Page 19 of Property of The Grump

The slightest breeze would send me over the edge. I can’t stop myself.

I bend her over the front of my desk, Jesus and St. Paul staring at me with judgment as I yank her panties to the side, unzip my jeans, and sink into her tight, little core.

Moan after moan, crying ache after crying ache spills from her lips as I thrust into her hard, my body slapping against hers as the echoes spread through the rectory.

I can’t stop myself. I can’t stop myself, and I know how bad she fucking wants it. How bad she needs it. How bad she needs to feel wanted, needed, desired.

My hand tightens around her waist, and I pump harder, her long hair falling down over her shoulder as she reaches back for me.

I grab a handful as I bury myself further inside of her.

“Don’t stop,” she begs. “Please.”

I’m so fucking close to betraying every bit of trust I’ve ever built in this congregation. I’m so fucking close to emptying inside of this woman. So fucking close.

Fuck.

I should stop. I should stop right the fuck now!

Instead, hormones and instinct have taken over, and I’m like a fucking heathen. Carnal and full of sin. The need to fill her with my seed overtaking every other possible thought in my head until, all at once, electricity courses through my veins and I’m filling her up with fucking stars in my eyes.

I wake up a second later, the sheets wet, my cock aching, the dark, empty room a depressing cavern in comparison to the dream I’ve just been living.

My God, that felt real.

Cock pulsing, I throw off the sticky sheets and lean off the edge of the bed, scrubbing my hand down over my face.

What the hell was that?How could I think those things? How could I let myself touch her even in a dream? I need to get a handle on this before I’m too far gone.

I stand from the bed and make my way to the shower, running the water ice cold before I step under the stream, a prayer on my lips.

Dear Father, forgive me for the impure thoughts. Forgive me for the yearning my heart holds for this innocent woman. Help me stop the urges that are drawing me toward her.

The second I say the prayer, I’m reminded of the priest at a neighboring state who’d fallen in love with a woman at his parish. He was in turmoil over the feeling for years.

I can’t imagine the pain he was in. The longing he must have had for her. The pain his body must have felt not ever being able to touch her, hold her, claim her as his own. Eventually, he sought out council, and they advised him to acknowledge his feelings for her as a naturally occurring human reaction. This recommendation also included that he bring awareness of his feelings to her so that she could choose to lay her trust where trust was pure.

I remember hearing that story and wondering how anyone could ever get in that deep. As men of God, the vows are taken without restriction. The vows are made as a personal commitment. A commitment most priests think through wholeheartedly before committing to. Then again, here I am, some mixture of affection and attraction brewing for a woman I didn’t see coming.

I say the prayer over and over again as cold water shocks my system back to reality, my cock now flaccid, the sticky mess of my dreams down the drain, though I don’t know if I fully believe that as truth.

How could I when my icy cold body is still thinking about Wren? When I’m still hoping that I’ll fall asleep and dream of her again.

I recite at least twelve Hail Mary’s, mumbling until my skin is achy and my lips are purple. I recite the prayer as I step from the shower and wrap a towel around my waist. I recite the prayer as I hear a hard knock at the front door of the church. I recite the prayer as I see Wren Harlow in the moonlight.

I stare toward her for a long moment, towel wrapped around my waist, moonlight filtering in through the maple and aspen that are planted in front of the church.

Maybe I’m still dreaming.Jesus, this feels real.

“I’m so sorry if I’m bothering you. I didn’t know where else to go.” Her voice is shaking and her eyes are red as though she’s been crying.

“No, don’t be sorry. Come in and sit down. I’ll, ugh,” I glance down at the towel still wrapped around my waist, “give me two seconds to throw some clothes on. Sorry. I just jumped out of the shower. I thought the knocking was a branch or something. I, ugh, I don’t get visitors this late.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe I should go.”

“Not at all.” I land my hand on her back and guide her through the door, the cold hair nipping at my cool wet skin. “Please, come in. Take a seat, and I’ll be back in a second.”

She nods slowly and slides into the last pew, the dress she’d had on this morning at mass now replaced with a black skirt and a soft gray T-shirt that shows off the tuck at her waist and the curves of her chest.