Crossed (Never After Series)

I’VE HIT AN IMPASSE. A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE. I had thought once I made a firm decision, that would be it. No more looking back, no more questions.

When I’m with Amaya, the urge to beat myself clean fades away.

Turns out once I’m alone, old habits die hard.

As I sit in my room, the smell of Amaya still on my skin, I’m fighting a different type of battle. One that’s vacillating between what I’ve known to do my entire life and what I ache to do now.

Repent. Atone. Regret.

But I’ve already decided Amaya isn’t something to feel bad about, even if it means I lose favor with God.

I stand up, pacing to the corner of the room, staring down into the open chest. Indecision knots up my insides, and I blow out a breath, moving away before stalking back over again. I surge down and grab the discipline in my hand, the rope gripping onto my skin like gritty paper.

Moving back to my bed, I sit and stare at it.

“God wants me to beat it out.” Sister Agnes’s voice knocks against my brain, the way it has since I was a child, and I know the only way to make her leave is to give in.

But atonement for Amaya makes her feel dirty. Sinful.

She’s everything to me. Still, the urge crawls beneath my skin like bugs until I want to rip my flesh from bone just to snuff it out.

I shoot to a stand, ripping my shirt over my head and tossing it on the bed, my teeth clenched so hard, it feels like my molars will crack.

“Little demons who don’t learn their lessons get the whip again.”

My eyes close, my heart fractures, and I raise my hand up slowly, my fingers shaking from how tightly I grip the rope.

Then I bring it down and strike. One.

I’M TAKING CONFESSION TODAY. It’s the last chance for it before the Festival of Fools on the first. I haven’t seen or spoken with Amaya in days, both because I’ve been recovering from the beating I gave myself after I finally had her and because part of me wants her to come to me.

It’s disappointing that I’m still waiting, although I’m not sure what else I could have really expected. I’ve decided to give her until the festival, and if she won’t give herself to me, I’ll accept Bishop Lamont’s offer to transfer me back to Paris.

I fear living in her absence will be a torture worse than death.

But I would do it, for her.

If she chooses me, I’ll turn in my collar.

It doesn’t hold the same appeal as it did before, even though my love for God stays strong and sure.

It’s late when I leave the confessional booth, my mind as tired as my body is sore. Instead of leaving the sanctuary, I move to the front of the dais, falling to my knees and bowing in prayer, searching for respite from the constant seesaw of questions going back and forth in my brain.

“Please,” I whisper, staring up at the crucifix looming over me like a promise. “Tell me what to do.”

A door bangs open, echoing off the high-arched walls, light footsteps making their way down the aisle behind me. I rise from my vulnerable position, twisting around to see who it could be, and my lungs collapse, my heart stuttering in its cage.

Of course it’s her.

Amaya.

And this is my sign from God.

I’m rushing toward her before she can utter a single word and taking her in my arms, my hands gripping her face tightly as I bring my lips to hers. She moans as she kisses me back, her feelings pouring into my mouth as fiercely as I’m bleeding mine into hers.

Wetness drips over my knuckles and I break away, seeing tears slide down her face. My thumbs brush beneath her eyes.

“What is it, mon trésor?”

She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t be here.”

My stomach twists. “You should always be with me.”

Her eyes scan mine like she’s trying to peer into my soul.

“Was it you?”

My heart stutters. “Was what me?”

“You know what I mean. You— you said it was you. You admitted it.”

Clarity fills me, remembering my slip of the tongue from the last time we were together, when I told her I had killed for her.

I move my right hand, gripping the back of her neck, my thumb brushing over the faded mark I left on her skin.

Possessiveness flares in my chest, a sick satisfaction flooding my veins like a drug.

“Please,” she whispers, her hands reaching up to grip my shirt. “I need to know.”

I exhale slowly, my muscles pulling tight. “You might hate me once you do.”

She shakes her head, pressing herself closer. “Never.”

I tilt her head to the side and lean down, brushing my lips against her ear. “I would kill a thousand men if it made sure you were mine.”

My hand that was resting against her face drops down to ghost over her collarbone and then along her side until it slips beneath the waistband of her skirt and underneath her panties, dipping into her wet cunt.

She gasps.

“I saw you with him and lost my mind,” I say, curling my finger inside her. “I killed him for touching you.” A moan escapes her lips, and she falls into my chest. I drag her in until we’re flush, pumping into her with a slow and steady rhythm. “And I killed the second man to keep you free.”

I push my thumb against her clit, and her pussy clamps around me.

“And Candace?” she asks.

“A tortured soul.”

She hesitates. “Was it because she’s a sex worker?”

“No,” I scoff but then think about what she’s asking, my fingers stalling in their ministrations. “I suppose, in a roundabout way. It wasn’t about her profession as much as her having demons inside her the same as any other sinner.” I pull her by the back of her neck until she’s on her tiptoes and her lips are brushing against mine. “Do you hate me now, petite pécheresse? Will you run the other way?”

Her body trembles and my lungs cramp as I wait for what she says, terrified that she’ll leave and condemn me to a life without her. Or ask me to repent, replacing His expectations with hers.

I’d do it for her. I’d do anything for her.

“I don’t hate you, Cade,” she murmurs, her eyes locking with mine. “I’m in love with you.”

Her words crash into me like a wrecking ball, and I’m slipping out of her cunt and picking her up in my arms, moving her to the nearest pew and tossing her down. Her skirt flies up, and I push her panties to the side and then my mouth is on her, latched around her swollen clit and sucking like I’ll die if I don’t taste her.

She screams out and my hand flies up, muffling the noise, and the second I slip my other hand back inside her cunt, she’s coming, arching her hips as she grinds into my face, her arousal coating my lips.

I sit back and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, but she surges up and grabs my head, sucking herself off my tongue. I groan, my cock throbbing. Without looking, I clumsily undo my pants and free myself, lining my tip up at her entrance and pushing her back down onto the wooden pew. I break my lips away from hers and brush her tangled hair off her cheek before cupping it possessively in my hand.

She’s so damn beautiful.

“You love me, mon trésor?”

She nods, turning her head slightly to suck my thumb into her mouth.

“I live for you.” I thrust inside her then, until my hips slap against the insides of her thighs, her hands flying to my back, scratching my barely healed wounds through the fabric of my shirt. The pain makes my balls draw up tight and I groan, my eyes rolling in the back of my head.

This won’t last long, but it’s just as intense as the first time I sank inside her, and I create a harsh pace, drawing my cock all the way out before plunging back inside. My fingers move to pinch her clit, my free hand still pressing down over her mouth to quiet her moans, and then she’s coming again, the slick walls of her pussy hugging my cock as it pulsates.

“Merde,” I mumble, tingles of pleasure racing through my limbs. My sack tightens and my vision dims, and I push myself in as far as I can go, pouring my cum into her as she spasms around my dick.

I collapse on top of her, trying to catch my breath as we both come back down from the high. And when we do, reason starts to filter back in. I sit back, running a hand through my hair and glancing around the sanctuary, making sure nobody came in.

Making sure nobody saw.

She makes me lose my mind.

I wait for the flush of guilt to creep over my skin, but it never comes. I feel more sure than ever that she is my future, even if it means walking away from everything else.

“Where’s Quinten?” I ask, slipping out of her and rezipping my pants. I move back toward her, helping her straighten her long skirt, and can’t resist pressing a kiss to the sliver of skin still visible on her stomach.

The idea of her leaving him with Parker, even though they live in the same place, makes me feel on edge. I find that I care for the boy, and anything happening to him sends a spark of unease down my spine.

“At our old place with Dalia for a ‘sleepover.’”

Relieved, I reach up, tangling my fingers in her hair. “Come back to my home for the night.”

She frowns, sadness whipping through her gaze, and my chest pulls, disappointment settling in even before she says her answer.

She shakes her head. “I can’t stay.”

I nod. “Just for a moment then.”

She hesitates but agrees, and I pull her up, helping her zip her coat back up and straightening her clothes before leading her out the door.