“For now…” I groan, his possessive thrusts driving me toward the edge of ecstasy.
For now, we’ll meet in darkness.
Fuck in secret.
Love in silence.
Sam pauses, our bodies joined and aching for release. “And then what?”
I smile, soaking in the strained moments of peace before he shatters me once again.
“Checkmate.”
About The Authors
About Cora:
Cora Kenborn is a USA Today Bestselling author who writes in multiple genres from dark and gritty romantic suspense to laugh-out-loud romantic comedy. Known for her sharp banter and shocking blindsides, Cora pushes her characters and readers out of their comfort zones and onto an emotional roller coaster before delivering a twisted happily ever after.
Cora believes there’s nothing better than a feisty heroine who keeps her alpha on his toes, and she draws inspiration from the strong country women who raised her. However, since the domestic Southern Belle gene seems to have skipped a generation, she spends any free time convincing her family that microwaving Hot Pockets counts as cooking dinner.
Oh, and autocorrect thinks she's obsessed with ducks.
Connect with Cora at www.corakenborn.com.
Books by Cora:
Carrera Cartel Collection
http://mybook.to/CarreraCollection
Darkest Deeds
http://mybook.to/DarkestDeeds
Starlet
http://mybook.to/StarletSinister
About Catherine:
Catherine Wiltcher is an International Bestselling/Amazon All Star author of ten dark romance novels. A stage 4 cancer thriver and a self-confessed alpha addict, her writing is best described as sinfully sexy and her characters always fall hard and deep for one another.
She lives in the UK with her husband and two young daughters. If she ever found herself stranded on a desert island, she'd like a large pink gin to keep her company... Cillian Murphy wouldn't be a bad shout either.
For book and blog updates, please visit www.catherinewiltcher.com.
Books by Catherine:
Santiago Trilogy
https://amzn.to/3d2uaNu
Black Skies Riviera
https://amzn.to/2UNdQcp
Devils & Dust
https://amzn.to/2kbiJwD
Sacrilege
N. Isabelle Blanco
“For her house sinks down to death,
and her paths to the departed;
none who go to her come back,
nor do they regain the paths of life.” - Proverbs 2:18-19
Chapter One
Church bells toll above my head, announcing the 6pm call to prayer. A sound that once brought memories of peace and purpose to mind.
Now it’s nothing more than a source of torment.
A cruel mockery.
The most condescending reminder of my place in this world.
At thirty-five-years-old, I’ve managed to achieve what most priests take decades to do in this world: I was appointed as rector of one of the largest cathedrals in this part of New York.
The neighborhood struggles, which makes the size and beauty of the cathedral stand out all the more, but that was part of my calling to this place.
Why I worked so hard to get here.
I wanted to help guide the people of my old neighborhood, where I grew up before signing up to fight in the Iraq War.
Although the truth is much more complex than that. It was originally my little brother’s calling. He’s the one who grew up wanting to serve the church.
But he signed up to fight in the war, too.
Only one of us made it back.
His death plays out in my nightmares most nights. That mortar ripped him right open.
I wish it had killed him on impact.
The memory of his guts hanging out while he pleaded with me to deliver his last message to our mother . . .
He didn’t ask me to take his place in the church; I decided that on my own.
Charlie’s memory deserves no less.
Besides, it’s a good calling. An honorable one. Perhaps more honorable than my decision to enlist in the war and fight on behalf of this country.
A life of purpose—that’s what I built.
It’s disappearing nowadays.
No, it’s being destroyed. Ruined by the very temptation we preach against. The temptation I swore to turn my back on when I became a man of the cloth.
You’ve failed, ricochets through my mind for the millionth time. Maybe I haven’t given in to the physical urges, but mentally I’m deep within hell.
I stare ahead at the massive Christ on the cross that hangs on the stained glass window in front of the altar.
That means something to me. It always did. Yet, lately, I’m having a harder and harder time remembering that.
Brown eyes . . . or are they hazel? Sometimes it seems like they flashed between either shade.
Which just proves how crazy I am. No one’s eyes change colors like that.
“Father?”
I turn and see Ms. Cortez smiling up at me. She’s a regular at the church.
In the confessional, too. It’s why I know almost everything about her life. Her history. Never met her around the neighborhood until I became a priest, but she’s a welcome fixture in my life at present.
Flawed, like all God’s children, yet her soul is pure. Grateful. Happy.
Considering where my thoughts just started to drift to, again, I feel unworthy of her caring presence.
“Ms. Cortez.” I dip my head in greeting. “How are you this evening?”
“Disappointed. If you’re standing out here, that means it’s Father Raul in the confessional tonight.”
As it is every Thursday night, which she well knows.
And as with every Thursday—or any day that I’m not the one taking confessions—she never misses her opportunity to chide me about it.
I take in the large confessional booth on the right side of the church. We’re one of the few remaining churches to still have one. Most use reconciliation rooms nowadays.
Soon, both versions might be gone. Catholics are confessing less and less. Ms. Cortez is one of maybe five parishioners that remains devout enough to practice the Sacrament of Penance.
“He’s an even better listener than I am, Ms. Cortez. I promise,” I say, playing along.
“Lourdes,” she admonishes, shaking her head. “I’ve told you a million times, my name is Lourdes.”
I’m aware.
It’s another of her requests that remains unheeded. Keeping a professional distance from our parishioners is important.
“Besides, I feel more comfortable telling you my secrets. Only God knows why.” Her dark eyes dart toward the figure of Christ I was staring at.
If I believed that to be true, I would stop taking her confessions entirely. If she were just ten years younger, I’d probably be worried.
But she’s just an old woman
