Priest (Camren)

CHAPTER 9

Knock.

Knock.

Pause.

Knock knock knock.

"Stop," I muttered, rolling out of bed, sleep making me slow and fumbling. "I'm coming, I'm coming."

Knock knock BOOM.

The deafening thunder and preceding flash of light did nothing to alleviate my disorientation, and I stumbled into the table, the sharp corner burrowing into my hip. I swore, blindly reaching for a t-shirt (I was only in a loose pair of sweatpants) and groped my way down the hall to the living room where the front door was. I was just awake enough that I was beginning to register that someone really was at my door at three in the morning, and it was either a police officer coming to tell me that Ryan had finally rammed his car into a tree while texting or one of the parishioners needing last rites. Whatever reason they had for coming to the rectory, it probably wasn't good, and I steeled myself for tragedy as I opened the door, awkwardly also trying to tug my t-shirt over my head.

It was Camila, rain-soaked with a bottle of Scotch in her hand.

I blinked like an idiot. For one thing, after our fight this morning, the literal last thing I expected was Camila at my door in the middle of the night bearing gifts. For another, she was wearing what I assumed were her pajamas—a pair of dancing shorts and a thin Walking Dead t-shirt—and the rain had thoroughly wetted both. She wasn't wearing a bra and the rain had made her thin shirt almost transparent, her nipples dark and hard under the fabric, and once I noticed that, it was hard to think about anything else than those wet breasts, probably pebbled with goose bumps, and how that cool flesh would feel against my hot tongue.

And then I came back to myself and for a terrible moment, I warred between two impulses: shutting her out into the rain or shoving her to her knees and making her swallow my cock.

Flee the temptations of youth, we'd read at the Bible study earlier tonight. Pursue righteousness. I should shut the door and go back to bed. But then Camila shivered, and a lifetime of respect and politeness intervened. I found myself stepping back and gesturing for her to come inside.

Pursue righteousness, the author of Timothy said. But did righteousness carry a bottle of Macallan 12 in her hand? Because Camila did.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, stepping into the living room and then turning around to face me.

I shut the door. "I gathered." My voice was gravelly from sleep and something less innocent. Predictably, my dick started to swell; despite everything that had happened, I hadn't seen her breasts yet, and they were more tempting than ever under that wet shirt.

Fuck. I didn't mean yet. I meant never. I was never going to see her breasts. Accept it, I mentally chastised my groin, which refused to heel, and instead kept sending these painfully vivid sense memories back to my brain, like how it had felt to grope Camila's tits when she was bent over the church piano.

Her eyes dropped to my hips, and I knew my sweatpants were not doing a very good job hiding my thoughts. Clearing my throat, I turned away from her to walk over to the kitchen. "I didn't know you liked The Walking Dead," I mentioned lightly, sliding my hand over the switch. A pale yellow glow wafted from the postwar-era light fixture, casting angled shadows into the living room.

"It's my favorite show," Camila said. "But I don't know why you act surprised that you didn't know. We haven't known each other that long, and most of our conversations have involved me telling you my darkest secrets—not what's on my Netflix queue."