She talked, her eyes still on his, her long fingers resting on her arms. She cast her eyes back down, looking so lovely and yet so frail, and he wanted to hug her. John wanted to wrap his arms around her and feel her breathe into his chest, and he wanted to tuck her face into his neck as he kept her safe and protected from her past, from her ambiguous future. 

 

He wanted to tell her and have her know—really know—that it would be all right, because there was love and because someone like her was meant to be out in the world sharing that love, like she had done in her past. All that joy she had felt there—she could feel it anywhere, if only she’d open herself to it. 

 

He placed his hand on her arm, about to say something, and then her eyes lifted to his and everything shifted. The floor and the ceiling turned, and his fingertips and his skin on her skin. Electricity skimmed down his spine, and every sense memory of her—her taste and her feel and her sounds—shocked through him. 

Her mouth parted. 

She felt it too. 

John could barely get the words out, his throat was so dry. And when she turned to walk back to the couch, she also looked stunned, as if she’d been blinded. 

 

The air around them stilled as he slid his fingers up her arm, resting them on her cheek, and they were close, so close, as if he could press her straight through his skin and into his soul. “You broke your wedding vows, I’m to blame too, you shouldn't carry that burden alone, Doc,” he said finally. 

She glanced up at him; “I know,” she finally replied. “I know.” 

“So why are you so filled with guilt, Doc?” 

“I enjoyed it” She blinked up at him. “And that’s my real sin,” Marlena finished. “That’s my real shame. I can’t sleep at night knowing that I let you—let myself—” She broke off and there was a moment of silence in the penthouse which he didn’t interrupt, both out of respect for her and also because he didn’t trust his voice. Her confession had been so raw—so fucking detailed—and he was filled with rage at himself and sorrow for her and also a fierce, unshakable jealousy that just months ago, Roman was still in town and he got to be inside her and he didn’t deserve it, not one bit. But mostly he was so fucking hard he couldn’t think straight. 

 

“I let myself give in to passion,” she said finally, in a quiet, sad voice. “I was a married woman and I cheated on my husband...I loved him...I loved you...What kind of woman does that?” he needed to say something, needed to help her, but fuck, it was so difficult to focus on anything other than the image of her face pressed into the wall of her penthouse as she gasped her way through multiple orgasms. 

 

He was going to hell for even thinking this, especially since he wanted to punch Roman in the windpipe for causing her that kind of pain, and it had been so long since he’d had a woman whimpering under his touch… 

 

Fucking get it together. 

Feelings, focus on her feelings. 

 

“How did it feel, when you and I...when we were together that night?” 

“How did it feel? It felt amazing. Like you were claiming me from the inside out, and when you came inside of me, it felt like you were marking me as your property, and it was your climax that made me orgasm again. I can’t help it—a man coming is the hottest thing, especially when I can feel it inside of me…” 

 

His head fell back for a mere second. “I meant—” he said in a strangled voice “—how did it feel emotionally?”

“Oh,” and then the breathy little laugh, and then fuck it, he’d go to hell, because he couldn’t not rub himself now. He was so hard that he could feel every ridge and slope of himself through his pants. His other hand in his pocket toyed with the fabric of his pants as he stroked, trying to keep his breathing silent, hoping she didn’t notice.

 

Her words were carved into his mind, and they would be there forever. “I guess it made me feel like you were right. I never should have gone back to Roman? I think deep down, I always knew that I didn’t really love Roman, but I was willing to accept him because of what happened to him... So what do I do now? How do I carry the shame of what I did to my family while at the same time knowing it was a fundamental part of who I am?”

​

Shame. 

​

Yes, John knew that feeling; he was feeling it right now, in fact. He forced his hands to his thighs, well away from his erection. Concentrate, he told himself. And when you’re alone, you can take care of your…problem.

“God made us as sexual creatures, Marlena,” He said, wishing his words sounded more soothing than they did. With his choked voice and barely controlled breathing, they came out sounding like a dark threat. 

A dark, imminent threat. 

“Then He made me too sexual,” she whispered. “Even now, I—” But she stopped. 

“Even now, what?” And he was using that voice again, and there was no mistaking the danger now. He could hear her shifting in her seat. 

“You should go,” she said. 

 

He watched her reach for the door, but he was quicker and came over to her side in an instant, standing there as her closed door. He braced his hands on either side of the door 

 

What the fuck was he doing? 

 

Blocking her movement because he had to know, he had to know what she was going to say, and if he didn’t, he would go crazy. She looked up at him looming over her, her hazel eyes growing wide. 

“Oh,” she breathed. 

They stared at each other for a moment. It could have ended right there. It would have, even with her red lipstick and her bright eyes and her nipples in tight little points under the thin silk blouse she wore. Even with his wide shoulders blocking the door to the penthouse, even with the surge of power and satisfaction and lust that came from positioning his body against a woman’s in this primal, dominating way. It would have, he swore. But then she bit her lip, those teeth digging into her full lower lip, all pure white digging into the sharpest, bloodiest red imaginable, and then she rubbed her thighs together, a tiny noise coming from somewhere in the back of her throat. 

He stopped seeing the mother of his child. He stopped seeing a good friend. He saw only a woman in need—ripe, delicious need. 

 

He stepped forward, drawing a deep breath, some valiant part of his conscience trying to flicker back online, and she took a tentative step out of his reach, her eyes still pinned to his. He let her walk beside him, but it wasn’t because he wanted her to leave or because he wanted this temptation to end. No, it was more like he was giving her one last chance to escape, and if she didn’t then Jesus help her, because he had to touch her, he had to taste her and it had to be right the fuck now. 

 

Marlena backed up a few paces until she bumped against the baby grand piano set beside her balcony doors. She still didn’t speak, but she didn’t have to, because he could read every tremble of hers, every breath, every goosebump. Her teeth still bit her bottom lip and he wanted to bite that lip, bite it so hard that she would squeal. He advanced on her, and she watched every step of his with a hunger that was beyond palpable, it was oppressive, it was ferocious. 

 

“Turn around,” He ordered her, and fuck if she didn’t comply right away, turning and bracing her hands against the edge of the black wood. She was still rubbing her thighs together when he reached the piano and stood directly behind her. He ran his index finger from her hand to her shoulder, feeling every pebbled inch of skin on her arm. “Now what were you going to say, Doc?” He asked her in a low voice. “And remember that lying is a sin.” 

She shivered. “I can’t say it. Not to you.” 

His hand reached her shoulder. 

She’d worn her hair up in a loose twist, exposing the ivory nape of her neck, and he caressed it now, wanting to devour every shudder, every hitched breath. And then he placed the flat of his palm in the space between her shoulder blades and pushed her down against the piano, so that she was bent over, the side of her face pressed against the glossy wood. 

 

The piano was so high that she had to stand on tiptoe, her white heels tugging free of her heels, her calf muscles bunching into tight balls. She’d worn a high-waisted pencil skirt, and once she was bent over, the slit rose high enough to expose a narrow glimpse of pink flesh. “Marlena,” He said dangerously, “are you walking around without underwear?” His hand was still on her back, his fingers resting against her neck, and she nodded. 

“Was that on purpose?” 

A pause. 

Then another nod. 

The crack resounded through the living room, and she jumped at the feeling of his hand smacking her ass. Then she moaned and pushed her ass up farther. He didn’t spank her again, although Lord knows he wanted to. Instead, he ran his hand from her shoulder to her hip, feeling the curve of her breast where it was pressed against the piano, the dip of her waist, the firm swell of her ass. And then he repeated the action with both hands this time, letting his hands drift down to the hem of her skirt. She drew in a breath, and then he abruptly yanked it up to her waist. 

John knelt down behind her and spread her legs, spread them so that her center was gloriously bared to him. 

“My pretty little lady,” he whispered. “You are so very, very wet right now.” She was, wetness slicking almost every part of her. Her pussy wasn’t just wet either—it was fucking quivering, pink and soft and quivering right in front of his face. He grabbed her ass in his hands and dug his fingers in, leaning forward so that his breath tickled her sensitive flesh. 

 

She whimpered.

 

“This is so wrong,” he said, moving his mouth even closer. He could smell her, and she smelled like heaven, like soap and skin and the delicate female scent that every man hungered for. “But just one taste,” he murmured, talking more to himself than to her now. “God wouldn’t punish me for just one taste.” He traced his way from her clit to her slit with his tongue and-

 

Forgive me, my God

 

-but no communion wine, no salvation had ever tasted sweeter than this, and one taste would not be enough. 

“Please,” She whispered against the wood surface, “I need to feel you.” 

 

He flattened his tongue against her clit and sampled her again, his cock now so hard that it hurt. She cried out against the wood of the piano, and he almost died, because those noises and fuck, that taste. He dove into her like a man possessed, his fingers burrowing into her ass cheeks to hold her open for his assault. He fucked her with his tongue and his lips and his teeth, eating her, eating her like a starving man. Her pussy was exactly as perfect as he’d remembered all those nights in his frozen showers. 

 

She would come, he decided right then. He would make her come on his face, and just the thought made his balls draw up and his cock jolt in his pants. It was a very real possibility that he himself might come without even touching his cock. 

He let one finger drift over to her pussy and then he slid it inside, crooking it down to find the soft, textured spot that would push her over the edge. She was shamelessly grinding back into his face now, her fingernails scratching against the piano wood, little sighs and moans issuing from her throat. All he could breathe and taste was her, and then he closed his eyes and saw the crucifix at the front of Saint Luck's—a tragic, agonized god hanging in sacrifice—and his heart lurched. 

 

What the hell was he doing? 

What would they think? 

​

And more than that—what about his vow? A vow he had made before his family and God? What does an oath mean to him if only three months after swearing chastity, he was shoving his tongue up his ex-wife’s center? 

But then Marlena came, her cry the most beautiful hymn he’d heard in his life, and everything else vanished except her and her smell and her taste and the feeling of her clenching around his finger. Reluctantly, he pulled back, wanting one more orgasm from her, wanting to bury his face in her ass again, but knowing he couldn’t, he shouldn’t, and then he stood and saw her looking over her shoulder like he was the most wondrous thing she’d ever seen. 

 

“Oh my, it’s been years since..." she whispered. 

Tongue-fucked her?

He has, years ago.

Or bent her over a piano and licked her until she couldn’t stand anymore? His eyebrows drew together, and she answered his unspoken question. “No one’s ever made me come with his mouth since you, I mean,” she said. 

 

There was still a flush high on her cheeks, creeping down her neck. 

He didn’t understand. 

“Roman has ever gone down on you?” She shook her head and then closed her eyes. “That felt so good.” he was shocked. 

 

“That’s a shame, Doc,” he said, and he couldn’t stop himself, he pressed his covered erection into her ass. “Roman hadn't taken care of you properly.” he dropped a hand down and around to find her clit again, groaning inwardly when he found that it was still a swollen, hot button of need. 

“But I won’t lie. It makes me hard as fuck knowing that I was the first man to make you come like this,” he heard the words as he said them and suddenly reality slammed back into him. 

 

What the fuck was he doing? 

What the fuck had he done? 

 

He stepped back, breathing hard, no thought in his mind other than to get away, somewhere else, before he was laid low by guilt and regret. Marlena spun around, her skirt still bunched around her waist, her eyes flashing. 

“Don’t you dare,” she said. “Don’t you dare check out on me now.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I…I can’t.”

“You can,” she said, stepping forward. She pressed a palm to his erection, and he looked down to see her unbuckling his belt. 

“Doc, I can’t,” he repeated, still watching as she drew out his cock. The moment her fingers brushed over his bare skin, he wanted to die, because he hadn’t exaggerated how good that felt in his memories and his fantasies, no, he had not. 

 

“You are a good priest, John,” she said, her hand moving down to explore lower, cupping him. “But you’re also a good man. And doesn’t a good man deserve a little indulgence every now and then?” She gripped him tighter, started to stroke in earnest. 

 

He watched her hand moving up and down his shaft like a man hypnotized. “We won’t have sex,” she promised. “No sex, and then it’s not really breaking any rules, right?” 

“You’re equivocating now,” he said raggedly, closing his eyes against the sight of her pumping his cock. “Then how about another confession,” she said, dragging her fingernails from his pelvis to his navel, making his abs tighten. “After the night we’d spent together at Titan 3 years ago, I couldn’t stop thinking about your voice, like I could still hear it in a way, echoing in his mind. And your hands... That was the first time in years, I got off thinking about you.” 

 

“You’ve touched yourself thinking about me?” The last remaining shred of his self-control frayed, threatening to snap. 

“More than once,” she admitted, still running her fingers over his abs underneath his shirt. “Because feeling your body pressing me down to the table…and your words, Oh, your words, were so damn dark like you wanted to consume me up right there…I had to fuck myself three times before I could focus on anything else.” 

There it went, any self-discipline that remained, and all that was left was a male—not John, not Father Black—but something more primal and more demanding. 

 

“Show me,” he ordered. 

“What?” 

“Lie down on this floor, spread your legs and show me what it looks like when you fuck yourself thinking of me.” 

Her mouth parted and her cheeks reddened and then she was laying on the carpet, her hand on her pussy. He stood over her, fisting his cock, giving in to it all, giving in to everything, as long as it ended in her covered in his climax.

“Why didn’t you wear underwear today?” he asked, watching her trace circles around her clit. 

“The last time, when we talked, I got so hot talking to you. I thought if it happened again today, it would be easier if I didn’t wear panties. To…take care of it. And it was easier.” he knelt down between her legs and then took her slender wrists in his hand. He stretched out over her, pinning her wrists to the floor above her head, his cock brushing against her pussy and her bunched-up skirt. 

“Are you telling me,” he asked, “that you were masturbating upstairs tonight?” She nodded fearfully. 

“You make me so wet,” she said. “I can’t stand it.” 

 

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

So wet. 

He dropped his head, burying his face in her neck. She smelled like clean skin and the barest hint of lavender perfume. For some reason, this excess, this possible decadence, fueled his need to tear her apart. He bit her neck, her collarbone, scored her shoulders with his teeth, all while he ground his cock against her clit and palmed her breast, driving her to a second orgasm as if he were punishing her with pleasure. Punishing her for showing up here and knocking his carefully constructed life over as if it were a house of cards. 

She squirmed underneath him, panting and gasping, her hands flexing uselessly against the floor as he kept them pinned there with only one hand. 

 

She was so wet, it would be so easy, just a slight change in angle, and then he could thrust in. 

He wanted to. 

He wanted to, he wanted to, he wanted to. 

He wanted to fuck this woman more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. And perversely, the fact that he couldn’t, that it would be wrong on every single level—moral, professional, personal—made it even hotter. It made the image, the imagined feeling of it, a single bright point of obsession until he was mindlessly rutting against her, sucking and nibbling at her as if he could burn out this need by devouring every inch of her skin. 

 

“Oh, John,” she whispered. “I’m going to—oh, Fuck—” he would have flogged himself every day for the rest of his life if he could have been inside of her right then, felt her tightening on his cock, felt her shuddering convulsions from the inside out. But being on top of her was almost as good, because he felt every seizing, jerking breath, every wild buck of her hips, and when he met her eyes, they were fierce and penetrating, but also surprised, as if she’d been given an unexpected gift and wasn’t sure if she should be grateful or suspicious. But before he could delve further into that look, she’d arched her back and unseated his balance, tipping him so that he rolled to his back and she was on top of him. 

 

Without hesitation, she tugged his shirt up so she could see his stomach, and he didn’t miss the way her jaw clenched and her eyes flared. She scratched his stomach—hard—as if furious that it was firm and muscled, as if angry that it turned her on. She sat on him, her slick cleft sliding against the underside of his cock, and then she started stroking him that way as if she were jacking 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 pussy allowed him to see her ripe clit peeking out. It was so goddamn wet, and with all the pressure, her full body weight pressing against his cock, it was such a close approximation to the real thing, maybe too close, but it still wasn’t technically sex, he lied to himself, maybe it wouldn’t count, maybe he wasn’t sinning. 

But even if he was, holy fuck, he was not stopping. 

 

It was so dirty, the way her skirt was still hitched up to her hips, the way his pants were yanked down just far enough to free his balls, the way the old carpet abraded his ass and lower back. The way she shamelessly angled herself so that his shaft would press on her in all the right places, the way it was just their arousal lubricating them and nothing else, and God, he wanted to marry this woman or collar her or cage her; he wanted to own her, make her, take her; he wanted them on this carpet forever, with her hair coming undone and her nipples hard and her naughty pussy milking his cock for everything it was worth. 

 

“Come, John,” she told him hoarsely. “I have to see you come. I need it.” His jaw was too tight to answer, because it was close, something more intense than he’d felt in years gnawing at the base of his spine and rending its way through his pelvis. 

“Don’t hold back,” she begged now, pressing down even more, and fuck, there it was. “Give it to me. Give me every drop.” 

 

Shit, this woman was filthy. And perfect. 

 

And it was pure instinct that made him grab her hips and work her harder and faster over him, his mind filled with the sight of her straddling him and her pale pink clit, still plump and needy, and the memory of her taste and smell on his mouth and face, and then it flooded through him—no, it burned and chewed through him, and she let out a low moan.

 

That was too much.

This had to stop.

And at that moment—at the peak of her high, and her greedy triumph—their eyes locked —stranger and stranger, priest and a woman, John and Marlena. They were simply male and female, as God had made them, Adam and Eve, in the most elemental and fundamental form. They were biology, they were creation incarnate, and he saw the moment she felt it too—that they were fused somehow. 

 

He could barely breathe, barely process what the fuck he was about to do.

“Doc, s-stop.”

​

She was the kind of woman that could make him hard over and over again, the kind of woman he could spend a week fucking nonstop and then still want more, and that was bad news for his self-control, which was slowly resurrecting back into life, along with his defeat, gnashing conscience. 

“I-I can’t….I’m sorry…” it took everything he had in him to stop. To remove his hands from her scorching flash. His mind was foggy, the neurons in his brain felt like they were underwater.

He shouldn’t do this.

​

“This is right, this is meant to be..” she said after a moment, “will it drive you wild knowing that I’ll be touching myself every night, thinking about you?” 

He groaned. 

​

Fuck yes, it would. 

But he couldn’t do this.

​

“Marlena,” he said, but then stopped. What could he possibly say in this moment that would have any value? That would encompass the rushing torrents of shame and guilt, and also express how deeply this woman had gotten under his skin? 

​

“I know,” she whispered. “I’m sorry too.” She stood and rearranged her clothes as he fixed his shirt and sat up. Had it been only a minute ago when the entire universe had shrunk to just him and her, to their noises and their sweat, their fucking without really fucking? And now the penthouse seemed vast and hollow, a cave with only the overtaxed air conditioner to chase away the dull silence. 

He should go.

He should go to the church and pray for his sins.

The church would be empty that time of night. 

He’d gotten away with it. 

​

“I have to go..” he trailed off, lost.

And somehow that made him feel worse. They didn’t say goodbye. Instead, they looked at each other, rumpled and damp, reeking of sex, and then he left without another word, slowly making his way to St. Luke's, ashamed and hard and hating himself relentlessly.