunned to move. He leapt out of his chair and restrained his wife, who appeared to be on the verge of hurling Sister Bernadette headfirst into the open grave, right on top of Ava’s coffin. A distraught Sister Bernadette hurried away into the arms of the other nuns, trembling, her eyes filling with tears.

He pulled Colleen away from the gravesite, away from the tiny wooden box he couldn’t bear to look at for one more second. Alone together in the back seat of the rented black limousine, they cried. They cried until they couldn’t cry anymore. Until the tears would no longer come.

After that, all was silence in Colleen’s world. That moment with Sister Bernadette would remain buried in her subconscious for the rest of her life—as short as that was—as deeply and as quietly as Ava’s body now lay beneath the indifferent earth.

For his part, Charlie had believed that was the worst day of his life. That nothing could ever be worse, or feel as devastating, as watching his daughter’s coffin being lowered into the ground.

He was wrong.

December 2017

Some time passed, not long, and then the Priest was the only one remaining of those who had arrived to attend the service. He didn’t feel like returning to an empty rectory. After replacing his robe with his anorak, he started to walk around the cemetery, glancing over the various headstones, pausing to read the more interesting ones. After several minutes, he overheard the sound of someone weeping loudly, and soon came upon a middle-aged man standing in front of a grave, holding a bouquet of pink flowers, putting on quite the public display. The Priest bent his head and looked away out of respect, and kept on walking.

And then he saw it. He stopped and stared for a moment, before slowly approaching the neat and well-maintained plot. He glanced down at his hand, at the small bouquet of yellow flowers given to him by Maria Delgado. He laid the bouquet down on the grave, just in front of the headstone.

In Loving Memory Of
MARGARET MCKENZIE
14^th April 1956 – 20^th June 2013
Beloved Wife, Mother, and Friend

The Priest sat down on the wooden bench opposite the grave. Sadness engulfed him. And then he was wishing she was there, sitting beside him, holding his hand. Had he been a fool to think his life could just go back to the way it was before he’d met her? Before he’d fallen in love?

As if none of it had happened. As if he hadn’t tasted her and sank into her warmth while she hummed with passion. As if he hadn’t held her in his arms after he’d brought her to screaming ecstasy.

And he missed it all.

He missed her teasing, her touch, her hungry gaze, and her warm concern for him. He missed the way she made him laugh, the way she challenged him. He missed her honesty and opinions. He missed their conversations, their debates. He missed her affection. He missed her friendship. He felt like he’d lost his best friend in the whole world. But how was that possible? They’d only known each other for a grand total of four weeks before the night of the wedding when he’d said goodbye to her at that fucking bus stop. But still…

He missed her like a hole in his heart. He missed her so much he ached. Every part of him ached. But all mixed up with this ache, adding to it and making it worse, was the acute pain from the memories that the burial service had stirred up within him. Somewhere inside of him the pain of his loss—his wife and daughter—ricocheted like an erratic echo, unexpectedly coming and going, but always there.

The Priest dropped his head and surrendered himself to his mood. He wanted nothing more right now in this moment than the comfort of seeing her face again, hearing her voice again. The woman he loved. He wished she were here with him now.

Dear God, there was nothing he wanted—needed—more.

His memory of her was so clear, so sharp, he could picture her sitting right there on the bench next to him—

“Happy Christmas, Father,” she spoke, reflecting a certain kind of formality in her reverence and address that he’d never heard in her voice before.

“Is it?” he murmured, staring down at his hands. He frowned. If he kept on talking back to the voice in his head, they might end up putting him in a facility somewhere.

“No, not really,” she sighed. “So, how long have you been coming to visit my mother?”

Startled, his head snapped up and his eyes widened at the sight of her. Her. Standing right there in front of him. Was it really possible? Why hadn’t he heard her approach? He might’ve blamed her sudden appearance on whisky if he’d had any today. But in all the times he’d imagined her, he’d never seen her quite like this: running jacket, black joggers, and a pair of trainers.

A myriad of emotions played across her face. Silence stretched between them, filled with memories of the erotic night of passion they shared, filled with memories of that bus stop—the shared love and heartbreak—filled with questions, with tension.

Then her mouth slowly curved into a grin.

His heart filled with joy at the sight. He watched the way she smiled, and there was no hiding the flash of joy on her face, in her spirit, in the air between them, when she looked at him. Raw emotion welled up inside him as he gazed at her. His heart constricted, and his mouth went dry.

“Are you really there?” he asked hesitantly.

“Well, I know we’re in a cemetery, but I’m not a ghost, Father, I assure you,” she grinned.

“Well… well… it’s just… sometimes you’re there when you’re really not,” he said, a hint of suspicion in his tone.

Her brows furrowed. “As much as I like the idea of you hallucinating about me, that is sort of worrisome, to be honest.”

“Do you think I should, I don’t know, commit myself somewhere?”

“Hmm… maybe we could pop over to Bedlam and see if we can get a two-for-one special. Do you think they’d let us room together? I promise I’ll ask for separate beds, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

He laughed breathlessly, shaking his head. His gaze roamed over her, taking in her casual appearance. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face. There were beads of sweat on her brow. “Are you jogging in a graveyard?”

“Indeed, I am, Father. I usually jog here in the afternoons after I close up the café. Although, I don’t normally come on Tuesdays. Odd that I’d decide to pay Mum a visit and find you here.”

“Yes. Odd.” He thought about that a moment. It truly was strange that he’d been feeling so miserable lately and praying and wishing that he could see her just once more, and then she turned up. But God wouldn’t send her to him, would He? The woman he’d broken his vows with? Was her presence a test of faith, or a gift of mercy?

“Seriously. How long have you been coming here?”

“I’ve never seen your mother’s grave until today. I had a funeral earlier, on the other side of the cemetery, and then I just decided to take a walk.”

“Hmm.” She sat down beside him, pulling her jacket closely around her. “So, how are you? How have you been?”

He immediately decided to lie. He’d pray for forgiveness later. “I’m doing well. And you?”

“Fine. And how’s God?”

“Oh, He’s…” The Priest glanced skyward. “He’s up there. Watching me. I’m sure He’s fine. He’s God, after all.”

“And how’s it going with the foxes? Are you coping?”

“They’re still after me, the devils.” He smiled as he gazed at her, and thought back to his brief conversation with Claire. “How are you, really?”

“Oh, I’m all right.”

His smile faltered as he studied her. She looked all right—more than all right—but there was something going on behind her eyes. Like there usually was. He had so many questions he wanted to ask her, questions he was terrified to ask. Questions he had no business asking, for a number of reasons.

Had she moved on? Was she over him? Did she still love him? Was she seeing anyone? Had she fallen for someone else?

Instead, he asked, “How’s the café?”

“Doing really well, thanks. Business has really picked up these past few months, and we even expanded. The owners of the shop next door left. So, we were able to take over the space. We knocked out the adjoining wall, did a bit of renovating, and enlarged the café. Just in time for the weather to turn, thank goodness. That was actually a big reason for the expansion. When the weather turned, I’d have to get rid of the outdoor tables, and I wondered where I was going to seat everyone indoors once that happened. But then the shop next door closed down at the end of summer, and the space became available, so we decided to go for it.”

“That’s great. Good for you.” He paused. “Um… we? You mean your friend who you opened the café with?”

He felt her tense beside him—immediately recalling her reaction when he’d started asking her questions about her friend before—but then she relaxed. “Uh, no. My business partner, Belinda. Well, I suppose she’s my friend, too.”

“That’s nice. And how’s your gorgeous little guinea pig?”

“Hilary’s a bit of a drama queen. You know how it is.” She was quiet a moment, and then, “Huh.”

“What?” He turned his head to look at her as she leaned back against the bench, looking altogether comfortable and at ease. An intense longing for her rose up inside him. The depth of what he still felt for her made him shudder with both fear and excitement. The desire to take her into his arms and kiss her was growing stronger. He should probably make an excuse and remove himself from her company as soon as possible, but he couldn’t find it within himself to do what he should.

“I’d always imagined this moment being much more awkward than it actually turned out to be.”

“What, the moment you find me sitting across from your mother’s grave?”

She laughed softly. “No. Just… you know, running into you again after the Bus Stop of Not One, But Two Holy Rejections.”

He snorted and then sighed deeply. “I’m really sorry—”

“No, it’s fine. You don’t have to apologise. I understand. Truly, I do. I mean, it never would have worked out anyway, whether you were a priest or not, right? Falling in love rarely works out the way people want it to, which is why I’ve avoided it for most of my life.” She turned to stare straight ahead. He watched her fidget with her fingers in her lap.

He swallowed against the tightening of his throat. “Right. Yeah, it probably wouldn’t have worked out either way,” he agreed, although doubt hovered around the edges of his mind.

What if he wasn’t a priest? What if he was free from his vows? He felt such a strong connection to her that he somehow believed that if he had been free, they really could’ve made a successful go at it. But that was foolish thinking. He wasn’t free, and it would do him no good to imagine his life otherwise.

What if, what if, what if…

“So, have you got plans for Christmas?” she asked.

“Other than morning, afternoon, and evening Mass, no.”

“Will you be seeing your family for the holiday?”

He shook his head. “My family’s in Dublin.”

“How often do you go back to see them?”

“I haven’t been home since I left eleven years ago.”

She gave him a look of surprise. “Why? Don’t you miss Ireland?”

If she was digging for information about his life back there, she would need a JCB bulldozer. “I try not to think about it too much.”

“Oh… okay. So, will you be having Christmas with Pam, then?”

“No. She’s spending the holiday with her extended family in Jamaica, actually.”

Another look of surprise flickered across her face before the surprise turned to sympathy. “So… you’ll be alone? What about… friends… you could have Christmas lunch with?”

He gave her a half-smile. “I thought I told you I was a big reader with no friends.” He chuckled. “Well, I did have one friend. One very good friend. And then I… ended the friendship. You might know something about that.”

“It rings a bell,” she snarked.

“And what about you? Christmas with your family?”

She hesitated a moment before answering. “Claire is in Finland with her new boyfriend. She’s meeting her future in-laws.”

“Oh, wow. Is she engaged?”

“Not technically, but her Finnish beau can’t wait to put a ring on it. As soon as my sister’s divorce from Martin goes through, I’m sure it’ll happen.”

“And what about your—?”

She frowned. “They’re spending Christmas at their holiday home in France. So, I’ll be on my own this year.”

“Did none of them invite you to come along?” he asked, astonished.

“Well, Claire’s boyfriend did invite me, but I could tell she really didn’t want me to be there when she meets his family for the first time. The potential for mortification was too high for her to risk my being there.” She let out a little laugh. “And, uh, well, being holed up in a small house in another country with only my dad and stepmother for company isn’t exactly my idea of a happy Christmas. Nor theirs, I’m sure.”

They sat in silence for a moment. “So, I guess we’ll both be alone for Christmas,” he said, and then glanced at the headstone. “I suppose the holiday must be lonely for you. You must really miss your mother this time of year.”

“I miss her all the time, Father,” she confessed. “Whether it’s Christmas or not.”

“I can imagine,” he said quietly. “Well, I’ll leave you, then. I’m sure you were planning on having some alone time with…” He nodded toward her mother’s headstone.

She blinked, hard. Her mouth flattened. He didn’t like that, nor the slumping of her shoulders. If he could make her feel a bit happier, he would. He didn’t want to go. He really didn’t. Instead, he wanted to hold her close, kiss away the hurt that had started brewing in her eyes when he’d mentioned her friend whom she used to run the café with.

She’d folded her hands in her lap, fingers lacing together. He’d prefer they were laced with his. He leaned closer so that his arm touched hers. That was as close as he was getting, tantalising fingers or not. But fuck, he wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss away her sadness.

She leaned into him. “I don’t want you to go,” she admitted. “I could do with some company.”

With her sweet confession, he reached for the hand in her lap, unable to help himself. He pressed their palms together and slowly entwined their fingers. She didn’t pull away from him. His heart fluttered like a hummingbird as they sat quietly, not speaking. A heady mix of gentleness, need, and friendship closed around him. Warmth spread through him as memories of the time they’d shared together months ago rushed to the fore in his mind.

He lost track of how long they sat there on the bench, staring out over the myriad of headstones before them. Eventually, she cleared her throat and began to pull away. Although as she started to withdraw her hand, her fingers slid along his in a way that made his skin heat and caused certain muscles to tighten in warning.

“Listen, um, I’m freezing my bum off sitting here,” she told him with a smile. “Do you, uh, maybe… want to get a cup of tea, or coffee? Or get some G&Ts or something? And we could… we could drink and chat… and have a proper catch-up?”

“I, uh, I wish I could…”

She snorted skeptically. “Right. You’ve got to be getting back to God. How could I forget?”

He cringed at the bitterness in her tone. “No, really. I’d… I’d love to take you up on your offer, and I would have, but I need to prepare the lesson for the group Bible study later, and I also need to prepare for my meeting tomorrow with the bishop. It’s only a conference call, thank Christ, but I do need to ready myself for it.”

Her eyes went wide as though she were impressed. “Wow, a bishop? That sounds serious. Are you getting promoted?”

He laughed, but his stomach twisted anxiously. “That’s not likely to happen anytime soon.”

“Why? Because of that whole one-night-stand with a fornicating atheist?” she teased.

“No.” His mouth curved into a frown as an inexplicable wave of disappointment washed over him. He stood up. “Well, I really should be getting back to the rectory,” he said without looking at her. “It was good to see you again. You seem to be doing well, and I’m happy about that. I guess I’ll, er, see you around.”

With a furrowed look of concern, she stood up as well. “What is it? What did I say?”

“Nothing. You didn’t say anything,” he replied as he started to walk away from the bench.

“It was just a joke. Surely we can joke about—”

He spun around to face her, trying and failing to keep the accusation out of his voice. “Is that really all you think of me? Of us? That it was just… just some one-night-stand?”

She gaped at him a moment, and then anger blazed in her brown eyes. “Are you fucking serious? Oh, fuck you, Father!” She cast a sheepish sideways glance at the headstone. “Sorry, Mum,” she murmured, before quickly turning her attention back to him.

Rendered speechless, he could only stare.

“You left me, remember? You’re the one who broke my heart. And yes, we only had one night, but that was your choice! I certainly wanted more than one night with you. So, no, honestly, when I think about us, when I think about that night, it’s not some meaningless, forgettable, regrettable, one-night-stand that I can just lump in with all the others. Because I have never felt for anyone what I feel for you, whether I was with them one night, one month, or even one year. Because in case you’ve forgotten, I’m fucking in love with you!”

He gazed at her, stunned. His heart filled with hope and a million other emotions. Did she really still love him? The way he still loved her? It was as if his heart had become a dark, closed room, and in an instant, she had opened the curtains and let in a flood of sunshine.

Catching herself, she swallowed hard and averted her eyes. “I mean, I was in love with you. Was. Past tense. You told me it would pass, right? Well, you were right. It passed. It’s… past.”

His brows furrowed skeptically. “Right… It’s passed for me, too.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

He felt his breathing get heavier as they stood staring at each other, undeniable attraction straining along with the old familiar tension. The heat of her gaze pressed into him, and desire scorched the air between them.

“Do you want to come ‘round and see me tomorrow?” she suddenly blurted out. “I’ll be at the café until three o’clock. It’s Chatty Wednesday. I think you’d enjoy it.”

He had no fucking idea what Chatty Wednesday meant, but his throat was suddenly tight. His stomach fluttered with the sensation of butterflies. Knowing she wanted to keep seeing him…

“That’s a no, then? You know, if you come, you might actually make some new friends, and that can only be a good thing.”

God give him strength, because the more he knew he should say no, the more he realised it was a lie, that he wanted to accept her invitation, to lose himself in her again, give her a reason to let go of the hurt he saw was still plaguing her behind her eyes. He didn’t want to just visit her at the café, but to also go home with her. Every cell in his body was screaming for more of her—more of her company, more of her kisses and the rampant sex that would surely follow.

“Friends. Nonsense. You’re just trying to lure me in again,” he joked, trying to keep the conversation light, despite the heavy tension still sparking between them.

A cheeky grin spread across her face. “Is it working, Father?” she purred flirtatiously, making him shake his head with laughter.

Jesus Christ, she was a brilliant, headstrong, fascinating, maddening creature. She was everything he’d always wanted; she was exactly what he needed.

And he was helpless to resist her.

*****

On Wednesday morning following Mass, the Priest went back to the rectory and shut himself up in his study to await the phone call from the diocese, hoping Bishop McClenaghan would also be in on the call. On the Monday following his contentious conversation with Bishop Harington, the diocese had suddenly pushed for him to take on an assistant priest. They were apparently concerned with possible burnout, but he’d kept Father Brady’s warning in mind about diocesan spies, and had initially resisted the idea. But the diocese insisted he choose an assistant, even giving him a New Year’s deadline to make the decision.

Two young priests, both excellent candidates he had known from his seminary days, he’d reached out to, only to be told they had just taken their first positions as parish priests in other churches outside London. He could only understand; most would want their own “gig” to work in. They were beyond hearing, “Young man, you will have a great future…”

In the autumn he’d met a young priest, twenty-six years of age, who divided his time between volunteering for Caritas in their community outreach programs, working part-time as an interim assistant priest for St. Mary’s parish, and also working as a part-time hospital chaplain for the NHS. This past Saturday, when working together at the Camden Town foodbank, he’d expressed keen interest in the full-time assistant priest gig at St. Ethelred’s.

At half past ten, the telephone finally rang and he lifted the phone from its cradle.

“Hello.”

“Father Brennan.”

He frowned. It was Father Gregory Clement, Bishop Harington’s assistant and personal secretary. “Yes. How are you this morning, Father Clement?”

“Just fine. I’m calling for His Excellency, Bishop Harington. He has a message for you.”

The bishop couldn’t phone himself? There were things Charlie wanted to say, and he didn’t want to pass them along through Clement. He resisted the urge to swear into the phone. “Okay. And what’s the message?”

“The bishop will not approve your calling of George Edwards to be your curate.”

Jesus Christ. “Why not?”

“I am not at liberty to say. It’s a private matter.”

Silence.

He clenched his jaw, feeling anger begin to boil in the pit of his stomach. “Is it because he’s gay?”

Longer silence.

“Yes.”

“But ultimately this is my decision, and not the bishop’s, correct?”

“You are not to call him for an assistant.”

And with a click in his ear, Father Clement was gone.

Fucking hell. Charlie heaved a sigh of frustration and buried his face in his hands. After some long moments of defeat, he picked up the telephone and rung Father Edwards to deliver the message from the bishop’s office: he’d been told that he could not employ him as an assistant at St. Ethelred’s. The young chaplain became most upset and angry, and felt he’d never be allowed a decent career in the Church.

“You have an option,” he told Father Edwards. “Call the bishop’s office and insist you speak with him, either by phone or by appointment. You are to ask him one question: ‘Am I a priest in good standing or not?’ Technically by naming you as an interim assistant for St. Mary’s, the diocese acknowledged you as a priest in good standing, and therefore made you available to every parish in the diocese.”

“Okay. I will do that. Cheers, mate.”

Unable to suppress the vindictiveness he felt, he then added, “And be sure to tell Bishop Harington that it was me who advised you to ask him that question.”

The young priest chuckled. “I’ll do that.”

“He’ll be furious,” replied Charlie, unable to keep the spiteful glee from his voice.

Father Edwards laughed again.

A light bulb suddenly turned on. “Listen, George… how long have you been an interim assistant at St. Mary’s?”

“Oh… since about a month before Father Michael left to take over Sacred Heart, which was right after Christmas.”

“You’ve been an interim priest for a year?” Charlie said, surprised.

“Well, I’d been wondering why the new parish priest, Father Dennis, wouldn’t just give me the job, especially since they hadn’t yet brought in anyone else to fill it, but I guess I now have my answer.”

He paused, thinking. “Do you know of any problems Father Michael may have had at St. Mary’s before he left? Perhaps… involving young girls in the parish?”

Silence.

“You’re going to get me in trouble here, Charlie.”

“So, you do know something?”

“But it’s not something I can talk about.”

“George, I’m almost positive that whatever he was getting up to at St. Mary’s is now happening at Sacred Heart.”

Another silence.

“George, would the families of the girls in St. Mary’s parish be willing, if I could arrange it, to possibly speak to some parents in Sacred Heart’s parish?”

“But…” Father Edwards sighed. “They’ve been paid off. They signed papers promising they wouldn’t talk to anyone about Father Michael, or the baby.”

Charlie’s eyes went round as two pound coins. “The baby?”

“That’s what you’re referring to, isn’t it? Molly Smith, a fourteen-year-old girl, whose father is a deacon at St. Mary’s, birthed Father Michael’s child November last year. They were given a rather substantial payment by the diocese, were sent on some all-expenses-paid holiday abroad to Spain where Molly would give birth, and were promised Father Michael would leave the parish… in return for their silence. Father Michael will also be making monthly support payments until the child turns eighteen. I believe the diocese is also setting up a college fund for the child.”

“For fucks’ sake, George.”

“Don’t get involved, Charlie. The archbishop will have your head. The diocese spent a lot of cash to hush it all up, so don’t go causing a mess.”

His hands curled into tight fists. Why didn’t anyone see how wrong this was? Why were they content to keep quiet? “Can you at least get a message to Molly’s parents? And ask them if they’d be willing to discreetly contact the Frank family in Sacred Heart’s parish? Pam got their phone number and address.”

“Pam? Pam Turner?”

“Yeah.”

“Love Pam.”

“Yeah, Pam’s great. Can you help me out, George? Please? I don’t want something like what happened to Molly Smith happen to the Frank girls… or anyone else.”

Silence.

“I’ll see what I can do, Charlie. This is my career you’re now putting at risk, too, you know? Why would the bishop give me any sort of premium position if he finds out I helped you get in the middle of this? He’d excommunicate me first.”

“Isn’t the well-being of the innocent of God’s flock more important than any career, George?”

Father Edwards heaved a deep sigh into the phone. “Is this what it’s going to be like to be your curate, Charlie? Are we going to constantly be at odds with the diocese?”

“Welcome aboard, my young padawan.”

“Jesus Christ, Charlie.”

After the allotted time for confession had passed, and he’d had a quick sandwich for lunch, he once again performed Mass for the small afternoon crowd. Shortly after two, he doffed his robes and informed the church secretary that he was taking the afternoon off. Then he was heading in the direction of the Guinea Pig Café, eager to see Kate again. The place wasn’t too busy when he arrived. He looked into the glass door of the café and saw her standing behind the counter. She looked up and saw him and smiled. That was a good sign.

Walking through the door, he scanned the tables inside. The place was definitely bigger than the last time he’d seen it, and it only looked about half full with afternoon patrons. A sign that read “Chatty Wednesday” in large letters written in chalk was on display. There was indeed some friendly chatter going on between the tables. A few people had looked up towards the door when the bell had dinged as he entered. By their reactions as he unzipped his anorak jacket, he knew his white clerical collar had been noticed.

He stepped up to the counter as she greeted him. “Hello, Father,” she said with a warm smile.

“Hello.”

He smiled at the look on her face, he smiled because he just couldn’t help himself. Just seeing her filled him with an uncontainable joy. Her smile broadened. Their eyes met and held. Her face softened and held such unmistakable affection, his heart started to pound beneath his ribs. They just stood there staring at each other for another moment.

“Can I get you a cup of tea? Or a coffee?”

“A coffee would be great. Thank you.”

He made to pull out his wallet, but she shook her head. “It’s on the house.”

“Thanks. That’s very kind of you.”

She shrugged. “It’s just coffee.”

A few people had walked in behind him, and after retrieving his hot cup, he made his way to an empty table by the window as she tended to her new customers. He picked up an abandoned copy of The Times and sat down to read.

“So, you must be Father What-a-Waste.”

Realising that a woman had taken the chair across the table from him, he lowered his paper. “I’m sorry?” he responded, confused, to a rather beautiful middle-aged woman with light brown hair smiling over her own steaming cup of coffee. “Father what?”

“What-A-Waste. I could tell it was you by the look on her face when you walked into the café.”

“Whose face?”

The woman laughed. “She had told me you were smart.”

He smiled, his stomach churning nervously. “You mean Kate.”

“Yes, of course I mean Kate.” She laughed. “You’re him. The priest. The hot one? Father What-a-Waste.”

He felt his cheeks go hot with embarrassment. “Er…”

“I’m guessing you have a real name… Father…?”

“Charlie.”

“Pleased to meet you, Father Charlie. I’m Belinda Friers.”

He still felt a bit confused as to why she was sitting there, talking to him. “Oh, um, right. Kate’s friend-slash-business partner.”

Belinda’s eyes lit up. “She’s talked about me?”

“Not as much as she’s talked about me, apparently.” He chuckled. “Uh, she briefly mentioned you when we ran into each other yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” She looked surprised. “Keeping secrets from me, is she?” Belinda smiled. “Well, as you can see, Father, it’s Chatty Wednesday around here, and I’m sure I’ll enjoy your company.”

“Likewise, I’m sure,” he replied, still feeling a bit red in the face as he set the newspaper aside. He turned to see Kate glancing over at them as she prepared fresh orders. He thought she looked a bit anxious.

“I bet she’s worried about what I might say,” Belinda astutely commented.

He responded with a non-committal sound. “Or what I might say.” He took a drink of his delicious coffee. “So, what do you do? Besides co-run a café?”

“Oh, I don’t help run the place. You could say I’m more of the financial backer, and a sounding board for ideas.”

She proceeded to tell him about her career thus far, the different businesses she’d worked for, positions she’d had, places she’d travelled. She asked him about his parish, what he liked about his job. They were soon on the subjects of university life and high school memories.

“I bet you were absolutely stunning,” he complimented her. “You must have had all the fellas after you.”

“Me? Hardly,” Belinda laughed. “My best mate, she was the one with the guys standing in line to date her. I’d just sit back and watch her date them and ditch them. She was funny that way. And I was totally in love with her, of course. But I was too shy and confused back then to do anything about it. She’s still funny. She writes books—romance novels. She writes about true love, but she doesn’t look for it. She says that when the time is right, true love will find her. Well, it’s been bloody decades, hasn’t it?”

“Do you believe in true love?” he asked her.

Belinda pursed her lips, giving it some thought. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d like to think so, but real love and relationships take work. They take patience, compromise. There are loads of people out there you might be compatible with if you’re willing to put in the necessary work. I sometimes wonder if the idea of there being only one true love is just a fantasy made up by people who never found someone to love.”

He sighed. “How depressing.”

“What’s depressing?”

“Never finding your true love.”

“No,” Belinda said. “For how can you miss something you never found? Never being able to have true love once you find it… now that’s depressing.”

His stomach flipped and he swallowed against the tightening of his throat. Unable to help himself, he turned to look at Kate, standing behind the counter tending to customers who’d just rushed in. The café was due to close in a few minutes.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Father?”

Kate must’ve felt his eyes on her because she turned her head to look at him. Their eyes locked for a moment, each searching and holding a yearning. No matter how hard he tried to control it, he still ached with a piercing longing for this woman’s love.

Kate was the first one to look away.

One by one, the café emptied of customers, and even Belinda donned her coat and bid him goodbye. He soon looked around and saw he was the only one left, and watched Kate turn over the “Closed” sign on the door. He thought she looked lovely, cosy and definitely if unremarkably feminine in a dark blue jumper decorated with a scarlet Santa hat atop the Christmas formula “Ho³” as a periodic table element, a short, but not too short, black skirt, thick black tights, and leather boots.

He chuckled at her jumper as she finally joined him at the table with her own steaming cup.

“Hi,” she said softly.

“Hi.”

They gazed silently at each other across the table. The words I love you hung unspoken in the air between them. He wanted to reach for her hand, to feel her warmth and strength and to reassure both of them that what they’d shared last summer hadn’t simply disappeared.

“So, have you been seeing anyone?” Once the words left his mouth, he regretted saying it.

She blinked, hesitating, and then answered, “Not anyone recently.”

Not recently? What was recent for her? One week? Two weeks? Five weeks?

“There was this guy I almost dated about a month ago,” she said.

“Ohh, almost dated,” he chuckled.

“Yeah, we met for drinks once, and he seemed normal, so that was good. But then it never got past this really disturbing phone call where the guy continuously put me on hold because he was insistent that there was a prowler outside his house. It sort of reminded me of you and the foxes thing. I told him not to call me again. So, yes, my recent love life has been rather exciting—a month ago I almost dated someone I now only remember as Mad Max.”

He laughed breathlessly, nodding.

“But I won’t lie… Up to that point I was going out on the occasional date. I happen to think it’s normal—even healthy—to experience attraction toward other people,” she said rather pointedly.

Lowering his eyes from her gaze, he sighed.

“I’m sorry. I… I didn’t mean for that to come out the way it did.”

“It’s fine. I get it.”

She attempted a smile. “And what about you? I didn’t corrupt you, did I? Send you down a path of fornication and other horrible sins?” she joked.

He laughed. “Nope. I’ve been keeping up my end of the bargain with God.”

“Good for you,” she said, but he couldn’t tell whether she sounded pleased or disappointed. Then she threw him a look of suspicion. “You didn’t… you know… Whack!” She swung her arm down in front of her lap.

Laughing again, he shook his head. “No, I didn’t castrate myself.”

“Thank God.”

Their eyes met, the corners of her mouth lifting playfully, and he felt the electricity between them surge. He saw her swallow hard, saw the movement of the creamy softness of her throat where he’d once kissed her, and felt his own throat tighten in response.

“So, is God keeping up His end of the bargain?” she said, the tension easing slightly with her words.

His lips parted. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve made a vow of celibacy for Him, right? What is He giving you in return? What are you getting out of the bargain that you couldn’t have if you weren’t celibate?”

He opened his mouth to answer her, but no answer came. To his horror, he suddenly felt dangerously close to tears. He blinked hard, and swallowed, shoving the raw emotion down.

She must have seen his internal struggle in his face, because then she smiled and said, “It’s okay, you don’t have to answer.”

There was so much he wanted to say to her, and yet didn’t know what to say. He felt more conflicted than ever about his vocation, about the Church and its dealings, but at the same time, he’d never been more sure of how he felt about her.

“So, what do you do with yourself once the café closes for the day?” he finally said, changing the subject.

“Well, most days I go for a run in the afternoon after I close the café.”

He gave her a knowing smile as he nodded his understanding. “At the cemetery.”

“Yeah,” she laughed. “If Claire’s in town, then I try to spend some time with her. On the occasional evening or weekend, I cater parties or other events. Been really busy lately with the holiday. And…” Her cheeks turned pink. “Well, about three months ago, Belinda came up with this mad idea that I should start a YouTube channel for the café. Make videos of just… me being me… working here in the café. So, we made a foodie channel, I suppose, or a cooking channel… I don’t know, it’s a bit of a mixed bag. But Belinda thought it’d be a hilarious idea that could bring in more business. And of course, she was right.”

He stared at her in surprise. “You… you’ve got your own YouTube channel?”

“Yep. And we made an Instagram page for the café, too. One or two videos get uploaded to the channel every week. I even hired a couple uni students to be my videographer and editor. It’s going really well actually.”

“Oh, wow. That’s amazing.”

She smiled in response, but said nothing. An awkward silence descended on the table. He rubbed a hand along his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble against his palm.

She looked out the window. “I wish it would snow. Some winters we get a lot of snow and then others we don’t,” she said. “It doesn’t really feel like Christmas unless it snows.”

He followed her gaze to the window. It was a grey, misty painting of a London afternoon, the cold, weak light of a winter sun struggling for attention behind a low blanket of clouds. Christmas lights were strung up but unlit between the lamp posts, the festive reds and greens of holly, Santas, crackers, and pine trees were decorating the shop-front displays.

He asked about the café, about her flat, her friendship with Belinda, what she liked to do in the evenings when she wasn’t working. She asked him about St. Ethelred’s and his restaurant reviews, what he liked to do in the evenings when he wasn’t busy with “church stuff.” They talked about music, about books they’d read this year, films and television programmes they’d seen.

They talked about everything except their families.

They talked about everything except the past.

They talked about everything except what they were truly thinking about.

Eventually every safe topic seemed to have been exhausted. They’d talked until the sun set and the dark street became ablaze with Christmas lights. They sat quietly, a companionable silence descending on the table.

“This feels like something out of a dream,” she told him as she looked down at the cup of tea between her hands on the table.

“What does?” he asked.

“This. You being here. Us sitting together, talking.” She looked up at him. “I had hoped something like this would happen, I admit. After you walked away from that bus stop, I think I spent the next week hoping you’d come for me. That you’d call or text or just… show up at my door like some guy from a romantic comedy film, make some grand gesture to show me you regretted losing me. But you didn’t.”

He reached for her across the table. He hated that he’d hurt her. “Kate, I—”

She moved her hand back, preventing his touch. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine. Anyway, after you didn’t come around, I toyed with the idea of showing up at the church, or somehow putting myself in your path. That I’d show up and you’d see me and realise what a mistake you’d made. That you’d take one look at me and realise how much you love me. That you’d tell me I was worth giving up anything—everything.” She swallowed. “I actually walked over to St. Ethelred’s one Sunday, paced outside the church. But then I realised how stalkerish that was.”

He laughed breathlessly, shaking his head. He could definitely relate.

“You can’t trick or manipulate someone into loving you.”

“I don’t have to be tricked or manipulated into loving you. I already…” He trailed off, stopping himself from finishing the sentence.

Suddenly it was just Charlie and Kate, staring at each other across the table. He looked at her, the faint rosiness in her cheeks, and emotion clawed at his heart. She didn’t look any different, every bit the beauty he’d been drawn to when he’d first laid eyes on her at that restaurant.

As if on cue, snow began falling outside the windows of the café, big silver flakes that hung in glittering cones from the black-iron lamp posts. He watched the snow for a moment. “Looks like you got your Christmas wish,” he said, smiling.

“Yes, I did.”

Something in her voice made him turn from the window and look at her. Their eyes met, and he knew she hadn’t meant the snowfall.

Being there with her, he was overcome with a powerful feeling that he was part of something, as if he was just one half of the whole. He knew it was because of her, having her by his side once again, the most fascinating woman he’d ever met.

“If you could have anything this Christmas, what would it be?” she asked, still looking into his eyes.

“I wish… I wish…” He was trying to come up with something funny, something to steer the conversation away from where it was now heading. But it was useless.

“I don’t think I need to say that, out loud… You already know the answer.”

They were both quiet for a moment, staring at each other. Her brown eyes filled with affection for him. Desperate longing compelled him, a boldness swept over him, and he reached across the table, palm up, silently encouraging her to take his hand.

Crossing an invisible line.

The corners of her mouth lifted, and she slid her palm over his, allowing him to twine his fingers with hers. For a heartbeat, for two, for three, tension hung between them, a thousand unspoken words and emotions. He shifted in his seat, unable to keep his gaze off her. She was so intense, so sensual, so… there.

“I’ve really missed you,” he confessed. Oh, God, what was he doing?

“I’ve missed you, too.”

The connection of their bodies brought a renewed buzz of humming energy to him, but he gave her hand a squeeze before letting her go.

Seemingly embarrassed, she pulled her hand down to her lap and tore her gaze from him. Her eyes returned to the street outside the café. Neither of them spoke for several long moments.

“Will you come back to see me tomorrow?” she asked, breaking the quiet. “We’re filming for the channel in the afternoon. Could be a bit of fun… if you wanted to drop by.” Her eyes were pleading with him.

He knew he should say no, should get the hell out of there and find the strength to stay away, before it was too late and he reached the point of no return. He knew he should refuse her, but his better judgement was overcome by his love and need for her.

“You really want me to come back?”

There was so much love and desire emblazoned in her eyes when she smiled and murmured, “Yes, I want you to.”

“Okay then,” he answered, smiling with his heart in his eyes. “I’ll come.”

Chapter Text

On Wednesday, after leaving the café, the Priest walked back to Highgate. Thoughts of her filled his head. They shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be tempted. Hell, he knew the reason why.

Sex.

He wanted to kiss her warm mouth again, feel the silkiness of her dark hair. If they spent more time together, the outcome seemed inevitable. He knew they’d end up exactly as they had before, and yet perhaps the outcome would be different this time. He couldn’t stop thinking of her, of the easy way she made him smile and laugh as he hadn’t in far too long. She was a balm to his soul—she made him feel alive again. She was a woman and he was a man. After five long, lonely, miserable months, maybe he was finally ready to throw caution to the wind and act on that fact without restraint.

And it was more than just sex. He was in love. He knew he shouldn’t be, wasn’t allowed to be. The risk was dangerous, could completely turn his world upside down. But maybe she already had. There was no denying that she was the one he needed.

Upon returning to the rectory, he shut himself away in his brown study. Turning on his computer, he quickly found Kate’s YouTube channel: “The Guinea Pig Café.” The channel had a video series entitled, “Oh, Crêpe!”

He couldn’t help but laugh, and was a bit surprised to see just how many subscribers her channel had. He then proceeded to absorb all fourteen videos like a thirsty sponge. She was beautiful and witty and—Belinda was right—hilarious:

“A guinea pig is a perfect pet. They only live for five days, and you don’t have to feed or water them.”

“Yeah, I’m into fitness… Fitness whole cupcake in my mouth!”

“Soup of the Day: the tears of my enemies.”

Kate had everything covered in five-to-twenty-minute bites, from morning yoga with Hilary the guinea pig (“Poga”), to how to brew the perfect cup of coffee (“Sometimes I go hours without coffee… It’s called sleeping.”), to how to make the best chocolate cake (“Remember: stressed is desserts spelt backwards.”). Occasionally, she had guests in her videos.

“This is my older sister, Claire,” she said in one episode. Her sister walked into view and shot the camera an annoyed look. Like Kate, she wore a ridiculously cute apron, pink and white stripes with ruffles around the edges. They looked like they belonged working inside a sweet shop from the 1950’s.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Claire huffed.

“I’m going to teach you, and our viewers, how to make the perfect canapes,” Kate explained, smiling at the screen.

“But why the hell do I need to learn?” her sister complained. “I’ll never make them. If I ever need canapes, I’ll just have you do it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Claire. It’s just a video.”

Watching the screen, he kept on laughing. In another episode, she had a guest named Toby Brockman, a middle-aged man whom she introduced as her friend, the bank manager. Like Kate, he wore a blue apron with the café’s guinea pig logo over his clothes, which happened to be a suit and tie.

“Today we’re making our Saturday lunch special,” she announced on the video. “The Atomic Creampie Burger with a side of Blue Balls.”

The bank manager shot a deadpan look at the camera. “Oh, dear.”

She went through a stuffed burger recipe featuring a cream cheese-and-diced-jalapeño mixture enclosed in the middle of the patty before cooking, and then combined three different cheeses—including creamy blue cheese—into a paste, before rolling the paste into balls, covering them with Panko crumbs, and frying them in oil.

Kate smiled as Toby the Bank Manager took a bite of the burger, the cream cheese oozing out of the middle. “This has a lot of flavour, and… Oh wow, that is spicy,” he commented.

She turned to the camera and winked. “Atomic.”

He hummed while he chewed, and then looked down at the burger in his hands. “What has it got in it?”

“You literally just helped me make it,” she retorted, laughing, before throwing an exasperated look at the camera.

Then he sampled the blue cheese balls. “Mmm… Delicious.”

“So, what do you think of our weekly Saturday special, Toby?”

“Well, you’re actually getting a lot of cheese with this lunch. It’s in the burger. The balls are fried, and cheese is naturally fatty as well. It’s uh… sort of an edible cardiac arrest.”

She bent over laughing. “Gee, thanks!”

“At my age, when your arteries are flaring up, you need to start thinking about things like that.”

“Do you want me to schedule you an appointment with the NHS for a health check?” she joked.

“Already had one last month,” he answered sincerely.

“For fuck’s sake,” she hissed under her breath. “You’re never doing another video again.”

“That’s what you said the last time. But I’ve seen the comments—the people love me.”

She could only shake her head at the camera and laugh.

Smiling, Charlie then moved the computer mouse to hover over the link to a video posted in November entitled, “How to Make Soup for the Poor.” He was chuckling before he’d even clicked on it. Kate appeared behind the café counter, wearing a cook’s costume straight out of Downton Abbey. She also held a cigarette in one hand, and with her arms crossed, she smirked tantalisingly at the screen.

“Hello everyone, and welcome back to another episode of ‘Oh, Crêpe!’ at the Guinea Pig Café.” She smiled at the camera. “We really appreciate you clicking away from the porn.”

The video then cut to her standing at the worktop of a kitchen island, still in full Victorian costume. “To celebrate the café’s renovation, including this amazing new kitchen, we’re going to do something extra special today.”

Another cut, and Kate was joined by her sister and a man with blonde hair, who seemed as equally excited to be there as Claire was annoyed. “What the fuck?” she had exclaimed when she’d first laid eyes on her sister’s costume.

Kate’s brow furrowed with a look of confusion at the sudden appearance of her sister. “I thought you said you weren’t going to help. I distinctly remember the words ‘actively unhelpful’ being uttered.”

“I did say that. Klare and Belinda changed my mind.” She scrunched up her face. “Do we have to put on fancy dress, too?”

“Well, you’re here now, so just go with it, Claire, for fuck’s sake.”

He laughed as the video quickly cut to the three of them—now all clad in Victorian costume—standing behind the kitchen island, with Kate in the middle. She began to speak to the camera.

“Ooh, good morning. Please say hello to my favourite couple in the world.” She turned and smiled. “Hi, Claire,” she said to her sister. Kate turned to the man who was clearly the Finnish beau she had told him about at the cemetery. “Hi, Klare.”

She turned to the camera, smirking. “Hi, Klare.”

Another quick cut, and then, simpering in a fake posh accent, “Thank you for joining us here at Cockermouth Castle—”

“Oh, good Lord—” Claire covered her face with her hand while Klare giggled.

“I’ve just got back from seeing Lady Cockfoster,” Kate went on as if Claire hadn’t spoken. “She organises many charitable initiatives, from blankets for the needy, to the collection of old toys for children, to supplying premium opium stock for the local den on Ladyhole Lane.”

“Oh, my God.” Claire burned bright red and couldn’t look at the camera. Klare’s smile only got wider as his chest and shoulders shook with silent laughter.

Kate continued. “Today, Lady Cockfoster has asked me to make a hearty soup for the poor of Tiddlywink parish. It needs to be tasty and filling. For this recipe, you will need—”

Amused, the Priest watched as a list of ingredients were shown on the screen, and then soon all three participants were chopping, dicing, and mincing.

“This is going to turn out horrendous.”

“Shut up, Claire,” Kate spat, her normal accent returning.

Klare could not stop giggling.

After they had gone through each step of the recipe, a time lapse brought the video to the final result: two large boiling pots of soup. Kate ladled the soup into three bowls, and then watched as her sister lifted the spoon to her mouth.

“Oh, my gosh… That is delicious,” Claire said, flabbergasted. “Did you really make that?”

Kate lifted her own spoon to her lips, looking a bit smug as she turned to face the camera. “Told you.”

“This is so yummy,” Klare agreed, eating his soup with gusto. “Really. It’s so good. The beef is tender, the vegetables are cooked perfectly, the broth is very good. It has all the things to make an excellent soup.”

The video then cut to a montage of different café customers ordering the “Soup of the Day” from Kate (standing behind the counter now sans the Victorian dress, apron, and chef hat), and enjoying the dish as they sat around the tables, chatting and laughing. Another montage showcased Jake Hoffman, Claire’s stepson, on his bicycle, going to different shelters, foodbanks, charity organisations, and churches, putting up flyers advertising a free hot meal for those in need. The final montage showed a tent erected in the small car park behind the café, tables and chairs set up underneath it, and people queueing to receive a hot bowl of soup and some crusty bread from Kate, Claire, and Klare.

As the video came to an end, the Priest gaped at the number of views: over two million. He was both surprised and yet not at all.

That night, his sleep was dreamless and he woke up feeling better than he had in months. Not since that July morning he’d woken up in Kate’s bed had he felt this good. But he also felt unutterably lonely. He had somehow expected to see her when he opened his eyes. It only made him long for their reunion later that afternoon.

Once he’d finished his duties for the day, he again told the church secretary that he was taking the afternoon off, and at two o’clock he left his office and made for the café. After a brisk fifteen-minute walk, he arrived. There was a “Closed” sign on the door, but lights were on inside. When he knocked, it opened, allowing him to step inside.

“Hi!” Kate greeted.

“Hello,” he said with a smile. He glanced at the sign where “Chatty Wednesday” had been written yesterday. It now read: “Unattended children will be given a free puppy and taught to swear.”

He chuckled, and turned back to look at her.

She returned his smile, closing and locking the door behind him. “Come on in. Belinda beat you by ten minutes. Everyone’s in the back. We’ve been filming for almost two hours already.”

He followed her to the brightly-lit kitchen. Charlie saw that Belinda was there, as were a young man and woman whom he guessed were the uni students Kate had hired to shoot her YouTube videos. As he stood there, he could see them hovering around three different cameras, a tripod, and some audio equipment in front of the island. Kate then got down to business, checking with Belinda that they had all the ingredients at the ready.

“What have you been filming today?”

“Sandwiches,” Belinda answered. “They’ve been at it all afternoon. Nice to see you again, Father.”

“Likewise.” He tried to keep his face passive when she threw a knowing glance between him and Kate.

He shook hands with the two students, Jourdane and Rosemary, who then quickly went back to work.

From behind the island, Kate said, “Okay, we ready to go?”

“Yes, darling. But you’ve forgotten something.” When Kate looked blank, Belinda grinned broadly, and said, “The costume?”

“Costume.” Very slowly, the look of realisation dawned on her face. “Oh, right. The costume.”

“Are you putting on fancy dress for this?” Charlie asked.

Three pairs of wide eyes turned to the froths of nonsense hanging on a rack at the back of the kitchen. A foreboding silence fell. Kate walked over and playfully lifted one of the dresses from its hanger, before holding the pink-and-white material against Belinda’s body. “Suits madam a treat,” she simpered in the voice of an overenthusiastic salesgirl.

“I’m not wearing that bloody thing!”

“I’m not either! I draw the line here, Belinda. I’d look like fucking Bo Peep! Shall we rent some lambs and get me a shepherd’s hook?”

Both women dissolved into laughter. Belinda turned to Charlie. “Isn’t she a tonic?”

“She is,” he agreed, smiling while he watched them, feeling like the odd man out for a moment before they both turned their smiles on him.

“Would you mind helping us out with the video today, Father?” Belinda asked.

He started to emphatically shake his head, his eyes darting to the fluffy pink monstrosity of a dress. “I’m not wearing that fucking thing either!”

“No, no, no,” Kate reassured him. “I told Belinda about your restaurant reviews—”

“And I thought we could get you on tape trying one of Kate’s sandwiches, and then give a review.”

He eyed the cameras skeptically. “Er…”

“All you’d have to do is take a bite of a sandwich, and then give your immediate reaction,” Belinda said.

Even though he still felt hesitant, he acquiesced. “Okay. I… I suppose I can do that.”

“Excellent. And be sure to keep your collar on,” she winked. “The people will love it.”

He swivelled around to Kate and pointed to his clothes. “I guess this is my costume.”

She laughed and told him he didn’t have to stand in the kitchen and watch the “boring parts.” After making him a cup of tea, he sat down in the dining area and played with Hilary the guinea pig and Stephanie the hamster, a new addition. Not long after he’d finished his tea, Belinda called him back to the kitchen.

To his relief, Kate wasn’t dressed as a nun or in some other crazy costume. She wore the typical blue apron with the Guinea Pig Café logo. His gaze roamed over her face and hair. She was lovely. His heart fluttered at the sight of her. After he joined her behind the kitchen island, Jourdane the Videographer fixed a small microphone to Charlie’s black shirt. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

Jourdane chuckled. “Don’t worry. Just follow Kate’s lead, be yourself, and pretend the camera’s not on.”

He frowned as the student walked away to stand behind the tripod. Easier said than done.

“We’re just having a conversation between ourselves, okay?” Kate told him. “I’ll go easy on you.”

“Ha-ha. Thanks,” he replied, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Soon the green light came on over the camera lens. After doing her normal introduction to the channel, she then introduced her special guest as her “friend,” Father Brennan of St. Ethelred’s Catholic Church, whose hobby was eating at different London restaurants and writing reviews for the parish’s monthly newsletter.

“Hello, everyone,” he said, looking at the camera lens.

“So, today you’re going to try our Sunday lunch special—”

He looked down at the two plated sandwiches in front of them on the worktop, the ones she’d spent the last hour filming as she made them. “Looks good.”

“—called the Sabbath Day Hangover Helper.”

Unable to help himself, he started to laugh. “Of course, it is. What’s in it?”

She smirked at the camera. “So glad you asked, Father. There’s cooked egg, ham, and smoked cheddar cheese on a toasted onion bagel, with a special sauce.”

“It smells delicious.”

“Give it a try, Father, and tell us what you think.”

“All right.” Charlie contemplated the sandwich a moment, then picked it up and took a bite. “The egg is perfectly cooked and isn’t too salty, the ham is delicious, and you can’t go wrong with melted cheese. It’s very nice.”

“Thank you.”

“And the sauce—” He took another bite, then felt a warm tingling begin at the back of his throat. Then suddenly his eyes went wide. He coughed. “Wow. The spice really sneaks up on you.” Seconds later, his mouth felt enflamed. “That is really fucking hot!” he said, gasping.

She laughed and turned to the camera. “Did I forget to mention he’s a cool, sweary priest?”

“Why is this so spicy?”

“That would be the special sauce. Feeling a bit hot under the collar?” She laughed.

“It hits you by surprise. There’s a slight delay. Are there chilies in there?”

“Indeed, there are, Father. It’ll definitely cure your hangover in time to say morning Mass.”

“Jesus Christ. I feel like I’m on a tropical beach, but it’s like I’m getting a suntan from the inside.”

She just kept right on laughing. He could also hear the laughter of Jourdane and Rosemary behind the cameras as well as Belinda at the back of the room. He was breathing hard; his mouth felt as if on fire. Sweat was beading on his brow. From behind the camera, Rosemary handed him a glass of milk.

“I’m contemplating my life choices,” he said, breathing hard as he lifted the glass to his mouth.

“I think you should, Father,” she purred suggestively.

Their eyes met and held, and they stood there staring at each other for one sizzling moment, a totally different kind of heat suddenly warming him up from the inside out.

But then he took another bite to break the rising tension and the heat inside his mouth overpowered him once more. “I mean, it really is a delicious sandwich, and it’s quite moreish, but…” He took some deep breaths. “Mary, mother of God, it’s so fucking spicy. I still want more, though.”

“So, how would you say this compares to other breakfast sandwiches you’ve had? Say, the egg, ham, and cheese you could get at McDonald’s?”

“Are you kidding? It’s like Conference Football versus Premier League, you know?” He looked around the kitchen. “Do you have any other sandwiches for me to try?”

She giggled. “Sorry. Not today, Father.”

“Damn.”

“You’ll just have to keep coming back for more.”

He nodded, laughing to himself. “I guess I will.”

In that instant their eyes locked and there was an undeniable chemistry. Tension ignited between them again, that electric spark of desire. Sensual awareness coursed through him, sending heat up and down his body, causing tension to coil low and deep inside him. Unthinkingly, he licked the corners of his lips. First one side, then the other.

Kate caught her breath at the spark that arced between them. They laughed, nervously, but it seemed to cut the tension tremendously. “So, how’s your mouth feel? Still burning?”

“Not just my mouth. My insides. Have you ever heard the hymn where it says something like, ‘Jesus set my heart on fire?’” he said, expelling a heavy breath. “I’m feeling that right now.”

“Looks like you’ve got a title for your next review,” she joked, winking playfully at the camera, and he laughed.

Everyone clapped and cheered after the cameras stopped rolling. “That's a wrap!” Kate announced. “We’re done!”

“How was it?” Charlie asked her.

“It was great. See? Told you there was nothing to worry about. Easy and painless, right?”

His mouth was still burning from the chilies. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say painless,” he said, and she laughed.

“I hope you had fun.”

He nodded. “I always have fun with you. Doesn’t matter what we’re doing.”

Her eyes went soft with affection. “Same.” She paused. “Although that doesn’t mean I’m down for another Quaker meeting.”

“Right,” he replied, laughing.

“I’m glad you got to join in,” she told him. “We wouldn’t have normally filmed today. We usually film on Mondays, when the café is closed, and on Tuesday afternoons. But this week, Jourdane’s mother needed him to take her to an appointment, so we rescheduled for today. And then turns out, they get to the place, and his mother had written down the wrong date. The appointment’s next week.”

He thought about that a moment. “So, the other day when you were jogging and found me at your mother’s grave…”

“I know, right? I might not have been there if Jourdane’s mum hadn’t made that mistake. We would’ve been filming at the café on Tuesday afternoon.”

Was all of this a miracle, an answer to his prayers, plain old luck, fate, destiny, or simple coincidence? Whatever it was, it felt amazing and perfect. Throughout his life, significant people had been placed in his path at the perfect time when he’d needed them the most. He believed without a shadow of a doubt that in his tumultuous youth, God had sent him Colleen Maguire as a stabilising force of love and kindness, saving him from the lecherous, self-destructive path he’d been on. In the same way he believed God had sent Father Jim to help him.

He watched Kate cross the kitchen to speak with Belinda, leaving him to ponder.

Rosemary and Jourdane started packing up the video equipment. One by one, the others left, until Charlie and Kate were alone inside the café. He watched her shrug on her black coat.

“Do you want to go out for a proper meal?” she asked him. “There’s this great Indian place near my flat. It’s one of those typical places with the red flocked walls, starched pink tablecloths, and a huge picture of the Taj Mahal. But the food is fantastic and dinner for two will only cost a tenner.”

She smiled at him and his heart swelled. He couldn’t help his mind flying to what might happen after the meal, and whether or not they’d wind up back at her flat. He didn’t think he’d have the strength to resist if she invited him inside.

“Uh… yeah. I could eat.” Then reality came back to smack him in the face. His evening wasn’t free. Glancing at his watch, he almost couldn’t believe the time. “Damn. I can’t. I have group Bible study tonight, and it starts in an hour. I should be getting back to prepare for it.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Bible study. That’s what you said on Tuesday…”

“That was the singles group study. Tonight’s group is for families—married couples, parents with their children.”

“Right.”

He could feel the disappointment seeping from her. He couldn’t help feeling slightly disappointed himself. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. You have responsibilities.”

“Yeah.”

They went outside and he watched her lock up the café. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet. “Do you want me to walk you home?”

She looked at him. “I thought you said you had to be getting back?”

“But your flat isn’t far, and I’m heading in that direction, anyway. I’ll get back to the church on time. And you really shouldn’t be walking around at night by yourself.”

“It’s only six-thirty.”

“Yes, but it’s dark. I’d feel better if I could see you safely home.”

They stared at each other, remembering the last time he’d been to her flat, the moment lengthening until the tension was palpable. He could just make out her pulse beating in her throat, and God Almighty, he wanted to kiss her right there and taste her skin.

“Well, okay, then.” She smiled, and the expression in her eyes nearly unglued him.

Her flat truly wasn’t far from the café. Wordlessly, they walked to her door and stood there looking at each other, comfortable with the tension, with their desire in check.

“Well, thanks for walking me home.”

“My pleasure.”

“And thanks for today. I know we sort of just sprung that on you back there with no notice, and I’m sure you weren’t planning on spending hours at the café—”

“It’s okay. I enjoyed myself. It was fun. I always have fun with you.” He assured her with a smile.

She returned his smile, but it was the light in her eyes that answered him. “Good. I always have fun with you, too. Well, everyone thinks you’re great. Rosemary and Jourdane said the cameras loved you.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Well, I’m pleased I could help out a little. When will the video be posted?” he asked curiously.

“On YouTube? Probably in the next week or two. The footage we shot today as well as on Monday needs to be edited down into a cohesive episode.”

The tension between the two of them was still palpable, electric. They stood silently, looking at each other. Kate pushed her hair back from her forehead. “Can I see you again?” she said, breaking the quiet.

He knew he should say no, should tell her that it wasn’t a good idea. That running into her again and spending some time with her had been wonderful, but they should end it here. That they’d only wind up repeating history and getting hurt. He should say no, and then spend the rest of his life praying very, very hard to resist such lovely temptation, but he was useless. He wanted to keep seeing her. He wanted her. More than anything.

“Do you want to come over to mine for Christmas lunch? Or… Christmas tea? I know you’re probably quite busy on the day, but if you had a window of free time... and you’d like to have a meal…”

He smiled, but he hesitated in responding. A part of him knew it would not be a good idea to be alone with her in her flat, but an even larger part of him wanted to accept the invitation. “Er…”

“I’ll cook and you’ll bring the G&T’s. You’re alone, I’m alone. Might as well have a meal together on the most holiest of days,” she said in a tone of faux reverence, the corners of her mouth twitching as she fought off a grin.

The thought of spending more time with her filled him with both joy and anguish. “I don’t know if that’s—”

She huffed. “Oh, come on. Please? I really can’t bear the thought of you spending Christmas in that rectory all by yourself.”

He looked her over, contemplating a moment. “On one condition.”

Her beautiful brown eyes glittered in the dark. “Name it.”

“You come to St. Ethelred’s for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, and I’ll come to you on Monday for Christmas lunch.”

Pursing her lips, she shook her head. “Damn.”

“You won’t get one without the other, I’m afraid,” he said to her, brows arching.

Her eyes narrowed. “Well, Father, I see you’re still as stubborn and persistent as ever.”

“It’s the Irish in me,” he replied, grinning. “You know, compromise is important for lasting… friendships, and must be on both sides.”

“Friendships, huh?” She smiled, but he sensed her hesitation.

“When was the last time you attended a Christmas Mass?”

“Um…” Emotions flickered over her face, her expression darkening for a moment, but then just as quickly brightening again. “It’s been a few years…” She continued to hesitate, and then, finally, “Oh, all right. It’s a deal. But just this once.”

He beamed a smile, and she returned it. The joy radiated from her beautiful face. “I guess I’ll see you at church on Sunday, Father,” she said, her voice taking on that familiar sly, suggestive tone he’d come to know and love. “Christmas Eve. It’s a date.”

He chuckled, and his stomach fluttered nervously. “A date…”

She took a step towards him, and his heart started pounding. “Look, you don’t have to worry about… I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour. I’m not gonna make a move on you and tempt you into sin, or anything. I’ve had a lot of time to think these past five months, and I really just… miss my friend, the priest, and I’d rather be friends with you and have you in my life than not have you at all.”

His heart swelled inside his chest as he smiled at her.

“If that’s… if that’s okay with you. If you can’t… be friends… I, I… I understand. Really, I do.”

He could see she was allowing herself to be vulnerable, and knew that wasn’t an easy thing for her. “Is that all you want? To just be friends?”

“If that’s all you’re capable of, then… yes.”

“Friends, then,” he said, nodding.

She smiled. “Friends.”

Friends. But he saw the warm flush of her skin, the desire in her eyes, and his own deep, brown eyes reflected it back to her. He saw it and he wanted her so badly he could taste her. She looked at him, no shame in her gaze. He knew she wanted him, too. And more than that. He could see it in her eyes. She still loved him. She was in love with him.

“Just friends,” he repeated, moving towards her.

Tension swirled around them; yearning permeated the air.

A better priest would have resisted. A better priest would have done the right thing.

But what harm would it do? What harm could such love possibly do?

He allowed himself to be drawn again towards the body he wanted more than anything else in all creation. His arms wrapped around her waist, and he pulled her closer, felt the melting warmth of her as her hands went to his biceps.

She swallowed and licked her lips. “Just friends?”

“We wouldn’t last a week,” he murmured, tilting his head towards her, closing the distance between them. The move was akin to striking a match. Something caught, flared even before their mouths met. Her smile widened, but she might as well have doused him with sexual petroleum.

Instant fire.

He noticed the surprised delight in her face in the split second before they met in a built-up, tension-filled kiss. Her lips were so sweet, and soft, like sliding on silk. And her body fit against him as if she were born to be his. She settled into his embrace as if she’d been there a hundred times. His whole body tightened from the chemical reaction. And below his belt, he knew exactly what she was doing to him. But the crazy, wild kiss had very little of unbridled lust in it. It was a making-up-for-lost-time kiss. An acknowledgement of these months filled with longing and loneliness. The many nights he’d been alone. How fiercely he’d missed believing there would ever be someone to talk to, be with. How rich, how heady, how mountain-tall a man could feel with a woman who cared about him.

All the reasons they should stay apart crumbled as he kissed her. He felt his soul being emerged in a thick pool of tenderness and contentment. He felt a wonderful sense of coming home with her in his arms. As if they’d never be able to get along out there in the world without each other; they were a perfect match, in every way.

Her hands clutched his jacket and then slid, softly and slowly, around his neck. He sank one hand into her short curly hair. The thick, midnight silk of it drove him mad. While he was listing reasons for his insanity, he’d have to add the way her lips tasted and the way she pressed against him without holding back. Resisting a massive rush of temptation, he did nothing to prolong the kiss, letting her set the pace. But she was kissing him back as though she hadn’t met a man who mattered to her in the past four, five hundred years. She opened her mouth for him eagerly, he tasted her more deeply, savouring the warmth and wet beyond her parted lips, and all other thought vanished as the kiss turned to liquid passion.

Heat ran through his body, and his heart thundered like never before. The entire world faded away, and only the two of them existed. Her feminine scent, something perfumy mixed with her own natural essence, was so enticing that the urge to pull her even closer and deepen the kiss was almost irresistible. He had no idea if minutes or hours passed, nor did he care. The whole world had turned down to slow-motion, as if life had been kind enough to give them a time-out, and nothing existed, not in this moment, but the two of them and a kiss that neither of them could seem to let go of.

Then she broke away to catch her breath.

His mind and emotions were swimming. He stared at her, whose expression was equally dazed. She smiled at him as if she was waking from some dream. “Father?”

He wasn’t sure what she was asking. Her voice was husky, low, shy. Hurtable, he recognised. Underneath her sensual seductive wiles and her comedic defense mechanisms and her free feminist spirit, there lay a sensitive sweetness and a heart that could easily break.

“Was that okay? I don’t want to do anything you don’t—”

She leaned closer and pressed her soft, sweet mouth to his again, and he revelled in her affection. The feel of her lips on his, kissing him back, was extraordinary. Then she pulled away and smiled warmly, her face flushed.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He grinned.

She nodded. “You can do that anytime you want.” Her eyes caressed him. “Can I see you tomorrow? And… Saturday? The thought of waiting until Sunday night…”

He gulped, feeling his groin tighten at the sensual plea in her voice. “I don’t know. These few days leading up to Christmas are just tremendously busy for me with the parish. There’s a lot that needs to be done. I’d like to see you, but it’ll be hard for me to get away. Let’s just definitely plan for Christmas Eve, but if I can find some time to see you before then, I promise I will.”

Her eyes sparkled with joy and love.

His heart swelled at the sight. He loved her—he felt it down to his toes.

“Goodnight, Charlie.”

It was the first time she hadn’t called him ‘Father’ since they had run into each other two days ago. He stepped forward and kissed her tenderly on the cheek. “Goodnight, Kate.”

Then with a slight bow of his head and a smile, he turned and walked away.

“You fucking fool,” he mumbled as he reached the end of her road, castigating himself for once again following the path to temptation. Yet, he felt great. As he walked back toward the church in the chill winter evening, he felt an excitement he’d not felt since the summer, which then had been the kind of excitement he had not felt since he was nineteen when he’d met his first true love.

He knew firsthand the fullness of life, the peace, and the happiness a romantic relationship can bring. But he also knew the heartbreak, tragedy, and despair this kind of relationship can bring to one’s life. The kind of heartbreak and despair he never wanted to experience again.

But if his faith had taught him anything over the last ten years, it was that life was stronger than death. Hope was stronger than fear. Love made all things possible.

The tempest of emotions that had once raged through him—doubt, fear, shame—when he walked away from her at that bus stop, had all but disappeared. It was a hard truth he’d had to accept. He could not control his passion for her, and even though he’d continuously prayed to God to take the burden of this love and passion from him, to give him the strength to stay away from her, his prayers had gone unanswered.

His love for her was stronger than any other emotion that he felt.

His love for her was stronger than life.

His love for her had overcome all other considerations, even his eternal soul.

The real question was now that he’d realised this about himself, what was he going to do about it?

His heart still thundering, his mind sending up fervent thanks to God for bringing her back to him just when he needed her most, he walked in the direction of St. Ethelred’s, unable to feel the ground beneath his feet.

*****

That night following the group Bible study at the church, when he was back home in the rectory, Charlie noticed the light flashing on the answerphone in his study. He played the message, and immediately Bishop Harington’s angry voice filled the room. Apparently, George Edwards had done as he’d suggested and confronted the bishop about the assistant priest position.

“Do you dare to oppose my will, Father Brennan?” blustered Harington. “Do bishops have no authority anymore? This is insufferable! I find your attitude both insolent and disgraceful!”

The man was on a tirade.

Fucking sanctimonious arsehole.

Charlie was informed he was expected to come in for a meeting the following morning, and then the message came to an abrupt end, silence again pervading the room.

He thought he should be upset, that he should feel angry, frustrated, overwhelmed, but he didn’t. His initial heated reaction to the bishop lifted from him, letting him see beyond. He felt strangely calm and determined to take on whatever arose at the upcoming meeting.

Following Mass on Friday morning, he walked to Archway Station and took the bus. Forty-five minutes later, he arrived at Victoria Station in Central London. A short walk from the station brought him to his destination. Westminster Cathedral was usually an awe-inspiring sight for Charlie, but it didn’t evoke that feeling today as he approached the historical site. As he made his way up the stone steps of the diocesan building next to the cathedral, the Archbishop’s House, he found himself worrying about what might transpire inside.

Was he truly ready to walk away from this life if he had to? Not since Colleen’s death, had he been more depressed, anxious, and confused after he’d left Kate behind at the bus stop. He’d spent so many years suppressing his desires, his needs, and what she had reawakened inside him could no longer be repressed. There were times when he had felt low enough to see a psychiatrist, but whomever he saw would only give him a bunch of pills. Several times he considered going back to Dublin and visiting Father Jim. But he hadn’t. Instead, he had gone back to anesthetising his pain with whisky almost every night.

I just have to quit living a lie, he thought to himself as he entered the sparkling white stone edifice to face his superior.

What he really wanted was the love he’d only just started to experience with Kate. But it wasn’t just that. Certain prevailing attitudes and practices within the Church, things that had always bothered him but he’d managed not to dwell on, were getting under his skin now more than ever. He had not told anyone how tore up he felt inside, managing, he thought, to put on a good front even with Pam. It was time to stop pretending.

He was greeted by the friendly face of Mary Weston, Bishop McClenaghan’s personal secretary, who told him, to his surprise, that his meeting would not be with Bishop Harington. She ushered him into McClenaghan’s office, which looked warmer and more inviting than what he remembered of Harington’s, but it could just be the bishop’s personality. There were two potted plants on each side of the walnut bookshelves. The window blinds were open, and instead of Harington’s heavy maroon curtains, this bishop’s were a pleasant and warmer ivory.

Paul McClenaghan was nearly seventy, born and raised in Belfast, and had been an auxiliary bishop for the Archdiocese of Westminster for the last two years. He knew him to be a kind man who’d always treated him graciously in the past.

“Your Excellency.”

“Have a seat, Father,” the bishop said after Charlie approached him, kissing his ring in the usual show of respect.

“Thank you,” he replied, taking a chair. There was a rather worn manila file over a centimetre thick on the left side of the bishop’s desk. Charlie could just make out his name on the tab.

“Well, Father Brennan, I know Bishop Harington is the one who rung you for this appointment, but I told him that I had some ideas I wanted to discuss with you. He agreed to let me handle this.”

This? What exactly needed to be handled? His stomach flipped. “Okay.”

“Is there anything you’d like to discuss with me first? Perhaps you have some ideas of your own?”

Where the fuck was this going? Before he could reply, there was a light knocking. Bishop McClenaghan got up and opened the door for Mary, who walked in carrying a tray with a teapot and cups. She set the tray down on the edge of the desk and each man picked up his cup. “I already added the milk,” she told them.

The bishop thanked her as she left, and then said, “Mary is wonderful. It’s a shame to be losing her.”

“What d’you mean? Is she going somewhere?”

“Her husband just got a big promotion, and the family is moving to Berlin. I’ll have to find a new secretary. Mary’s got some big shoes to fill.” McClenaghan took another sip of his tea and then set the cup down. “Now where were we?”

“You said you had some ideas you wanted to share with me,” Charlie reminded him.

The bishop folded his hands on top of his desk. In a relaxed and conversational tone of voice, he began, “All right. I’ve read through your file and I’m quite impressed with your record as a priest. You’ve shown dedication, hard work, leadership, and original thinking. Perhaps too original, considering these lectures you’ve been giving at the Jesuit Centre.” He smiled a little, as if what he was saying was somewhat amusing. He seemed to await some kind of response.

Charlie didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

“Well, as you know, Father, we have a shortage of priests, like every other diocese in the world. I personally think that your talent is wasted there in St. Ethelred’s small parish. Those people could easily be served by a new priest right out of seminary. A small parish is good training ground.”

Although he was sure that whatever the bishop had in mind would not change what he wanted, he asked, “So what are you considering, Excellency?”

McClenaghan sat back in his chair and studied a pen he was holding. Looking at his hands and then at Charlie, he said, “Father William Hinsley has been at a diocese-sponsored parish in Juba, South Sudan for the last six years, since the country gained its independence. His health is not good and he needs to return to the UK. I understand that you were once keenly interested in travelling to Africa.” He hesitated a moment, and Charlie could guess what he was going to say next. “I would like for you to take over the parish in Juba for at least three years. I told the archbishop as much, and he was agreeable to the idea.”

Charlie was more than a little stunned. Working in South Sudan would be a big challenge. He had volunteered to go to Africa with Caritas in 2011 right after he was ordained, and then again in 2014, before he was appointed as Father Brady’s curate at Our Lady of Sorrows, but Bishop Larkin, McClenaghan’s predecessor, had said he wanted and needed him in London. But since then, Charlie had re-evaluated his feelings on the entire mission system and decided that it was a kind of spiritual and intellectual colonialism. It only continued the paternalism of the Church that he increasingly detested. Kate had once called his work for the diocese in London “paternalistic,” but to him the Church’s labours within the UK were nothing compared to the built-in paternalism of the foreign mission system.

“Thank you, and His Excellency, the archbishop, as well, for the offer and your confidence, believing me capable of such a huge responsibility.” Charlie didn’t let on just how much the offer bolstered his confidence at the moment. How could he tell the bishop that he no longer believed in the missions? He was in enough hot water already with his ‘original thinking.’ He believed that people of the United Kingdom and other developed countries should help the people of the developing world. But they should go with aid if they were specifically asked for assistance. And the aid should be given freely, no strings attached, not as something provided in exchange for allowing the spread of Catholicism, or any religion for that matter.

McClenaghan seemed aware of his hesitancy. “I honestly thought of asking you to become the director of Catholic Charities when Father O’Brien retires next year, but, well, as I’m sure you know, there would be a bit of resentment among some of the priests who’ve been serving the diocese a lot longer than you. Not to mention, the waves you’ve been causing lately with these speeches of yours.”

“At the Jesuit Centre?”

“And your own church, Father. I’ve heard about some of the homilies you’ve given in recent months.”

“Church attendance has doubled on Sundays since I took over from Father Patrick, and our donations have gone up by twenty-five percent.”

“We know. Why do you think you haven’t been defrocked yet?” the bishop retorted, somewhat sharply.

Yet. Now they were getting down to it. Charlie wondered if the position in South Sudan was a peaceful way of solving the problem, a way to prevent things from becoming too hostile, or too public. All they had to do was send him out of the country. The thorn in their side would be gone.

“A few years ago, Excellency, I would’ve jumped at the chance to go to Africa. In fact, I volunteered to do so twice. I definitely appreciate the offer.” He smiled. “It would be a good way to quietly get me out of sight without raising too many eyebrows.” McClenaghan shook his head and started to say something, but Charlie went on. “I’m not saying you yourself intended that, but, of course, it is true. I’m sure this would be an easy solution for the archbishop.”

Bishop McClenaghan sat back in his chair, studying him for a moment. “Okay, then.” He took a deep breath. “Then I guess we need to discuss your future with the diocese. Your behaviour of late has been troubling to us.”

He nodded, saying nothing.

“I hear you’ve done some marvelous work at St. Ethelred’s, and you seemed to enjoy it… for a while.”

Charlie wondered where he would’ve gotten that information. Except for simple greetings at various gatherings, Marcus Brady and Father Patrick, God bless his soul, were the only priests he had really talked to over the past few years. “I don’t know how marvelous it’s been, but I do enjoy the work and the people within my parish.”

“So, you say, but… In the last three months, how often have you performed Mass with a hangover?”

Fuck. He sighed inwardly. “I couldn’t say.”

“Too many times to count, Father?” The bishop frowned. “Are you planning on leaving the priesthood of your own accord?”

Charlie blinked, taken aback. He hadn’t actually spoken those words to himself, let alone out loud to anyone. “Uh, well…” It certainly would be another easy solution for them, if he removed himself from the equation. But he honestly didn’t know. There were times he felt a strong pull to get out, and those times had become more frequent lately. At the same time, he still felt like his work wasn’t done, that there was still so much more he wanted to do for his parish. Yet he couldn’t go on like this. He was living a lie. It wasn’t fair to himself, but even more so, it wasn’t fair to the people in his congregation. They deserved better. It wasn’t an honest existence. He’d be lying to everyone: himself, his parish, God.

Bishop McClenaghan hesitated a moment, then slid the manila folder in front of him and started leafing through it. “Are you planning to marry, Father? Would that be a possible reason for you to leave the priesthood?”

Charlie took a deep and quiet breath to calm his rising anger. What the fuck could be in that folder to make the bishop ask such a question? “Is there something in my file indicating that might be the case?”

The bishop looked serious and, Charlie thought, disapproving as he looked at the papers in the file. “Yes, there is. It looks like Bishop Harington has been keeping scrupulous notes about your activities at St. Ethelred’s, and before. Here’s one that is particularly interesting.” He held up a yellow sheet with a paragraph of neat handwriting on the top half, and in large bold print on the bottom half were the words: “FREE THINKER.”

McClenaghan then turned the paper over and began to read the paragraph written at the top. “‘When most of the religious orders were founded, life expectancy was between thirty-five and forty, and life itself, for the ordinary person, quite bleak. So, a vow for life in a relatively secure and comfortable religious order was often a good deal. Now that life expectancy is close to eighty and there are many wonderful choices and fulfilling lifestyles for people, I think a religious order with only five-year vows would be of great benefit to the Church. I believe there are many university students who would be more than willing to devote some years to the priesthood, if they didn’t have to think of it as a lifetime commitment. Especially a lifetime commitment without any hope for marriage or children.’

“That little excerpt was from your very first lecture at the Jesuit Centre seven months ago.” The bishop laughed, shaking his head as if dumbfounded. “And they let you keep coming back.”

He leaned forward. “I take it, Your Excellency, that you aren’t so uncomfortable with free thinking among the priests.”

“Not for the most part, however I would have disapproved of your most recent lecture. I’ve known Bishop Harington for many years, and he has to be one of the most conservative bishops I’ve ever met. After looking over the transcripts of your sermons in your file, I can see why he’s absolutely furious at the moment.” McClenaghan paused. “You still haven’t told me if you’re thinking of leaving the priesthood for a woman.”

“You asked that question after looking at my file. Is there something in there that made you think I might want to get married?”

McClenaghan looked down at the file. “I’ll read Bishop Harington’s notes here. ‘According to a source in North London, Father Brennan appears to have gotten close to a woman who started turning up at St. Ethelred’s about a month ago. Her name is Kathryn McKenzie, and her nephew Jake is a member of St. Ethelred’s parish youth group and plays bassoon in the youth band. In recent weeks, Ms. McKenzie and Father Brennan have been seen socialising in public together. She has also been known to come to the church and rectory at all hours of the night to see Father Brennan, and most recently he was seen leaving her flat in the early morning hours.”

Well, fuck me. Charlie could only stare. Marcus had been right about diocesan spies.

“Bishop Harington seems to be quoting someone else as he wrote: ‘Is this not a great scandal to all the faithful?’” McClenaghan looked up from the file. “So, Father, I was naturally wondering if this McKenzie woman could be a reason why you might decide to leave the priesthood.”

Charlie bit his tongue, trying to keep his anger in check. “If this North London source seems to think my behaviour over the summer was such a great scandal to all the faithful, then they should go hang around Sacred Heart and check out what Father Michael Thomas is up to.”

The bishop’s eyes hardened, his jaw set. “You haven’t answered my question, Father. Would you leave the priesthood for this woman? Your file says you haven’t been seen with her since this period over the summer, but—”

“I would not leave the priesthood just to marry her. I don’t even know if she’s interested in marrying me.”

“Ah. So, you’d like to marry her if she was?”

Yes. “That wouldn’t be the primary reason for leaving the priesthood,” he answered evasively, yet honestly. He suddenly found that even if she showed up at his door later today and told him she didn’t love him anymore and asked him to stay away from her, it wouldn’t change the way he was now feeling about the Church. He couldn’t go on like this, regardless. Being a priest no longer gave him the peace and contentment it once did. Recent events now made him feel soiled by it, if he was honest with himself.

“Have you lost the faith, Father?”

Charlie had not expected this question. He had decided earlier that if Bishop Harington threatened to laicise or excommunicate him, or was in any way antagonistic, he would tell him that he had lost faith in the organisation of the Church—its paternalism, legalism, dogmatism, and moralism—all the while doing the utmost to avoid severe consequences for its own immorality and other horrendous actions. And that he was prepared to make some very public comments saying so, including mentioning by name, Father Michael Thomas. But he truly did not want to lay this on the man sitting in front of him. Bishop McClenaghan was by all accounts a decent person.

“No, Your Excellency, I think I gained faith—faith in the good people around me, and a stronger faith in God. I’ve realised now more than ever that God not only hears my prayers, but He answers them. My faith in the Church, however…” He shook his head. “How can a priest with as good a reputation as Father Edwards be denied a place as curate at St. Ethelred’s for being a gay man—a celibate gay man, I might add—but won’t do anything about Father Michael? Why should I trust the Church to carry out God’s will when it flagrantly allows these kinds of injustices to continue?”

“I should warn you that this kind of talk, Father, if the archbishop were to get wind of it, could get you reduced to the lay state.”

“I know that this will sound heretical to you, Your Excellency, but I have never thought of myself as having been elevated above the lay state.” The bishop smiled and shook his head knowingly. Charlie went on, “I believe that the only one who can excommunicate me from God is myself.”

McClenaghan chuckled, “As our friend Bishop Harington said, you definitely are a free thinker.”

Charlie hesitated in replying, unsure as to where the conversation was heading.

The bishop again leaned forward and put his hands on the desk. “Believe it or not, Father, I do understand. I’ve often had similar doubts and frustrations in my life. The thoughts and feelings were so intense that I took a sabbatical in my tenth year of the priesthood.” He flipped a few pages from the folder, and added, “Hmm. Looks like you’ll soon be entering your seventh year. How about taking some time off to think about what it is you truly want? To step back and reassess?”

“A sabbatical.” He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. It was certainly another easy solution for the diocese to get him out of the way for a while. But to resign from the priesthood and walk away from the Church, today, would be foolish. If he packed up and left the rectory, where would he go? He didn’t have other housing or employment lined up. Besides, he didn’t want to leave his parish that way. He’d at least like the opportunity to explain things to them, give them time to get used to the idea that he wouldn’t always be around, instead of leaving them abruptly. That wouldn’t be kind or fair to his congregation.

And taking the time to figure out what he wanted his post-priestly life to look like, to set things up for his future, was probably a smart idea.

Bishop McClenaghan nodded. “Yes, a sabbatical, to begin on the first of January. You’ll still be paid your salary, so there’s no need to concern yourself about that. You’ll continue to be provided for. You can even remain in the rectory. Do you think six months is enough time for you to sort yourself out? Not to mention, get your drinking under control?”

Guilt started to churn in his stomach. He felt his eyes burn. The weight of all whom he was responsible for was a heavy burden on his soul. “Who would take care of my parish in the interim?”

The bishop hesitated before answering. “If you agree to take this sabbatical, Father, then I believe the archbishop is prepared to allow you to appoint the young Father Edwards as your curate. He’s proven himself at St. Mary’s. He’s capable of caring for St. Ethelred’s in your temporary absence.”

“Really? Even though he’s openly gay?” He tried not to sneer.

“Well, as you pointed out, Father, he’s a celibate priest of good standing.”

Unlike himself? Charlie sighed, and then finally nodded, relenting. “Okay. I agree to a sabbatical.”

McClenaghan looked pleased, if not a bit relieved. The bishop then stood up from the desk, which was Charlie’s signal that the meeting had come to an end. The two priests shook hands, and they walked towards the office door.

As Charlie put his hand on the door knob, the bishop spoke.

“I want to caution you, even though perhaps I shouldn’t…” McClenaghan said. “But I like you, Father Brennan, and so I want to warn you.”

“Of what?”

The bishop stared at him fixedly. “Two things: First, I want to remind you of Canon Law, Father. Even if you request to be permanently removed from your parish assignment, from your priestly duties, and are laicised, that doesn’t relieve you of your vow of celibacy. You would have to write to the Pope himself to get permission to marry, and I will tell you right now: those requests are rarely ever honoured. Sacred ordination is forever, even if you are laicised. You will never be able to validly marry in the Church. And if you choose to marry in a non-Catholic ceremony without receiving permission from the Pope, your marriage will never be recognised by the Catholic Church as valid. If you attempt to marry without proper dispensation from the Pope, even if laicised, you will be excommunicated.”

Charlie frowned. A sinking feeling filled his gut.

“Second,” Bishop McClenaghan continued, “you saw that file of yours on the desk, and you’re now aware that the diocese is keeping track of you and what you’re doing?”

He turned and glanced where the manila folder still sat, and nodded.

“The file stated you hadn’t been seen with that McKenzie woman since your… indiscretion… over the summer.”

Swallowing, Charlie tried to keep his face passive. “It did.”

“I implore you to keep it that way, even during your sabbatical. Don’t give Bishop Harington a reason to go to the archbishop and request disciplinary action against you.”

“I understand, Your Excellency,” he replied noncommittally.

McClenaghan extended his hand and said, “Well, Father Brennan, I truly hope you will resume your priestly duties following your sabbatical, but if not… Well, good luck to you and I hope you will continue to bring love into the world no matter what you will be doing.”

Charlie took the bishop’s hand, held it tightly for a moment, and looked into the man’s eyes. They were steady, sensitive, and compassionate eyes. He hoped he was not making a mistake.

Sitting on the bus heading for North London, he felt a wave of mixed emotions. A six-month sabbatical would certainly give him time to explore his options. He hadn’t even been at St. Ethelred’s for a full year, and yet he felt more at home there than he had anywhere else since his ordination. A sense of sadness welled up inside him at the thought of leaving his parish. At the same time, he felt like a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt invigorated. He was excited, and nervous, to face a whole new world that was now opening up to him.

A world no longer filled with loneliness and solitude.

A world filled with warmth, love, friendship, intimacy, and a future full of possibilities.

Back at the rectory, a sense of hope buoyed him as he prepared for the afternoon Mass. Last night, Kate had expressed displeasure at having to wait until Sunday night to see him. With this onslaught of emotions and nervous energy, there was no way he could wait two more days to see her. He had to see her today.

Mass began at one o’clock, and for the next forty-five minutes, he could barely contain his smiles. The need to see the woman he loved was overwhelming. When Mass finally ended, he hurriedly removed his robes and informed the few people in the office that he was stepping out for a bit but would return shortly. Near giddy with the thought of seeing Kate again, he dashed out of the church.

It was only a fifteen-minute walk to the Guinea Pig Café. But the need to see her, to touch her, sent him into a dead run.

Chapter Text

The Priest reached the café just as Kate was closing up shop. On the other side of the glass, she smiled at the sight of him. When she opened the door, face flushed, eyes bright, so damn beautiful, he knew she could have any man she wanted.

That was why he’d kissed her last night. It was why he’d come running over to see her now. Because he wanted to be that man.

“Hello, Father!” she greeted with a beaming smile. A smile that filled him with warmth.

“Hey,” he replied, out of breath.

“You caught me just in time. So, you were able to get away after all?”

He shook his head, still trying to catch his breath. “No, I’m really busy today, actually. I have to get back in a few. I was hoping I could talk to you for a minute.”

“Uh, sure.” She stepped aside to let him in, hesitated. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” she laughed softly as she eased the door closed. “Do you want to sit down? I can make you a cup of tea…”

He shook his head, avoiding her gaze as he took a seat at the nearest table. “No, that’s not necessary. I can’t stay very long.”

She pursed her lips as she joined him at the table. “Are you here because you’re trying to work out how to tell me that the kiss last night was a huge mistake and it wasn’t your intention to lead me on and you’re very sorry but you can’t let me get in the way of your relationship with God… again?”

“No!” He reached out, touched her arm reassuringly. “That’s not why I came at all.”

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Quite the opposite, actually.”

“Oh.” She let out a soft, nervous laugh.

He suddenly felt nervous himself, not knowing how she would react. “Starting with the New Year, I’ll be taking a sabbatical from my parochial duties.”

She blinked. “A sabbatical? Uh-oh. Isn’t that the code word for priests who get in trouble?” she smirked.

“You… could say that. But let’s just say it was a mutual parting. They want me out of the way, and I want” —he expelled a heavy breath and shrugged— “out.”

Her eyes went wide with surprise. He watched her throat move as she swallowed hard. “What… what happened?”

“The Church and I, well… we haven’t exactly been seeing eye to eye lately. And being a priest… doesn’t give me the peace that it once did.”

Her expression changed as she sat back in her chair, her posture stiff and upright. He saw the worry in her gaze. “Is that… is that my fault? I ruined your peace. Right? Me and my tits.”

He laughed and shook his head. “No, no. The Church ruined my peace, to be honest. You…” He leaned forward, giving her a look of reassurance. “The only thing you ruined was my ability to turn a blind eye to things within the Church that I find abhorrent. For the longest time, I believed the Church as a whole was doing good in the world, and that there were only a few rotten apples in the bunch. I once thought that as long as I did what was right in God’s eyes and I kept my head down and worked hard to make my little corner of the world a better place, I could ignore the larger problems on the whole.

“It’s becoming increasingly clear to me that I can ignore them no longer. It’s become increasingly clear to my superiors as well. Hence—”

“The sabbatical,” she finished.

“Yes. The sabbatical. They’ve given me six months to sort myself out before they expect me to return to my parish. I honestly don’t know if they truly want me to come back. Only if I’m not going to be a pain in the arse, I’m sure.”

“Six months sounds like a nice break.” She looked a bit relieved as she sighed deeply. “Well, as long as you’re not blowing up your life on my account…”

She lowered her gaze from his as if embarrassed. He leaned forward over the table, resting on his elbows. “But what if it was longer than six months? What if… I wanted to blow up my life on your account?”

Life without Kate was unbearable—he knew that now. It would go against his nature, even though it made him squirm inside, to verbally lay it all on the line for her. He was going to risk everything and bare his soul because his love and need for her were stronger than his fear.

She had already become such an important part of his life, and though he knew he should take things slow, make sure what was happening between them was real, deep down he was certain it was. But there was a very big difference in what his brain was trying to tell him versus what his heart and body were screaming at him. The rational, thinking part of his brain told him he shouldn’t rush and he should take things slow with Kate. The feeling part of his brain and body chafed against reason, reminding him again and again that he wanted her with a desperation unlike anything he’d experienced before.

He had to tell her how he truly felt. Tell her he wanted to be more than her friend, that he’d always wanted to be more than her friend, almost from the moment he laid eyes on her. Tell her just how much she meant to him. That he loved her. Wanted to be with her. Wanted her to be his partner. For life.

Maybe she wasn’t ready to hear all that just yet.

“The reason I came over here was not to discuss my grievances with the Church. I really just need you to know the truth. I don’t want to play games, or skirt around the reality of my feelings.”

He watched her cheeks flush as her lips parted, saw her throat move as she swallowed. Her eyes were wide as if with panic. He had to let his true feelings be known. She had to know that he wanted to leave the priesthood. That he wanted to choose her this time. That he had to because he needed her desperately. She had already altered his life in so many ways. He couldn’t let her slip away again, but he instinctively knew he had to obey his rational side. He didn’t want to rush her, or scare her away.

“I once told you that what we shared, how we felt—that it would pass. I tried to tell myself that it had. I spent these past months trying to convince myself that I don’t love you anymore. That I don’t miss you, that I don’t want you, that I don’t need you. But the truth is, Kate… is that I do. I do miss you, and I want you, and I need you, and I love you, and I’m tired of pretending that I don’t.”

Her mouth split into a wide grin.

Relief course through him. “I want to be with you.”

Something eased in her expression before her face suddenly clouded over. She shook her head.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“Well, no… not exactly.”

“So, you’re all right?”

“I… I don’t know,” she said. He reached across the table and took her hands, an unbidden magic spark warming their fingers. “There is something wrong. Well, that’s not right. No, there’s nothing wrong at the moment. I mean, there is something on my mind. Depending on what you say, it could end up being wrong. Wait, that’s not making sense either.”

He smiled, and caressed his thumbs over her knuckles. “Kate, relax. You can tell me anything.”

She took a deep breath. “It’s good to hear you say that because what I’m about to tell you…”

His brows furrowed, but he didn’t pull away. “I don’t know if I should be worried.”

“There’s just a lot you don’t know about me, and a lot I don’t know about you, and we really haven’t taken the time to learn everything about each other before we…” The sentence trailed off. She took another breath. “Well, there’s more you need to know before you decide… There’s something I need to tell you, something you need to know about me, something that will probably change the way you see me. I just hope you’ll still love me after I… confess.”

“Oh, no. You’re not married, are you?” he asked with a laugh.

“No, Charlie, nothing like that.”

“Nothing will change how I feel about you,” he said, trying to give her some assurance.

“Don’t speak too soon.” She bowed her head and closed her eyes as if unable to look at him while she spoke her secret out loud. “A couple years ago, something happened. I did… something… something horrible, and I—”

The mobile phone in his pocket started to ring.

“Saved by the bell,” she quipped, abruptly pulling her hands free from his.

“I’ll just let it keep ringing. It’s fine. You were saying?”

But the more the mobile rang, the more the tension ratcheted up, and the more agitated she appeared. “Just answer the fucking phone!” she finally exclaimed, clearly flustered.

“Okay. Jesus.” He pulled the ringing mobile from his pocket. “Fucking hell,” he swore under his breath. “It’s the church office. Which means it’s—” He tapped the button to answer.

“Father!”

“Hello, Linda,” he said patiently to the church secretary, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“Where are you? There’s a queue forming for confession.”

Shit. His eyes followed Kate as she stood up from the table and walked towards the counter. “Yes, I’ll… I’ll be there, Linda. Apologise for me and explain that I’m running a little late, but I’ll be with them shortly.”

“Well, hurry, Father! These people are quickly letting go of the Christmas spirit.”

He sighed as he ended the call. “Sorry about that,” he said, turning towards Kate.

“It’s fine. So, you have to go?”

His brows furrowed at her stiff demeanor. “Well, we can finish talking first.”

“No, it’s okay. Sounds like you need to be getting back to church.”

He frowned. His guts twisted. Her walls were up and she was shutting him out again. She’d allowed herself to be vulnerable, to finally open up to him, and then the moment had been ruined. “I’m sorry it’s such a busy time of year. But I’ll see you on Christmas Eve, right? And then Christmas… And, well, after New Year’s I’ll have all the time in the world. We can talk about whatever you want to talk about, for however long you want to talk about it.” He smiled.

She could barely make eye contact. “True.” Then she forced a smile as she walked back towards him. “So, Christmas Eve?”

“Yeah. Christmas Eve.”

He stood up from the table. Charlie took a few hesitant steps forward. He put his hands on her arms. He felt her shudder as he watched a flicker of emotions cross her face. For one stuttering heartbeat, he thought she might push him away. She didn’t.

“Kiss me before you go,” she said. “Really, I deserve a kiss. Just a little one.”

He cupped her face between his hands. “Okay, just a little kiss,” he replied. He pecked her mouth, grinned at her, then pulled her close and deepened the kiss until she opened her mouth to him. He kept his hands on her face and hair, knowing in his gut this was a moment to keep himself in bounds. When he pulled back, her brown eyes were shining and she was breathing hard.

“I really have to go. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer.”

“It’s okay. I understand.”

Something in her voice didn’t sound right. As he walked back to the rectory, anxiety swirled inside him, churning his stomach.

*****

Twenty-fourth of December. After a long Sunday spent mostly in the confessional, Charlie hurried to join the altar boys and deacons in the sacristy and don his vestments. As the strains of Christmas carols being played in the church wafted into the sacristy, he was conscious of the beauty and the deep meaning of the impending Mass. When ready, he glanced at his watch. Nearly eleven o’clock, it was just about time to start.

This was his first—and probably his last—Midnight Mass with his parish. He had diligently prepared this homily for months. The church was packed with people spilling into the aisles, entire families in the vestibule and side alcoves. The largest gathering he’d seen since Easter Sunday. Henry, one of their deacons, was blasting every light St. Ethelred’s had, and Lars, another deacon, had brought in extra musicians, a flutist with a trumpet player and violinist to join the choir.

Parishioners had come well-dressed, men in suits and women in long coats. He scanned their faces, searching for Kate’s, but there were so many. He hoped he merely couldn’t find her in the crowd, that she had come like she’d said she would.

Before the start of the homily, he asked for the children to come up and sit in the sanctuary. Excited, most of them readily left their families and came forward. As he gave the homily about the birth of their Lord Jesus, he spoke directly to the children, keeping them engaged. At the end of the homily, he asked them to return to their pews. One three-year-old boy wanted to stay in the sanctuary and sit in one of the big chairs.

Charlie smirked and spoke into the microphone attached to the lectern. “Okay, just not the big chair in the middle—that’s mine.” There was a bit of laughter in the audience. “What’s your name?” he asked the boy.

“Andy.”

“Hi, Andy. Are you enjoying the Mass so far?”

“Uh-huh. I like the singing.”

More laughter. He glanced over at the choir and youth band, noticing their stifled snickering. “Well, good news for you, Andy: we’ll be singing again in a bit.”

Suddenly, a woman who was undoubtedly Andy’s mother came forward, demanding he come with her.

“No,” he cried.

Then the boy’s mum grabbed hold of him and he went back to his seat, kicking and screaming. Charlie shook his head as he leaned towards the microphone. “That boy will probably be Father Andy someday since he wanted to sit in the sanctuary so badly.” More laughter.

Then the Priest continued on with the service. Once the clock struck midnight, it was time for the Eucharist prayers and the offering of Holy Communion. Those who chose to partake rose and queued up in the center aisle. With those seated now having been thinned out, he couldn’t help but once again scan the pews, looking for her. He couldn’t see her. Maybe she hadn’t come after all. That wasn’t a good sign.

But he pushed the worried thoughts from his mind and focused his attention on the sacred task at hand. Upon conclusion, Charlie looked down at the faces of his congregation with the serene and beatific expression of a man who had at last made peace with himself.

“I wish each of you a happy and joyful Christmas,” he said, and then swallowed his breath and lost the rest of his intended announcement of his impending sabbatical, realising he had reached the tranquil and natural end of words, and that nothing more need be said at Christmas. The announcement could wait. Instead, he silently held out his hands for a long moment, as if passing to everyone an invisible gift of joy and peace.

A half hour later, he was walking towards Kate’s flat. It was quite late, but when he reached her road, he could see her lights were still on. Did she not come to Midnight Mass because she’d reconsidered how she felt about him? Did she not want a relationship with him?

He shook off the thought and soon found himself in front of her door, hand raised. But before he could ring her bell, the door opened. Kate was standing there in tracksuit bottoms and a loose-fitting jumper. He could see she’d been crying—not a good sign—but she seemed to expect him and backed into the small space, silently inviting him inside.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked softly as he watched her close and lock her door.

“No.”

“You’ve been crying.” He stepped closer, reached his arms out, but Kate recoiled from his touch.

“No, I haven’t,” she denied, before laughing nervously.

He gave her a look that told her he wasn’t buying it, and dropped his arms. “Has something happened?”

“No, nothing’s happened.”

“I looked for you at Midnight Mass. I… I thought you were coming.” He looked her over once more. “Are you sure nothing happened?”

“I’m sure. I was going to come, and then…” She sighed. “Look, the last time I went to a Christmas mass was… I mean, my mum was there, Boo…”

His brows furrowed. “Boo? Who’s Boo? You’ve never told me about her… Or him? It?”

She looked visibly distressed, and he couldn’t begin to imagine the reason. “Why do you always have to be such a pain in the arse with all the questions? Always.” Exasperated, she began to pace around the sitting room. “Even on the very first day we spent together. Remember? When I showed up at your church and Pam put my money on the collection box? You’d asked me so damned many. Innocent, get-to-know-you questions because you were so focused on me. Genuinely curious and so… present and persistent. And you actually would listen to what I had to say, and then… the fucking follow-up questions! Do you have any idea how annoying that is?”

The corners of his mouth twitched as he fought off a smile. “Tell me what’s going on inside that beautiful head of yours.”

She shook her head, took a tiny step back.

“Kate, come on. Please. Is this about your family? Me? The café? Just fucking talk to me.” Again, he moved closer, reaching out to hold her, and again she stepped back from him.

“Okay, fine. Just… just please don’t touch me.” His jaw dropped, but before he could speak, she forged ahead. “You probably won’t even want to after you hear what I have to say…”

Realisation dawned. “Is this about what you wanted to discuss on Friday?” he asked.

“There’s something I haven’t known how to tell you. Mostly because I’ve been afraid that once you get to really know me, you… won’t like me very much. And I have every reason to expect this, okay? It’s happened many times before. My own family doesn’t like me half the time. The disappointment I see in their eyes when they look at me… I don’t want to see that when I look at you.

“You said that you’re taking a break from the Church, and you want to be with me. So, you’re obviously willing to take a chance on this, on me. But what if once you get to know me better, you find that you really don’t like me at all? And then where will you be? Your life will really be fucked, just like you said it would.”

He nodded, giving her a little smile. “Yeah, I suppose there is the outside possibility that could happen, but on the other hand, the opposite could also be true. Maybe I’ll continue to really like you, but you’ll realise I’m not worth your while. But then there’s only one way to find out for sure, isn’t there?”

“Yes, but… it’s not only that. I, uh, I did something… terrible, and once you hear it, you won’t want to be with me.”

He pursed his lips and nodded again, before turning and removing his anorak, and tossing it over the back of the sofa. He pulled the white collar from his black buttoned shirt, and also tossed it onto the sofa. Then he turned to face her, his hands sliding into his trouser pockets.

“Try me.”

She looked away, as if the lamp on the side table were suddenly more interesting than him. He expected her to turn away too, but she didn’t. For a second, he worried she was doing that thing again—that thing where she tuned him out and disappeared inside her own head. But she wasn’t this time. He then realised she hadn’t done it at all since they’d reunited.

He watched her draw in a breath from somewhere around her toes, bringing it up, up, up, and then slowly let it out, shifting her gaze back to his.

Brave. Determined.

“Boo was my friend who I opened the café with—my best friend since school. And about two-and-a-half years ago, I had sex with her boyfriend…” She expelled another heavy breath. Then without further ado she launched into the sad tale. The pain in her voice physically hurt to hear, but he stayed quiet, listening as she poured her heart out. His eyes never left her face.

She finished speaking, and then sniffed. Apprehension appeared in the depths of her brown eyes, wet with unshed tears. A man could happily drown in those depths. A moment of sheer panic hit as he looked into her solemn face. What if she just wasn’t ready to be with him, regardless of how much he wanted to be with her? What if his vocation, his vow of celibacy, hadn’t been the biggest obstacle after all?

“You shouldn’t love me,” she said at last. “I don’t deserve it.”

He sucked on his lower lip, considering her for a moment. “You know, there was a time when I felt irredeemable, unlovable, unworthy. Undeserving. I now know that wasn’t true. It was never true. One of these days, you’re going to believe that you’re not a terrible person. That you’re actually very lovable, and even if you can’t accept it right now, that God loves you, no matter how unworthy you think you are.”

She didn’t smile like he’d hoped. “Please don’t preach at me, Charlie.”

“I’m not,” he replied sincerely. “That’s how I truly feel.”

“Well, can you please just leave God out of it for the moment?”

“Of course.” He put his hands up in surrender.

She heaved a sigh. “I know, logically, that my father and my sister love me. I do know that. With Claire, especially, things are better than they’ve ever been. But there’ve been many times when I’ve felt like my mother was the only person who ever truly loved me unconditionally.”

Compassion overwhelmed him at the sadness in her eyes. “It may not make up for the past and everything you’ve been through, everything you’ve lost, but… I love you. So much so, you’ve had me tied up in knots for months, from the very first night I met you.”

Tears hovered on the brink of her lower lashes. “The problem is… I love you, too. I still fucking love you.”

His heart somersaulted in his chest as joy warred with confusion. “Why is that a problem?”

She shook her head. “Because it won’t work. It never works. Every time I’m in a relationship, I drive the other person away. I always do. I’m not cut out for it. I’ll just ruin your life.”

He took a step closer. “Not possible.”

“Jesus, I’ve ruined it already! You’re walking away from the Church, it sounds like—which honestly, I’m thrilled about for reasons that have nothing to do with us. But I’ve clearly already blown up your life.”

“Maybe it needed to be blown up,” he said confidently, and she froze as their eyes locked. He grinned and slowly started moving closer. To his relief, she didn’t back away from him. “Maybe I needed the right person to come along to give me the courage to be honest with myself. I told you, you were good for me. Maybe I needed a blasphemous, fornicating atheist to come along and challenge me. Did you ever think of that, Kate?”

Her mouth trembled slightly as she tried to smirk. She dashed at the other cheek with the back of her hand, wiping away the wetness. Although on the verge of truly breaking down, he could see she was trying so very hard to keep it together.

“Can I touch you now?” he asked quietly.

Her throat worked as she visibly swallowed. “If you do, I’m going to lose all this grief and awfulness I’ve been holding onto all this time. I have to warn you, it’s ugly.”

He knew all about the ugliness of grief. The guilt, the sorrow. There was nothing he wanted more than to give her comfort, absolution, peace. He grabbed her gently then, pulling her into his arms and holding her tight. His brow pressed against hers, he rubbed her back, stroked her hair. “I’m so sorry. About all of it—your mum, your best friend. I wish I could have been there for you then, but I’m here now. You don’t have to cope with this alone. It’s time to let it out, Kate.”

At first, she stayed rigid, fighting it. But then her chest hitched and her forehead dropped to his shoulder, and the next thing he knew, things did indeed get ugly. The woman he loved—hell, had been in love with since that very first night at the restaurant, if he were completely honest—finally caved in and let go of her grief, melting into his arms.

Chapter Text

Still standing in the sitting room of Kate’s flat, Charlie held her tightly as she clung to him. Not much time passed before her tears eventually subsided, and she heaved a deep sigh that sounded like resignation.

She nuzzled his neck, inhaling his scent. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

“For what? For being human?” His voice was gentle, his breath warm against her ear. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

She lifted her head to look at him. “Thank you. This is all I wanted, really—to just let go. Everything. The mistakes I’d made, the secrets I’d kept. The failure. I just want to forget. Do you think, if I had just told Boo the truth, that she would have forgiven me?”

He smiled softly. “Did Boo love you?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

“Love covers over many sins. To err is human. We make mistakes all the time, some of them dreadful. But the ones who truly love us often forgive us, even if it takes time and a lot of healing. So, what do you think? You knew her. You know what your friendship was like. Would Boo have forgiven you eventually?”

Her eyes shifted away from his, and stared at nothing, thinking, remembering. “Eventually, I think…” Kate nodded. Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. “I want to forgive myself. I want to really move on and try to be happy, not just go through the motions of trying.”

He used his thumbs to wipe the tears from her cheeks, marvelling at the warmth of her, the softness of her, the vulnerability and the strength. He gazed into her eyes, mesmerised. She was an unusual creature, not remotely like any woman he’d ever known, and her originality was fascinating. He never had any idea what she was going to say next, and she always kept him guessing. She sometimes said exactly what she thought and felt without any filter, and those were the best times.

So, he said nothing, and waited.

“The time we had together over the summer,” she began. “It was amazing. After having all this… stuff… weighing me down, and then you walk into my life, and suddenly… I felt alive again. Like I wasn’t just existing. You made me feel things I’d never felt, and while that was terrifying, it was a gift, and I loved you for it. I will always love you for it.

“Remember at the fête, and you met Harry, my ex?”

He blinked. “Er… the one with the baby, right?”

“That’s him. As he was leaving me, for the last time, d’you know what he said to me? ‘Don’t make me hate you—loving you is painful enough.’ I tried to laugh it off at the time, make a joke of it, but…” Glassy brown eyes met his, and her exhale was shaky. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to drive you away. I don’t want you to end up hating me, too.”

God, she undid him. “You won’t.”

Her face scrunched. “But how do you know?”

Smiling, he shrugged. “I just do. I have faith.” He touched her chest, just above her heart. “Because even though life has hurt you, I've hurt you, even your own family, your own mistakes, and you’ve placed a wall around your heart”—he tapped the spot lightly—“it’s pure. It’s filled with love and compassion and sweetness, no matter how much you might try to hide that fact, and that’s what makes you so fucking impressive.”

Charlie knew the words weren’t exactly the most elegant or romantic. But they had to be said. And he’d say them to her over and over and over again until she started to believe him. She had to believe that she was special. That she was important and valuable.

“You’re not a bad person,” he said, knowing she needed the words, better words, and wanting to give them to her, wanting her to see herself as he saw her. “Underneath it all, you’re a wonderful person with a lot of love to give.”

She shrugged in defeat. “My counselor told me recently that I had a calloused outside because inside I’m just soft mush. That I feel too strongly and too deeply. She said that I sometimes say the things I say and do the things I do just to protect that softness from being hurt.”

“She sounds like a very smart woman.”

“She is.” Kate licked her lips, and gave him a serious look. “Are you sure this sabbatical is what you want? You just… seemed so happy being a priest, as much as I hate to admit it.” Her mouth curved into a frown.

He took a deep breath and considered his own feelings. “Part of me feels guilty for leaving my parish, even if it was just for six months. The liturgical part of me hates to give up worship planning for Lent and Easter. The social part of me will truly miss the conversation, lunches, Bible study groups, and even the committee meetings. Leaving the priesthood does represent some losses to my identity. But pastoral identity can get all wrapped up in doing while neglecting the being. I just want to… be. By repressing parts of myself, I was living a lie. And it was a lie that no longer comforted me, or brought me any peace. After I left you, my life just felt so… empty, joyless.

“These six months will give me time to sort out where to live, what line of work I want to pursue…”

“But what if at the end of the six months, you decide the priesthood is truly the life you want? Then what? You just leave me again?”

“I don’t see that happening, Kate.”

“Maybe… maybe it would be best if we left the romantic relationship stuff out of it and we just have fun…”

His brows arched. “You mean, we just spend the next six months having sex with no intentions or expectations of anything beyond that?”

She smirked. “Well, you have to admit it does have a certain appeal…”

“So, where do we go from here?” he asked.

“Bed, hopefully,” she quipped.

He nodded his head, laughing. “I want to be with you, Kate. Exclusively. Me and you. A relationship. But only if you want that, too. Being with you makes me happy and I can see a future for us. I believe we can make it if we try. If you feel the same way, then I want us to be together.”

She smiled at him, and he grinned back, reaching forward to take her hand. Lifting, he kissed her palm. “Of course, if you just want to use me for sex, I’ll make the best of it.”

She burst out laughing as he pulled her closer, then tilted his head towards her. “Do you really love me?” he murmured, his lips centimetres from hers.

“Yes, I love you.” Her eyes again became shiny and wet. “I do,” she whispered. “But… I’m scared.”

Charlie wanted to take away every burden from her. Any stress. Any guilt. Any fears. He wanted to be her friend. Her lover. “I’m scared, too. I haven’t been in a relationship in thirteen years. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, or what my life is going to look like, but all I know is that I want you with me. We can be scared together.

“Fear is part of it,” he assured her. “Conquering fear is another part—a wonderful part.”

She smiled. Then her lips pressed lightly against his, the touch sending a shock of awareness bolting through his system. He stiffened against her, his heart kicking into full speed, pumping hard and loud as a jolt of arousal coursed through his bloodstream.

When she drew back, her eyes shone like beacons, and the blatant desire he saw in those velvety brown depths could’ve brought him to his knees. He was having trouble getting a word out, his arms shaking as he cupped her face with his hands. “Do you want me?” he finally rasped.

His lips tingled from her sweet kiss, and now he burned with hunger to plunder her mouth. He stared at her lips, wet and pink and waiting to unleash all her passion on him. He needed to make her his. Only his. He couldn’t bear another night, another second, another moment of his life without this, without her.

He sank his fingers in her dark hair and gazed into her eyes, so intoxicated with her nearness, he could only murmur in a thick whisper, “Do you want me, Kate? Do you want to be with me?”

She nodded, breathing hard. “Yes, I want to be with you. I only want to be with you.”

He slid his fingers down her back to palm the curves of her arse, gently pulling her even closer. He closed his mouth over hers and she let out a soft sigh, melting into him.

“God,” she said, gasping as she tore her lips free. “Every time. I don’t know what it is, but you make me crazy.”

She moved in again, kissed him hard, driving her tongue into his mouth and rocking her hips into him, and he imagined that gorgeous second, that incredible moment, after all these months, when he’d slide inside her.

It was all too much. The heat, the want, the passion. So long he’d been without. That skin-to-skin connection, that closeness he yearned for, but had spent so many years denying himself. A deep love and an intense passion he hadn’t thought could ever be his. He’d never been happier to be wrong.

Kate was magic.

“Bedroom,” he said, his mouth still on hers.

She backed up, bringing him with her, but at this rate it would take all night to get there. Not that he was in a hurry, but they had lost time to make up for. He pulled his hand away, locked both of them around her biceps, and set her back a step. “Fuck this.”

“What?” she said with a confused laugh.

And then he lifted her, making her airborne, flying through the air until she landed over his shoulder. He moved fast down the hallway.

“How very caveman of you,” she snarked. “Well, take me, big boy.”

He started laughing.

From over his shoulder, she smacked him on the arse. “I love when you laugh at my jokes. It gets me hot.”

“I remember.”

He made the turn into the darkened bedroom, where city lights bullied their way through the blinds.

“Hang on,” he said, gently lowering her to the bed.

Charlie stepped back.

“Wait. Watch the—”

He suddenly stumbled backward over a giant pile of clothes.

“Shit.”

He caught himself on the dressing table, landing on the chair near the door. “Jesus, Kate. Are you trying to fucking kill me?”

“Sorry! It’s my dirty clothes. I haven’t had time to do the laundry.”

Still seated, he kicked off his shoes and went to work on the buttons of his black clerical shirt. “Well,” he said, “you need to get organised. I can help with that.”

“Darling, there’s only one thing I want your help with right now.”

Even in the dim light, her smile flashed and... oh, he couldn’t stand it. He watched her wiggle out of her tracksuit bottoms before pulling her jumper off. She tossed it somewhere in the vicinity of her dirty clothes pile, and he let out a sigh as he shook his head.

“Don’t start, Father. The least you can do is give me an earth-mover of an orgasm before you shout at me.”

He looked up at her and was met with her total nakedness, and at that point he couldn’t help but groan at the sight of her before him. He had been with a lot of women in his life, but Kate…

She was absolute perfection.

He slipped out of his boxer shorts and stood just as the lamp atop her nightstand turned on, and...

“My, my, my… Well, look at you,” she said. “You’ve been working out?”

“Not really. Just running, and sometimes swimming.”

“Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”

He grinned and moved closer, his hands going to her arms to lay her down. Progress was halted when she wrapped her fingers around the full, hard length of his erection.

And stroked.

Charlie tipped his head back and moaned. Still stroking, she got up on her knees on the mattress, and ran her tongue along that one spot on his neck she’d discovered the last night they’d spent together. As she tasted his skin, he felt like his knees were going to buckle.

She ran her free hand up his flat stomach to his chest where his heart pounded against her palm. She paused and ran her fingers across the fine chest hairs. “I like touching you,” she said.

His body tightened in anticipation; his cock throbbed. He was so ready for this. “Kate?”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to make you scream.”

She held his gaze, returning the naughty smile, raising the fuck-me-now factor. So fun, that. “Please do.”

Gently, he nudged her back on the bed, crawling along next to her until they were both on their sides, facing each other, taking in the moment and in no particular rush. Then he moved his hand over her, across her breasts where his gentle fingers brushed her nipples. She rolled to her back, giving him full access, and he wasted no time replacing his fingers with his mouth. He licked across the turgid nipple, and she gasped. He sucked, gently at first, and then harder until she arched up.

“Mmm,” he said, “some things never change.”

He remembered. That first night, he’d discovered her highly sensitised nipples and drove her half mad by giving them extra attention. Tongue, teeth, lips, all of it sent her to one hell of an epic orgasm.

“I love this, but… God, it’s been so long and what I want—need—right now is you. Inside me.” She pulled free of his mouth and grabbed his cheeks, dotting kisses along his mouth and neck as she locked one leg around his hip.

“I want you,” she said. “Now.”

His hand went to her waist and he stroked his thumb over her navel. “You in a hurry?”

“After how long it’s been since the last time? You better believe it. And if I get my way, we’ll have plenty of time to play after.”

He slowly kissed his way down her body, savouring the taste of her skin. She writhed beneath him, her hands shoving at his shoulders, but he didn’t let her urge him down her body. Instead, he closed his mouth over one of her pretty peach nipples, flicking at it with his tongue. She rose up onto her elbows.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked, her voice breathless and shaky.

He released her nipple, grinning at her. “I’m not waiting. I’m enjoying.” He tweaked her other nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. Then he licked her nipple and blew a stream of air over it, teasing it into a hard peak.

He resumed his path down her body, trailing open-mouthed kisses over her stomach, her hips, her thighs, finally settling himself between her legs, he could see how ready she was for him. He swept his tongue over her clit, revelling in her taste.

“Oh, fuck.” She moaned his name, threading her hands in his hair. He smiled against her skin, loving the sound of his name falling from her lips like that, like she was begging him and thanking him at the same time. He sucked her clit into his mouth and his cock throbbed, eager to get in the action.

Soon enough.

He worked his mouth against her, feeling her get wetter, swollen. Her voice took on a needy tone and she moaned, her hips moving, circling against his grip. She pushed up on her elbows again, and he met her hooded gaze, their eyes locking, his mouth still on her. He feasted on her, attacking her pussy with long, hungry sweeps of his tongue.

“I love how you look between my legs,” she panted out, still watching him, and he moaned against her flesh, lapping up her arousal.

“I love how you taste,” he said between kisses. “I love how you smell. I missed this so much.” She’d probably take that to mean how much he missed sex all those years in the priesthood, how much he missed eating cunt, and while that was certainly true, he meant that he missed this. Her. For the last five lonely, miserable months.

“I’m so close.” Her voice was high, breathless.

He spread her open with his fingers and his lips circled around her clit, wondering if the same move would get her off the way he had over the summer.

“Yes, just like that… Don’t stop… Oh, God, I’m coming. Fuck!” Her hands fisted in his hair as her hips bucked wildly. Her loud cries of pleasure filled the bedroom. Satisfaction scorched through him as he suckled and licked her through her orgasm, only releasing her hips when she was still. He kissed the insides of her thighs, down her legs, all the way to her ankles. He slipped one over his shoulder and surged up over her spreading her wide open. She bit her lip and moaned, her eyes dark with lust and pleasure. Her hips rose to him as she rubbed herself against the hard ridge of his cock.

She pushed her fingers through his hair, and he enjoyed the feel of her touch against his scalp, while his own hands moved down her stomach. Then lower. And lower. Where he plunged his finger into her finding out just exactly how much she wanted him. She opened her legs and he stroked her, feeling her clench tight around his finger.

“Jesus. You’re so ready for me. So wet.”

“Please.” She grabbed his wrist. “Play later. Come inside me.”

Without taking his eyes from her, he removed his hand and slowly slid over her, nestling his body—and extremely hard erection—between her legs. His weight pushed her into the mattress, and her arms and legs wrapped all around him. He slid the head of his cock through her folds, covering himself in her arousal, dragging her wetness over her swollen clit, before positioning the head of his cock at her weeping hole. With his cock at the entrance to paradise, he started to enter her with a slow downstroke, feeding her his length inch by inch, savouring every moment of his possession, the soft warmth of her body once again giving him that feeling of contentment and... peace.

Sanctuary.

Like coming home.

Right here, with Kate.

Her gasp changed to a moan as his thick, heavy cock slid inside her, stretching her inner walls around his girth. “Oh, yes,” she purred.

“Christ, you’re so tight… feels so damn good,” he rasped. Her hands were glorious, her mouth divine, but her cunt was heaven on earth.

He lifted himself and she clamped her hands over his arse, guiding him back. He loved the feel of her, the connection he’d been without. Stroke after stroke, skin against skin, they moved together, their bodies remembering and rediscovering. He wanted everything. The old, the new, the unexplored. All of it with Kate.

He propped himself up on his elbows and brushed his lips against hers as he moved inside her. She opened her eyes as he stared down at her, and she arched up again, grinding into him, forcing him to pick up the pace.

He knew what he wanted. Her. All day. All night.

“It was so good between us,” she said, and he knew she was thinking of their night together over the summer. “So good. I never had that before you, or after.”

He rocked into her once more and her body went taut. She swung her head sideways and slammed her eyes closed. “You make me feel so fucking good,” she moaned. “Please don’t stop.”

And he didn’t, he drove into her, pumping his hips harder and harder and finally she opened her eyes, met his gaze and—holy fuck—her body bowed up as it gave itself over. The tremors of her body and the way her pussy milked his cock were unmistakable. He felt her walls clenching around him as her orgasm began. He felt the inside of her cunt get hotter and squeeze tighter around him as friction and arousal brought him ever closer to his own orgasm. He looked down into her face to watch her expression as she went over the edge.

Lips parted and eyes closed. Her face flushed as she cried out louder. Her cries of pleasure echoed around them, filling the room and joining the sounds of their bodies meeting. He pulled out and slid down to taste her wetness. Her hips thrust to his face and she screamed in ecstasy as his tongue tasted her orgasm and worked feverishly over her swollen bud until she pushed him away from her over-stimulated clit.

He rose up over her once more, his cock, now hard as a fucking rock, settling against the wet warmth between her legs. Her arms and legs came around him.

“I love you, Charlie,” she whimpered, her hands grabbing his face as she looked into his eyes, her body still convulsing with pleasure underneath him. “I love you, I love you, I love you…”

He pressed soft kisses all over her brow, her cheeks, her jawline. “I love you, too,” he said breathlessly.

Once her body had stopped shuddering, and her breathing calmed, he started to move again. Now it was his turn to lose control, and he wanted her to take him there.

He hooked his arm around her waist, bringing her with him as he rolled to his back. Sitting on top of him, she lifted her hips to guide him back inside her. “You’re so fucking big,” she whimpered as sank down around his cock and he pushed deeper, inch by inch until he hilted inside her cunt. “You have no idea how good it feels, how perfect.”

His hips bucked; his entire body felt as if it was engulfed in flames. He gazed up at her in awe. “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever known.”

She smiled. “You’re beautiful,” she said, gazing down at him, her eyes full of affection. “I could do this all night with you.”

He moaned and bucked his hips again. “You did before.”

“I did,” she grinned.

He groaned as she found her own rhythm to match his. He palmed her breasts, revelling her softness with the rough palms of his hands before playing with her nipples, pinching and teasing as she rode his cock. As she danced on his cock. He pulled her closer so he could latch on to her nipple, which made her move faster against him, her breathing short and hard as she worked herself towards another orgasm.

She was tight, hot silk surrounding him, rubbing, squeezing. “It feels so fucking good.”

“I know.”

He met her lustful gaze and grabbed her hips, setting the pace he wanted, driving her over his cock as she squeezed and caressed his throbbing flesh. “Right there,” he said. “So tight. So fucking wet. Your pussy is gonna make me—”

He stopped talking, squeezed her hips hard. She took control, working over him, and he felt her tighten and clench around him once more. “Oh, my God, I’m coming again,” she moaned.

Then she was begging him to come inside her. Kate in the throes of orgasm, with her eyes fighting to stay open and on his, and those incredibly sexy sounds spilling from somewhere deep inside her, pushed him the last few paces he needed to fall over the edge. He was about to come so fucking hard.

Intense pleasure radiated from his balls, shooting up his cock, and he cried out. He kept pumping his hips and guiding her over him as the orgasm tore through him, as her sweet cunt milked him of every drop he had to give, pulse after pulse of ecstasy erupting from the tip of his cock. “So. Fucking. Good,” he groaned through clenched teeth, his face contorted in erotic agony.

Finally, he stopped moving and came to rest under her. Breathing hard, he felt like he’d run a marathon. Still joined, but needing the extra contact, he pulled her down to him, and she collapsed forward. He brought his arms around her, gliding his fingers over her back, the feel of her soft skin against his sending sparks of warmth and joy through his body. She nuzzled his neck, and lay her breasts against his chest where his heart pounded. He thought he could feel hers pounding as well.

They’d worked hard together. Just like the first time.

“Kate?”

She lifted her head and met his gaze. “Yes?”

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

*****

Charlie propped his head on his elbow and watched her sleep.

Ridiculous? Yeah. Sappy? Definitely.

That didn’t stop him from yawning back the sleep and keeping his tired eyes open so he wouldn’t miss anything about this remarkable night.

Kate slept on her stomach, nowhere near a pillow, with her head turned toward him and her fingers curled into a loose fist beneath her chin. Her breathing was deep and easy, her brow smooth and untroubled, her lips swollen from his kisses. There was no end to his delight in her. The fragrance of her skin, the way her dark hair curled around her ears, her small but amazing breasts, her perfect arse, the smooth silkiness of her long legs. Her tears, her warmth, her passion. All of it astounded and humbled him, swelling his heart until it threatened to burst open like the first overstrained bud of spring, forcing out its blossom to the fresh air.

He should cover her with the sheet before she got cold. She was his responsibility now—his treasure—and he planned to take excellent care of her. Except that then he wouldn’t be able to admire the tantalising side of one bare breast, the slope of her toned back or the curve of that arse. Anyway, if she got cold, he planned to warm her right back up.

As though she felt the weight of his gaze, her lids flickered and then slowly opened, revealing those sparkling brown eyes, and her mouth curved into the sexiest smile he’d ever seen. Colour flooded her cheeks and he felt a responsive kick low in his stomach as he, too, remembered everything they’d said and done.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

She studied his face, running her gentle fingers over his brow. “You’re very serious.”

“I’m a couple of litres low on fluids.”

That made her laugh as she rolled onto her side and rested her head on her hand, and he was pleased to see that there was no shyness in her, no scurrying for cover as they watched each other by the light of the nightstand lamp. She was so fucking incredible that there was no room in his mind to absorb it all. Happiness glowed in her face. He hardly dared believe he’d help put it there. Lower down, meanwhile, her perky breasts were still swollen, her nipples dark with engorgement, and lower than that, the ruddy folds of her lips were wet and fragrant with arousal.

This one tied him up in knots.

“You wore me out,” she told him.

There was that caveman tendency again, making him want to thump his chest and swing from the rooftops. Instead, he contented himself with reaching out and dragging her closer, so he could settle his stiffening dick between her legs and his hand on her very fine arse.

“Yeah? You look okay to me.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t okay,” she said.

He grinned with pure male satisfaction. Fuck it. Maybe he was a caveman underneath it all like most men.

“I’m more than okay,” she said, slipping her hand between them to grip him tight, peeking up into his face. Making a distinctly feline sound—somewhere between a mewl and a purr—she eased closer, running her tongue across his lower lip and then slipping it deep inside his oh-so-willing mouth. He went from zero to sixty, hardening inside her milking hand as though it had been thirty years rather than thirty minutes since his last orgasm.

With a lingering suck and a nip, she pulled back just enough to look him in the eye while her hand worked its magic.

“Do you think,” she said, her thumb now running around his swollen head—around and around until need spiked in his gut. “It was way too soon for us to have sex? The relationship is ruined now, isn’t it?”

“Maybe if we… try really hard, we can… put it back together.”

“You think?” she asked sweetly, giving her wrist a little twist that nearly shot him to the ceiling.

That was it. Game over. With a primal growl he was all over her, shifting her to her back and kissing her with frantic, openmouthed urgency—basically eating her face.

She kissed him back, laughing, until suddenly nothing was funny. Without warning, she stiffened. A flare of panic darkened her expression.

“What is it?” he asked quickly.

“I’m so happy. I can’t even—I don’t have the words for it.”

His breathing eased up, but his heart constricted.

“Being with you is so easy,” she continued. “That’s a sign that something’s wrong, isn’t it? It’s bound to go tits up at some point? It’s too easy, too perfect.”

He thought about where they’d started and where they were now. As far as he was concerned, tonight was only the beginning of the lifetime of happiness he fully intended to give her.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Cupping her face, he pressed a reassuring kiss to her forehead. “I think when it’s right, it’s supposed to be this easy.”

“God, I hope so,” she said, resuming her efforts down below.

He covered her hand with his, tightening her grip on his cock until his orgasm was locked and loaded. Then he hooked an elbow behind her knee to spread her wide as he settled between her thighs. “I never made my way down to your feet, did I? Remind me to do that… Later.”

*****

Charlie was totally unaware that he had fallen asleep until he awakened, but even without opening his eyes, he knew Kate was lying beside him. He could feel her there, the slender shape of her naked body pressed against his side, her head pillowed in the crook of his arm, her leg hitched over his hip, her arm around him. He could smell the warm, enticing female fragrance of her skin and hear the soft, even cadence of her breathing.

He made her feel good. She loved him.

He opened his eyes. The soft grey light of early morning filtered in around the curtained windows. Turning his head, he saw she was still asleep, eyes closed, lips parted slightly, and the sight of her sent lust coursing through his body. Her profile in the dim light was beautiful, and yet it wasn’t her beauty that reignited his desire, it was memories of the previous night that came flooding back at the sight of her beside him.

Those memories overwhelmed his senses: the taste of her mouth, the touch of her hands, the feel of her skin, the sounds of her passion. Most of all, the sweet erotic admissions she’d made while in the throes of orgasmic pleasure. He made her feel good. She loved him. She’d said it over and over again. Lust rocked through him, and he started to move toward her, intending to kiss her awake, but then he remembered.

He was still an ordained Catholic priest in the eyes of the Church. Sworn to celibacy. Devoted to God and God alone.

At least he was supposed to be...

He wondered if the archbishop’s spies had already caught him. If they knew he was there with Kate, and if the axe would be coming down any day now. He lay there, expecting to feel some sense of guilt, but none came. He’d made his choices, and he was at peace with them. He didn’t regret entering the priesthood, nor did he now regret the path he was on to leave it.

Shifting to lay on his side, he watched Kate as she slept. She was so beautiful. He watched as her eyes opened. As her sight came into focus, she smiled at him, and it was like a warm and radiant beam of sunlight bursting through clouds. And those eyes of hers, his heart actually stuttered.

She moved closer and kissed him. “Good morning,” she said.

He pulled her into his arms, his resurgent cock prodding her stomach. “Happy Christmas,” he replied. “I didn’t bring you a gift.”

She laughed, and reached between them to squeeze his hefty erection, making him moan. “Not true. This is my gift.”

“Cheeky.” He grinned and started to move towards her as his pleasure center took over. He remembered how much he used to love morning sex. Waking up next to a beautiful, naked woman was the best way to start the day, and he looked forward to many more mornings with her.

“Hold that thought,” she said, placing a hand on his chest. “I have to pee.”

He laughed while she raced around the bed and out of the room.

When she returned, she planted kisses along his jaw, down his neck. He hummed in pleasure. “I have to leave in less than an hour, you know.”

“Plenty of time,” she grinned, before sliding down his body and taking him in her mouth.

He groaned in pleasure, and his hands went into her air. “Are you trying to kill me?” His tone was playful, and she smiled around his cock, which was quickly hardening to steel. While he revelled in the warm suction of her mouth, that’s not what he wanted at the moment. He wanted something far better. “Okay, that’s enough of that.”

He pulled her up with a groan. A surprise breath escaped her lips when instead of coming down on top of her, he rolled her over onto her other side and pulled her against him, her back fitting against his chest. She turned, craning her neck to kiss him, long and deep. With his cock in his fist, he slicked himself through her wet folds as their mouths melded. Lining himself up with her entrance, he slid home with one slow thrust. A feeling of completeness engulfed him as he worked himself in a little deeper. He slipped his arm under her neck, giving her more support, and laced his fingers with hers. She squeezed his hand and arched her back, placing her long leg over his thrusting hips. Shifting a little, she angled her hips, and he felt the base of his cock grinding against her swollen clit with every thrust.

“How is it always so good with you?” she asked, sliding her hand around his neck. He lifted his head, looking down at her. Brown eyes hazy with pleasure gazed up at him with something that looked almost like awe.

Because you’re in love with me. Because we’re a perfect match. Because we belong together, and always have since the night we first met.

The words ricocheted around his brain like a bullet, but he didn’t say them, even though he knew right down to his bones that they were true. Instead, he bounced his eyebrows and said, “Because I’m just that good.” His stomach flipped at the idea that she might be comparing him to the other men she’d slept with. But he didn’t care who or how many. He hadn’t been her first, nowhere near it, but fuck, he wanted to be her last.

She let out a gorgeous sound, a laugh mingled with a keening moan, and kissed him again. Together, they found a rhythm that had heat zapping down his spine, and he picked up the speed of his thrusts, unable to hold himself back. The pull of her body, the scent of her, the slide of her skin against his—it was perfect and too much at the same time. She slipped her hand between her legs, working her clit.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he ground out. The sight made his balls tighten as he watched her fingers toy with her beautifully swollen pussy.

“Keep fucking me, just like that,” she breathed, her eyes closed, sweat dotting her hairline. “You’re gonna make me come.”

He did as he was told, not changing his rhythm or his depth, staying exactly where she needed him. He leaned forward and tugged on her earlobe with his teeth. “Does that feel good? Touching yourself with my cock filling you up like that?”

She let out a sob and gasped and nodded, her fingers moving faster. “So good.”

“You feel amazing. You’re so wet, so tight. Nothing compares to being inside you. Fucking nothing.”

“More,” she whimpered, and he licked a path up her neck. “Keep talking.”

“I want to spend all night inside you. I want to fuck you until neither of us can walk. Until we don’t know our names or what day it is. I want to see how many times I can make that sweet pussy come for me.”

A loud moan escaped her lips, and he felt her clench around him. He grinned, loving that she loved his dirty talk. “I want to make you come on my mouth, on my hand, on my cock, over and over again until you beg me to stop.”

She shouted his name like a curse word and came, convulsing around him and pulling him deeper into her body as she shook and clawed at the sheets. A pulsing heat took root at the base of his spine and spread through him like a raging fire, and after a few more thrusts, he came in several long spurts, moaning her name again and again.

Quiet, blissful minutes passed.

Kate rolled over to face him, and he pulled her into his arms. Last night had been incredible as well as this morning, but knew that sometimes when feelings cooled, the mind often became clearer, less befuddled when one was not consumed with lust and flaring emotions. “In the cold light of day, I have to ask,” he murmured softly. “Do you still… want to be with me?”

She nodded. “Do you still want to be with me?” she questioned, arching her brow.

“I want you, you know I do. But not for just a night or a week… or every other weekend, or—”

“I don’t want that either,” she insisted. Her hand cupped his cheek as her eyes glistened. “You were right… You were right about me. I… I have so much love inside me, and I spent the past two years bereft, with nowhere to put it. And then I met you. I know where I can put it, where I want to put it… I’ve always known. And that’s what scares me. I don’t want to lose it, not after I’ve already lost so much.”

Affection for her filled his heart, and he pulled her even closer. “You won’t lose me. As long as you want me, you’ve got me.”

“I want to be with you every night,” she told him. “And wake up to you every morning.”

“That can be arranged,” he grinned.

He leaned towards her, capturing her lips in a tender kiss full of emotion, full of promise. Reluctantly, he pulled back from her, breaking the kiss. “As much as I hate to leave this bed, I really need to be getting back to the rectory. I have to say Christmas Mass this morning.”

Her fingertips caressed his chin. “You’ll come back later?”

“Well, I believe I was promised a Christmas Lunch,” he grinned. “I can be back here around two o’clock, and then I’ll have several hours to spend at my leisure before I have to return to the church for the evening mass.”

She smiled. “Then you best get going, Father, so I can get to work in the kitchen. That pheasant isn’t going to roast itself.”

“Pheasant?” He chuckled.

“A turkey is way too much for two people. And I found some recipes online. There was a YouTube video called ‘A Simply Delicious Irish Christmas For Two,’ which was quite helpful.”

“Irish Christmas?”

She smiled sheepishly. “Well, since you won’t be able to go home, I thought I’d do something nice for you. And apparently a simply delicious Irish Christmas for two people involves roasting a pheasant. Have you had pheasant at Christmas before?”

“Many years ago.” He pushed thoughts of home from his mind. “And what else is on the menu?”

“Roast potatoes, stuffing, gravy, Yorkshire pudding, cranberry sauce, Brussels sprouts, parsnips, and carrots. And for dessert: Christmas cake with brandy cream.”

“And all that’s supposed to be for just two people?” he laughed.

“Well, I’m not going to make enough to feed a rugby team. But just enough for lunch and then a fry-up in the morning.”

His stomach growled, and she laughed. “I’ve been fasting since Saturday night. I can’t wait.”

He kissed her cheek, and got up with a groan. Clearly, his body wasn’t used to his recent strenuous activity. Once dressed, he made his way back to the sitting room. He found his white collar on the sofa, where he’d left it last night. As he lifted the collar to put it back on, he thought twice about it, and then shoved it in the pocket of his trousers before he pulled his anorak on over his black clerical jacket.

Kate soon joined him, and together they walked towards her door. He glanced into her sitting room. “You don’t have a Christmas tree?”

“I do, it’s in a box. I didn’t bother putting it up. I… haven’t put one up since Boo died. I haven’t felt the need. Christmas used to be my favourite holiday before my mum passed away, and I loved doing the tree. Boo and I always did our trees together. But it’s sort of pointless to put one up if you’re not going to enjoy it with anyone.”

He nodded in understanding.

“Have you got a tree up in the rectory?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, laughing. “Pam insisted.”

“And when will Pam return from Jamaica?”

“Boxing Day.” He wasn’t particularly looking forward to telling her about his six-month sabbatical.

Kate smiled. “Okay, so I’ll see you later?”

His arm came around her waist. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. His parted and he let her kiss him. With a soft sigh, he pulled her closer. Though he wanted to continue to sample her mouth, he knew he needed to get back to the rectory to shower and dress for Mass. He reluctantly pulled back and stroked her cheek.

“You’ll see me later.”

She unlocked and opened her door, and followed him outside to stand on the door step. “Bye.”

He turned to look at her. He swore he could feel eyes watching them. Too bad. He really wanted to kiss her again. But maybe that was just paranoid thinking. Suddenly, he just didn’t give a damn if diocesan spies were watching or whether the archbishop would have his head or not. He grabbed Kate by the face and kissed her. Instantly, her arms came around his shoulders and she kissed him back enthusiastically before letting him go.

“I think you’re trying to get fired, darling,” she said, teasing him.

“It just might be worth it,” he quipped.

Her eyes darkened and she smirked flirtatiously as she gave him the slow up and down. “It would be. I’d make sure of it.”

Heat suffused his body at her words, but he kept his cool. It wouldn’t do to throw himself at her. Now was a good time to leave before he shoved her back inside and ended up being a no-show at the church. “So, I’ll see you later then.”

“I’ll be here,” she promised.

The next six hours passed slowly. While performing the nine o’clock and twelve o’clock masses, he sadly found his heart just wasn’t in it. He’d left his heart behind in that flat in Dartmouth Park. He couldn’t wait to get back to her and couldn’t stop thinking about her.

When he got back that afternoon, Kate was showered and dressed in a pair of black leggings and an oversized Christmas jumper. He sniffed the rich aromas emanating from the kitchen. He was ravenous, and not only did the food smell delicious, there was plenty of it. Seated at her table, they both ate until their appetites were satiated. The meal was wonderful, especially the atmosphere. She was so affectionate, and so attentive—not once disappearing and shutting him out. The hand touching, feet entwined under the table, kisses on each fresh glass of wine, her eyes full of tenderness.

Unfortunately, he had to leave her yet again to return to the church for the evening Christmas Mass.

“This has been the best Christmas I’ve had in a long time,” he told her.

“Me as well.”

“You’re a great cook.”

She laughed. “Thank you. I learned from the best.”

“YouTube?” he grinned.

Shaking her head, she gave him a wistful smile. “My mum. She was a fabulous cook. Growing up, I’d sit in the kitchen and just watch her… until I got old enough to start properly helping her. The kitchen was probably my favourite room in the house.”

She watched him with loving eyes. This was what he’d wanted all along—to get to know her, to have her trust him, open herself up to him, share her life. The kiss he then gave her could easily have segued into something hot and pounding and delicious, but he dragged himself away. There was another Mass scheduled for six o’clock. They could always have more sex later. Lots of it. For the rest of their lives.

He hoped so, anyway.

Several hours later, he returned to her flat after his last duties of the day had been concluded. They lounged together in front of a roaring fire in her sitting room, talking about everything and nothing while a classic Christmas film played in the background. It wasn’t long before they retreated to her bedroom. That night of lovemaking was like entering the very threshold of heaven itself, one of those moments one wished they could freeze forever in time. Charlie couldn’t imagine feeling any happier than he did now, the feel of her, the smell of her, the look in her eyes.

Boxing Day arrived the following morning. They talked over a bubble and squeak fry-up for breakfast, and then regretfully he got up from the sofa, hating to leave, and she once again walked him to the door.

“What’s your schedule like this week?” she enquired.

“I still have daily Mass to perform, which I’m off to do now, and all my regular pastoral duties will continue. At least until the New Year. I need to write a letter that I plan to mail to all St. Ethelred’s parishioners, explaining my impending absence and encouraging them to accept Father George Edwards along with his care and guidance. He’s a competent young priest who will do good by them. He’ll be arriving at the rectory on Thursday, and myself and Pam will be helping him get settled. It will be a busy week. I’m not sure how much free time I’ll have.”

Although she still smiled, he could see she was disappointed.

“Following New Year’s Eve, my time is all yours,” he said with a grin.

“Won’t Pam be scandalised?” she teased. “You’ll still be living in the rectory, right? And technically still a priest?”

He tilted his head back and forth. “True. But Pam… well, Pam is an understanding sort.”

She didn’t look convinced. “Pam seems quite… devout, though.”

Laughing, he nodded. “Yes, but she’s also practical and reasonable.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “She knows how I feel about you.”

Her eyes widened with surprise. “You told her?”

“I didn’t need to. Pam is quite perceptive. Last summer, well… I couldn’t hide what I felt for you, at least not from Pam.” That manila folder with his name on it flashed in his mind, its contents courtesy of the archbishop’s spies, wondering if new observations were now being added to it. He pushed the thoughts away, and smiled.

“This Sunday is New Year’s Eve, and I’d like to ring in the New Year with you. Today’s Tuesday… so, it’s only five days from now. I think we can manage ‘til then. What do you say?”

“I’d like that,” she said quietly, and then he gently pulled her into his arms and kissed her. It was a perfect end to a lovely Christmas, and she looked at him with eyes full of love after they kissed. “Or… I propose that you spend your days this week doing all your… church stuff… and then you spend your nights with me.”

They stared at each other, the connection between them strengthening and growing into something unbreakable. All thoughts of diocesan spies fled in front of what he held in his arms. Fear had zero chance against something that felt this right. Being with her, now, like this, was one of the smartest things he’d ever done. “I… I think I could do that.”

“Good.” Her eyes sparkled as she gazed at him.

“Are you as happy as I am?” he whispered.

“Yes, I think so.” She laughed softly, and he kissed her again, and they lingered at the door for a few minutes, kissing, and then truly hating to leave her, he walked away from her flat, heading for the rectory. Though he had just left her, he could hardly wait to be with her again.

*****

Thankfully his duties on Boxing Day were light, and so on Tuesday night, Charlie’s exquisite dream continued.

Kate’s warmth beside him in her bed. Her scent in his nostrils. Beneath the fluffy softness of the duvet, her sleek curls trailed across his stomach, tickling him. Arousing him even more. He sighed and rolled onto his back, his movements as easy and languorous as a soak in a hot bubble bath. She came with him, settling her silky-smooth body between his legs. He stroked her hair and waited, holding his breath to see what she would do.

His chuckle was strangled by a moan when she dragged her tongue down the trail of dark hair below his navel and nuzzled his hard cock with her nose. Her hands slid up the inside of his thighs and lingered, teasing. He shifted his hips, the rush of blood to his cock making him impatient. Urgent. When she laughed—a triumphant, purely female sound of delight—her mouth’s heat around the swollen head nearly sent him through the roof.

With an indistinct murmur, she took him between her hands and licked him. Her slick tongue traced a slow circle around the sensitive cockhead, hitting every nerve ending. His fingers tightened, tunnelling down to her scalp to bring her closer before he caught himself and loosened his grip.

She didn’t seem to mind.

Easing that clever mouth to one side, she swirled her tongue around the meaty part of his inner thigh, sucked it deep into her mouth and scraped it with her teeth as she released it, the same thing he’d done to her earlier. He cried out, every muscle in his body tightening like piano wire, and held her head in a death grip. But she didn’t complain.

After another easy nuzzle, she slowly ran her tongue up the entire length of his cock and then, without warning, took him so far inside the wet suction of her mouth it felt as if she was swallowing him whole. Something snapped inside his head, breaking through the restraints that kept him human and turning him into an animal driven by his basest urges, pure and simple.

Nearly mindless now, he thrust as deep as she could take him. Maybe it was too much, but, man, she had to know she was driving him out of his fucking skin. Another smug female laugh answered him, and the corresponding vibrations heightened the sensations until his lungs stalled and passing out seemed like a real possibility.

“Kate.” He felt the tingle start in his balls, and it took the last molecule of his control to tug gently on her hair and issue a gasped warning. “Darling. If we’re going to stop, we need to stop now.”

The duvet shifted and she appeared. With her rumpled hair, flushed cheeks from her orgasms, and gleaming eyes, she was every bit as heart-stopping as she’d been in his many dreams about her.

Staring him in the eye, she swirled her glistening pink tongue around the weeping head of his cock while her hands steadily pumped him. “Now why would I stop?” she asked.

There was one moment when she held his gaze and he teetered on the verge of cardiac arrest, then she put that hot mouth on him again, took him all the way to the back of her throat, and swallowed. After that, it took her about three seconds to make him come with a hoarse shout that could probably be heard for miles up and down the Thames. Ecstasy flooded his body as jet after jet of cum spilled out of his cock, emptying his full balls into the hot mouth of the sexiest woman he’d ever fucking met.

She swallowed everything he gave her. She eased his cock out of her mouth until only the tip remained, and squeezed the thick shaft, swirling her tongue to catch the last of his cum. To his surprise, she then worked him back into her mouth. She kept sucking on him until he couldn’t take anymore sensation and begged her to stop. She started laughing, and nuzzled him, against his softening cock, and sweetly kissed him there.

She innocently crept back up the bed, taking her place at his side and stroking his chest as his lungs heaved for air, like it wasn’t her damn fault that the top of his head had nearly blown off. As if she hadn’t sucked the very soul from his body and swallowed it.

“Minx.”

She laughed again.

He held her tight, relishing the feel of her beaded nipples against his side and her leg wrapped around his hips.

Then he had his own moment of panic.

Not since Colleen had he had so much to lose, and all of it was right here in his arms. Before Kate, his life had been fine. A little monotonous, slightly frustrating, and very lonely, but fine. Tolerable.

There would be no after Kate for him. It was that simple. To live, he needed food and water, shelter and clothing, air to breathe, and Kate McKenzie. Without any of that, he couldn’t go on. He stared at her, tracing her features with his fingers. She hit him with a drowsy smile that claimed the last little bit of his heart that wasn’t already hers.

“Are you trying to ruin me?” he asked.

“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing, Father. But I think I already ruined you a long time ago, to be honest.”

“Well done.”

Grinning, she closed her eyes. As they drifted off to sleep, he realised that being ruined was the best thing that ever happened to him.

*****

His complete ruination had come much sooner than expected.

From his bedroom window, Charlie watched a neighbour across the road retrieve the post from their box. Between his fingers he held the letter he’d received that morning. The letter he’d read countless times in the last several hours. He walked away from the window and returned to his task.

If the diocese wanted him out effective immediately, then he would go. He had already started packing. He tossed in the bag containing his toiletries, including the new pack of razor blades Pam gave him two weeks earlier after he had sat down at the kitchen table one morning with several cuts on his face. A pack of ten blades shaved him at least six months, he thought as he wrestled with the zipper. Such a wonderful lady, Pam.

He’d had to tell Pam about his dismissal; it was not an easy task. Seeing her tears was heartbreaking. Then a strange priest from a parish on the west side of the city suddenly arrived at St. Ethelred’s at the behest of the archbishop and made the announcement to a shocked audience at the one o’clock Mass. They clearly wanted him out as soon as possible. No doubt the announcement would be repeated at Sunday’s Mass.

On the bed next to the suitcase was his copy of The Catholic Book of Prayers that Father Jim had given him before he left Ireland for seminary. Underneath was the appointment book Pam had given him for Christmas, and next to it the letter from Archbishop Nicholson, placing him on administrative leave indefinitely.

He pulled the letter from the envelope and read it again, still disturbed and saddened by the coldness of the archdiocese and the immediacy of the action it took.

Dear Father Brennan:

I write to inform you effective today your assignment at St. Ethelred’s Church is withdrawn and you are hereby placed on administrative leave with your priestly ministry suspended until such time as the Archdiocese of Westminster determines you to be worthy and capable of exercising those duties.

Charlie looked at the date at the top of the letter. Twenty-seventh of December, three days ago. Bishop McClenaghan’s warning of diocesan spies continuing to keep tabs on him had been well-founded. He read on.

The reason for this action is because you have engaged in behaviour incompatible with appropriate priestly ministry and with the sacrament of Holy Orders.

He tossed the letter on the bed. He was tired of reading it, especially the part about how he had disgraced the Church with his intolerable actions. There was more. Much more. The archbishop had found Charlie’s activities with Ms. Kathryn McKenzie to be unconscionable and distasteful as he described in the letter.

A blot on the priesthood. A sad day for the Church.

He heard Bishop Harington in the archbishop’s words, exactly what he would have said had the sanctimonious twat written the letter himself. He suspected Bishop Harington had initiated the complaint against him, and that the archbishop’s underlings had investigated the accusations and recommended Charlie’s indefinite leave. He wondered if they had contacted Kate. He doubted it, as she undoubtedly would have told him.

He’d been effectively laicised.

He knew it would have happened at some point, but he had planned to request it himself at the end of his sabbatical. Apparently, the archbishop didn’t want to wait that long. Thoughts of Father Michael Thomas and the glaring inaction the diocese was taking regarding him made Charlie’s blood boil.

He placed The Catholic Book of Prayers in a side pocket of the suitcase. Good reading material for his rehabilitation he apparently was in sore need of, or as the archbishop called it, spiritual healing. As of today, there would be no more Mass to say, no communion to give, no last rites or other ministering to the sick, the dying, and the troubled. No confessions to hear. His work had come to an end.

What the fuck was he going to do now?

He glanced at the clock on the wall. The café would be closing soon. There was really only one person he wanted to talk to.

He folded the letter, slid it into the back pocket of his jeans, slipped on his anorak, and walked out of the bedroom. The door to his study was ajar, enough to catch the sound of papers being shuffled. A sigh emanated from the room as he passed, not a profound exhaling of breath, but more of a feeble reminder there was a lot of work waiting for the person who sat behind that desk.

He knocked on the open door.

Father Edwards looked up. “Hello, Charlie.”

“George.”

The poor sod was in for a long, exhausting mission to deal with the parishioners, some who had been at St. Ethelred’s from baptism to old age, who had lived in Highgate their entire lives, whose parents and grandparents and great-grandparents had been memorialised at hundreds, if not thousands, of funeral Masses. And there were people like Maria Delgado and the rest of the Parish Council who had devoted years, some even decades, to the betterment of the only church they had ever attended. There were the people who’d given their last pound coins to St. Ethelred’s, money they needed for food and clothing for their children, but their faith told them their church needed it more. A church that in its entire centuries-long history, as far as anyone knew, had somehow miraculously escaped scandal.

Until now.

“I’m heading out to take care of some things,” he told the young priest.

George attempted a smile. “All right, Charlie?”

“I’m fine.” He made to walk away, but then turned back. “Father Edwards?”

The priest looked up from his papers, meeting his gaze.

“I take comfort in knowing that I’m leaving the parish in good hands.”

The expression on George’s face softened into a look of sympathy. “Cheers, mate.”

In the kitchen, Pam lifted recently washed drinking glasses from the drain tray in the sink and placed them gently in the cupboard above the worktop. She never used the dishwasher for glasses, always preferring to hand-wash them and avoid picking shards of glass out of the bottom of the machine. Father Patrick had it installed for her last year as a gift to ease her housekeeping duties, but she didn’t trust it.

She turned when Charlie entered the kitchen. She laid the glass in her hand on the worktop, instinctively wiped her hands on her apron and without warning walked up to him and hugged him. He responded to her embrace with one of his own, firm and with emotion to show her how much he appreciated her care and was going to miss her. She broke the embrace and both of them backed away and looked at each other. She wiped the moisture from her eyes with the back of her hand.

He moved towards the door. “I’m just stepping out, Pam. I’ll be back later to finish packing.”

Her face contorted into an expression of distress. “But where will you go, Fath—?” She stopped herself. “I’m sorry,” she said tearfully.

“There’s nothing to apologise for, Pam. It’s all rather sudden. But everything will be okay.”

He bid her goodbye and went out the door. It wasn’t long before he reached the café.

When Kate had finally ushered out her last customer of the day, and she’d turned over the “Closed” sign and locked the door, she joined him at the table. After getting a good look at him, she frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

He took a deep breath, and then told her about the letter.

“How long is your administrative leave?”

“It appears to be indefinitely,” he answered, removing the envelope from his pocket and sliding it across the table for her to read it herself.

“I’m being treated as if I’d harmed a parishioner,” he grumbled as she unfolded the letter and began to read. “Like the priest up north somewhere who had refused communion to a woman because she was a lesbian. How devastating that would be to someone to be denied the Holy Eucharist, especially in front of others. I’ve never done anything of the sort, and yet the archbishop has made it seem as if I’ve fucked up the lives of everyone around me, while I’ve really only fucked up my own.”

“I’m sorry if I played any part in that…”

He shook his head emphatically. “No. No. Kate, nothing is your fault. Nothing. I don’t regret a single moment I’ve spent with you, or will spend with you in the future. And that’s the problem, according to the archbishop; I’m not sorry at all.”

Taking a sip from his cup of tea, he shrugged. “Well, I guess I am now unemployed and homeless. I’m quite the catch,” he grinned, trying to make light of it.

Her eyes filled with sympathy.

“Not to worry. It’ll get sorted. I’ve got some money saved, and Father Brady was kind enough to offer to let me stay with him in Chiswick until I can find a place to rent.”

“In another stuffy rectory?” she said, grimacing.

He laughed. “It’s not so bad. Father Brady is a good sort of fellow, and it won’t be for long.”

Eyes widening slightly, a look of realisation came over her. She swallowed, and looked as though she was struggling with what she wanted to say. He gave her time, saying nothing.

“Why… why don’t you just come stay with me?”

He chuckled, suddenly feeling nervous. “I know I’ve slept every night this week at your flat, but… Well, I don’t know how long it’ll take me to find a place. It could end up being several weeks, and I wouldn’t want to be an imposition—”

“Not, not until you find another place,” she hastily replied, her voice shaky. “You wouldn’t need to find a place. You’d have a place… with me.”

He stared, taken slightly aback. Heat rose in his face. “What exactly are you saying, Kate?”

She chewed on her bottom lip, hesitating. “I’m saying… this week we’ve spent together has been amazing. I’m saying… I love you.” Her brown eyes were achingly tender. “I’ve decided I’m not going to be ruled by fear. I’m not going to hold back the way I feel or what I want from you because I know nothing’s going to change the way I feel right now. I know I’m shit at relationships, but maybe I was just shit because I wasn’t actually ever in love with the person. And now that I’m in love…”

She paused, and he sensed the strong emotion affecting her, making it difficult for her to put her feelings into words. “Charlie, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” She spoke with an intensity that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her. “I love you, and I never want to be without you. Now or ever. I’m pretty sure you feel the same way. Am I wrong?” Naked emotion darkened the eyes impaling his.

He shook his head and swallowed. “You’re not wrong,” he breathed, and dragged in a tremulous sigh. “And you… you want me to come and live with you?”

“Jesus, you’re making it sound as if I’m simply asking you to be my flatmate.”

He laughed, shaking his head. Was this really what she wanted? Did she truly mean it? “So, is this part of your ‘keeping the relationship stuff out of it and just using me for sex’ plan?”

She seemed to read what was in his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Charlie, you know what I’m asking! For you to be my boyfriend and live with me. As a couple. Exclusive. Committed. I thought that was something you wanted, too.”

A deep quiver of sheer happiness rippled through him, and he smiled. “I just wanted to be sure that you knew what you were asking. That it was what you wanted.”

“My life is changing. I think I’m finally growing up. Learning how to be a proper adult.” She grinned. “Don’t get me wrong, the sex is great and I do love you, but it’s not just that. You seem to understand me more than any man I’ve ever met, and accept me for who I am, flaws and all, maybe even more than some of my own family. And… I need your friendship, your warmth and understanding.”

Tears started to come to her eyes. “Charlie, I fucking need you. I need you.”

His heart beat into his throat. She’d said the magic words. He’d truly missed being needed, had gone so long without the feeling. And now he felt it once more. He knew what it felt like to be needed again, to matter in someone’s life, to be someone’s entire world. Knowing she needed him gave him a type of fortitude he had once thought he’d lost. A strength that had died inside him along with his wife.

And suddenly there it was, something in the center of his being, something bone-hard and still, a sense of strength and peace he had not known since then. But fear tightened his throat, the shadows of his tragic past rising up to hold him back, to prevent him from grabbing hold of what he wanted. Then he shoved the dark thoughts away.

He smiled at her, his heart swelling inside his chest. Her gaze softened as a warm smile lit up her face.

Without any doubt as to what he wanted more than anything in the world, Charlie reached across the table with both hands.

Kate offered her hands to his.

Their fingers entwined.