THREE

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COME, SAID THE BOY

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He didn't speak to us as though he was trying to prove he was 'cool' and 'with it'. He wasn't trying to sell the religion and the teachings, but trying to convey the emotions he, himself, felt for it.

For the whole hour I sat on that pew, I almost bought it. I felt if I continued to listen – and honestly, I couldn't bear to stop – I'd walk out a devout. Though, it'd be faith in the fact that those liquid brown eyes got my panties wet.

As his sermon ended, Paul clasped his hands together and smiled, his eyes somehow missing mine although I had been trying my hardest to make it obvious.
For the rest of the service, I watched him, patiently waiting for our eyes to meet, but they never did. I began to wonder if he knew I was staring, or if he could feel the weight of my gaze — if this was a conscious choice.

Everyone began to stand up and move down their pews toward the exit while I remained frozen and lost. Solitary among those who simply weren't striving to have Paul's eyes land on them. I had nothing in common with these people.

"C'mon," Mum urged, patting my shoulder as she craned her neck to see where the Harrison's had scampered off to.

"Wait a minute," I told her, getting up and urgently flattening my skirt down. It was plaid and fell mid-thigh, which was far too short for church according to Mum. "I'm going to hang back and. . . and get a booklet."

Mum quickly searched my face, disbelieving, but pursed her lips and continued to walk. "Get one for Louis too, then."

I held my hands behind my back, heading toward the podium where I spotted Paul speaking with Father Thompson. I knew if I said anything remotely close to what I was intending on saying to Paul, I'd have Father Thompson on my (and Paul's) radar, so I hung back, instead. Waiting.

While I waited, watching Paul and Father Thompson grinning and shaking hands of those leaving, I examined Paul's face in its natural demeanour, rather than his calculated expressions while preaching. I knew he was a beginner in his profession – he had to be – but gosh, he looked so young.

Never would I tire of drinking  him in. When he raised his fingers to his lips, taking his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, waiting for Father Thompson to finish his speech, I bore my eyes into his skin. His movements were an intricate dance; soaked in sexuality, but confined and confident. He was my favourite performance.

Slinking behind a pot of flowers, pressing my back against the church's raised platform, I saw Father Thompson being called away, leaving Paul on his own. Immediately, he seemed out of his element — folding his arms across his chest and pressing his lips to form an 'o', whistling.

With my heart beat speeding up, I took the chance and stepped out from behind the fake, plastic flowers, and toward Paul.

Initially, he didn't notice me, but when he did, his eyes flickered from mine and over to the crowds of people leaving the church. Almost as though he was afraid. Almost as though he was wary of the intentions of an approaching teenage girl.

Which, to be fair, he should've been.

I stood beside him. He wasn't much taller than me – maybe a few inches – yet, his presence loomed. Those dark, brown, doe eyes glistened and I felt naked.

"Hi," I greeted, not too sure with how to progress.

What was the perfect one-liner that would provoke a religiously-devoted man to throw everything away for a sexually precocious teenage girl?

"Good morning," Paul replied, nodding politely at me before looking away.

This would be a challenge, but I wasn't expecting anything less. Looking to my left, I saw my Mum standing outside the open church doors speaking to Louise, George's mother. I knew if she saw me talking to Paul, I'd be answering questions all the way home. And I really had no excuse.

"Listen, um, do you have any of those thankful cards?" I said, cutting to the chase

". . .Our weekly graces?"

I nodded. "Uh, yeah."

Paul reached behind him to the little stand, picking up one of the paper cards and pen, handing it over to me. His hand was careful not to brush against mine, though I tried my best.

"Thanks," I moved quickly past him to lean against the wall and scribble onto the card.

From the amount of time I was taking, I knew Mum's eyes were probably on me, so I had to be discreet with what I was about to do.

On the little card, I penned my name and my phone number before standing up and shoving it toward Paul, who accepted it without question, blatantly ignoring me.

"I'll see you next week," I told him, keeping my eyes on his.

At my words, Paul appeared taken aback once again, his lips pressed together in surprise. It really seemed as though he had never been hit on before, which I highly doubted. Godly sculptures like Paul were not ignored.

He chose not to look down at the card and instead watched me while I backed away, taking two or three steps backwards before turning around and walking to my less-than-pleased mother outside the church.

In bed that night, I was in that fuzzy state between sleep and consciousness, the ballroom of my mind flooded with thoughts of the young man of God.

I rolled onto my back, pushing my hands beneath my pillow underneath my head and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to ignore the tightening in my chest and the blossom of humiliation at the vision of him reading my card.

Why did I do that? Why was I like this?

What a stupid question — those lips, those hands, those hooded eyes that fell around the crowd; he knew what he did to me. He had to.

I wondered if he'd ever touched a woman before. If he'd ever dragged his hands across her thighs, pressing his lips to her skin, working his way up to her hips.

If he'd ever heard her moan in pleasure — if he'd ever pressed his mouth to her own.

Giggling to myself in the darkness, in the middle of the night, I shook my head. No, he probably never had.

And that's where I'd like to come in.

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[EDITED]

Candy [MCCARTNEY]Where stories live. Discover now