He stares at me for so long. Too long.

The embarrassment heating my cheeks is too much to bear. The man I’ve been fantasizing about for months knows I’ve touched myself thinking of him. I planned to walk in here and beg him to take me, but the moment his green eyes pin me, I’m speechless.

I may be a naughty girl, but this time, I’m as nervous as I was the first time I kissed a boy. As if I’m thirteen again, and he’s just out of my league.

“I . . . ,” he mumbles, clearing his throat. “I don’t think you should be here. It’s better if you leave. I can’t . . . I don’t . . .” His denial burns with lies. I take a step forward and notice how his eyes trail from my ballet flats up my jean-clad legs until they reach my breasts. The top I’m wearing is loose-fitting, so I know he can’t see my hardened nipples. When he looks at me again, I smile.

“You can’t deny the pull. Do you disagree with what I feel? Were you not turned on by me earlier?” My question stills him for a moment before I feel the electric current in the air between us. Yes, it’s wrong to taunt him, but I can’t help myself. I settle on the chair opposite his desk, crossing one leg over the other, causing his gaze to drop to my legs once more.

He doesn’t respond, but those lust-filled orbs are glued to the curve of my form. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be sitting here seducing the priest who’s been teaching us about living a Christian life for the past few months. The shepherd herding his flock. The only problem with this little lamb is she’s left the rest behind. She’s the black sheep.

I’ve never been a good girl. I never prayed like my mom and dad taught me to. And now, as I sit here, as wrong as it is, I’m wet for him. I want to be with him. Those eyes that remind me of a forest are deep green pools of need. The same emotions that match mine. The stubble darkening his jaw makes my mind race with images of his mouth on my core. My inner thighs tingling from the scratchy beard. His tousled chocolate hair that I’m dying to tangle my fingers through looks as if he’s been tugging at it.

Squirming in my seat, I watch him shift in his leather chair. “Sage, you’re a beautiful girl. I’m sure there are boys—”

“That’s the problem, Father Reid. I don’t want boys. I . . .” Pushing up off the chair, I round the desk in a few short steps. My eyes lock on the window which overlooks the garden, and a plan formulates in my mind. My gaze darts around the greenery, the plush verdant growth, and I make my decision. With my heart racing, hammering wildly against my ribcage, I utter the words, “I want you.” I confess. Again. Not meeting his gaze, instead looking at the peacefulness and serenity outside. The tranquility. Silence surrounds us like a thick fog. Heavy with understanding, but burning with lust.

“Why?” His voice is raspy when he voices his question. Just one word. Honestly, I’m not sure what to tell him. When I walked into the church today, I wanted to come in here and seduce him. As bad as that is, I couldn’t take the tension that seemed to emanate from him each time I’m around. After our confessional orgasm this morning, I knew for sure he wanted me.

“I don’t know. I really don’t,” I tell him, taking a step toward the window. My finger trails the wooden beam holding the glass. The top is filled with color, the image of a sheep in the field. I know I’m going to hell for doing this, but my need overrides my morals.

His body heat cocoons me from behind as his reflection appears in the glass before me. As if he’s all around me. “If we do this . . . ,” he whispers in my ear, causing a shudder to ripple through me like a stone skipping on the water.

“No one can know,” I affirm confidently. It’s enough for him because his lips find purchase on my neck, suckling the sensitive skin. His hands on my hips tug me back against a thick erection that presses into my ass. Pushing against him, I feel him hiss against my neck. The heat of his breath fans over me, causing goose bumps to rise in its wake. His teeth bite down on my flesh as he finally takes his communion of my body.

“We shouldn’t,” he murmurs.

“It’s forbidden,” I whisper.

Our confession doesn’t stop us. His hands stroke me reverently. “This is wrong,” he confirms, but nothing stops us. His fingers tease the zipper of my jeans open, then his fingers dip into the waistband.

My breathing is ragged, and my chest heaves with desire. He stalls when he reaches the elastic of my panties. The ache that starts low in my stomach feels heavy, needy. My clit throbs. I reach for his hand, teasing it down my silky underwear.

“Don’t,” he hisses, but the need in his tone is enough.

Ignoring him, I move his hand with mine until his fingers find my slick heat. My pussy pulses for him. “Just touch me,” I moan when he finally delves a digit into my core. “This is my confession, Father.” I moan as my head drops back. His lips suckle on my heated flesh like I’m his salvation, but I know I’ll be his downfall.

“This is my sin, little lamb,” he growls. Thick digits pump in and out of my body as it accepts him. His movements are gentle. Slow and steady. Taunting and teasing. I’m so close. My body hums, thrums with need. His fingers fuck me. My hips roll against him.

“Yes, Father. Let me repent. Please?” I plead. My voice is hoarse, laced with desire. I shouldn’t want this, but I do. Father Reid, the man who’s still wearing the white collar around his neck, is about to make me come on his fingers. In his office. In the church.

“Come, Sage. Let your body go. Give me your confession. Let me relieve you of your sin.” That’s when it hits. My body convulses, tightening around his fingers. “That’s it, sweet lamb, come for me. Worship the feeling,” he murmurs so seductively it caresses every inch of my body. I cry out as it hits me, but his free hand quickly covers my mouth, stifling the sound.

I think he’s going to pull out, but he doesn’t relent; instead, he continues to finger-fuck me. As I ride the wave of my orgasm, I realize this has gone where it shouldn’t.

This is far from a fantasy.

This is real.

It’s bad.

It’s dirty and taboo.

But I want it.

Every filthy moment.