Priest Read Free Page A

my own while she adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder. “So maybe I’ll see you next week?”
    Crap. Could I actually do this again in seven days? But then I thought of her words, so full of pain and bleak confusion, and I once again felt the urge to comfort her. Give her some kind of peace, a flame of hope and vibrancy that she could take with her and nourish into a new, full life for herself.
    “Of course. I’m looking forward to it, Poppy.” I hadn’t meant to say her name, but there it was and when I said it, I said it in that voice, the one I didn’t use anymore, the one that used to have women dropping to their knees and reaching for my belt without me having to do so much as say please .
    And her reaction sent a jolt straight to my dick. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating, and her pulse leapt in her throat. Not only was my body having an insanely unprecedented response to hers, but she was just as affected by me as I was by her.
    And somehow that made everything so much worse, because now it was only the thin line of my self-control that kept me from bending her over a pew and spanking that creamy white ass for making me hard when I didn’t want to be, for making me think about her naughty mouth when I should be thinking about her eternal soul.
    I cleared my throat, three years of unflagging discipline the only thing that kept my voice even. “And just so you know…”
    “Y-yes?” she asked, biting into that full lower lip.
    “You don’t have to drive up from Kansas City just to come here for confession. I’m sure any priest there would be happy to hear you. My own confessor, Father Brady, is really good, and he’s based in downtown Kansas City.”
    She tilted her head ever so slightly, like a bird. “But I don’t live in Kansas City anymore. I live here, in Weston.”
    Well, shit.

    Tuesdays. Fuck Tuesdays.
    I said early morning Mass to a mostly empty sanctuary—two hat-wearing grandmothers and Rowan—and then I went for my run, mentally cataloging all the things I wanted to get done today, including putting together an informational packet for our youth group trip next spring and writing my homily for this week.
    Weston is a town of river bluffs, a topography of fields sloping towards the Missouri River, punctuated with punishingly steep hills. Runs here are brutal and vicious and clarifying. After the first six miles, I was covered in sweat and breathing hard, turning up my music so that Britney’s voice drowned out everything else.
    I rounded the corner onto the main drag through town, the sidewalks mostly clear of people browsing antiques and art shops since it was a weekday. I only had to dodge one elderly-looking couple as I forced myself up the steep road, my thigh and calf muscles screaming. Sweat dripped down my neck and shoulders and back, my hair was soaked, each breath felt like punishment, and the morning sun made sure that I was greeted by waves of August heat rolling off the asphalt.
    I loved it.
    Everything else bled away—the upcoming renovation to the church, the homilies I needed to write, Poppy Danforth.
    Especially Poppy Danforth. Especially her and the knowledge that the mere act of thinking about her made me stiff.
    I hated myself a little for what had happened yesterday. She was clearly a well-educated, intelligent and interesting woman, and she had come to me, despite not being Catholic, for words of help. And instead of seeing her as a lamb in need of guidance, I had been unable to fixate on anything other than her mouth while we were talking.
    I was a priest. I was sworn to God not to know another’s body while I lived—not even to know my own body, if we were getting technical about it. It wasn’t okay to think the kind of thoughts I had about Poppy.
    I was supposed to be a shepherd of the flock, not the wolf.
    Not the wolf who had woken up this morning grinding his hips into the mattress because he’d had a very intense dream with Poppy and her carnal