Eleven Night In PIne Haven

Cora I don't know what got into me. Even knowing every sinful thought I'd ever had about a priest, I did it anyway. I was on my knees on the cold rectory floor. The fire popped behind me. Father Mateo stood over me with one hand braced on the mantel, like the stone was the only thing holding him up. His collar lay on the table, forgotten. His chest was heaving. “Corrraaa.” My name came out ragged. "Tell me to stop." I didn't. I quickly undid his zip and pulled him free. He was already hard, hot and heavy, thick enough that he throbbed in my hand. My whole body clenched at the sight of him. The ache between my thighs came instantly, and it was almost painful. "Take it," he whispered, in a voice I hadn't known he had. I didn't hesitate. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and took the tip first. The salty taste of his precum spread across my tongue, and the sound he made, low and broken, half prayer and half curse, made my head spin. I pushed forward, taking more of him, until he touched the back of my throat and I gagged. My eyes watered. I didn't pull away. "Ohhh," he breathed. "Mhmm." I hummed against him. "f**k," he groaned. He groaned. His hand slid into my hair, shaking. He wasn't guiding me. He was only holding on. "Coraaa” “Yes father” .I answered “Look at me." I looked up. His jaw locked, and a muscle jumped in his cheek. His brows pulled together like it hurt, and his lips fell open on a groan he couldn't swallow. "Ah... fuck." The sound shook, low and broken. "Cora..." His eyes were half-closed and black, and they found mine and held on. "God forgive me." His breath hitched. "Mm... don't stop." His hand tightened in my hair, trembling. A ragged moan tore out of him, then another, softer, like a man losing a fight with himself. A priest was staring down at me like I was the one thing he had ever wanted and the last thing he was allowed to have. My lips parted to say his name. And I woke up. My heart was pounding. The sheets were damp with sweat and twisted around my legs, and between my thighs I was damn wet and aching, my p***y pulsing so hard I could feel my heartbeat there. The fire was dead. The room was empty. There was no priest and no collar on a table, only me in a freezing guest bed, with my mouth still tasting of a dream. I went straight for the sink and splashed cold water on my face, hoping to wake up from the lust. It didn't work. When I lifted my head, Mateo's reflection was standing in the bathroom doorway behind me. My breath died in my throat. A drop of water slid off my chin and hit the porcelain with a sound that seemed too loud. My fingers locked on the cold edge of the sink, and my heart slammed once, hard, against my ribs. "Fa... father?" I whispered. "Cora," he said quietly. "Why were you saying my name in your sleep?” ______ Two weeks earlier What kind of man throws a glass at the woman he was going to marry? The wineglass shattered against the wall an inch from my head. Red wine sprayed across the white paint and ran down my neck like blood. I didn't scream. I had learned not to. I ducked, squeezed my eyes shut, and threw my arms over my face while pieces of glass pinged across the floor. "You wore the blue dress to see your mother." Richard stood at the head of the table, chest heaving, his hand still raised from the throw. "I asked for the green one," he said angrily. "I'm sorry." The words came out so fast they tripped over each other. "I forgot. I'll wear it next time." Why did I still say sorry when I had done nothing wrong? "You forget a lot lately.” He didn't move. I stared at the broken glass by my feet and counted the seconds the way I had learned to. One. Two. Three. My nails dug half-moons into my palms. "Look at me," Richard said coldly. I lifted my eyes slowly. My lips curved into a faint smile His chest was still heaving. "Do you know how embarrassing it is," he said through his teeth, "to have a fiancée who can't follow one simple instruction?" "I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I'll do better. I promise." "You always promise." He picked up his fork and went back to his steak. My lungs started working again in small, shaky sips. Wine dripped from my chin onto my sweater. Under the sleeve, my arm throbbed where his fingers had dug in on Sunday, and when I reached for a napkin, the sleeve slid up. I yanked it down so fast my plate rattled. Richard's gray eyes flicked to my wrist and stayed there. "What are you hiding?" he asked sharply. "Nothing," I said too quickly. A cold bead of sweat rolled down my back. "It's just cold in here." "Careful," he warned softly. I nodded, my mouth as dry as paper. "The wedding is in March," he went on, as if nothing had happened. "After that, you won't need so many outings. You'll be too busy taking care of me." His hand covered mine on the table. His thumb pressed down until my knuckles ground together, and I smiled through it so wide that my cheeks trembled. "Of course," I whispered. "Good girl." My stomach rolled. The diamond on my finger suddenly felt like a handcuff. His phone buzzed. He read the screen, pushed back his chair, and snapped, "Don't touch anything." His footsteps faded down the hall. The study door clicked but did not latch, and his low voice leaked through the gap. I was on my feet before I knew it, pressed against the cold wall with my heart battering my ribs. "If she ever tried to leave, I'd have her back inside in a day." Then a soft, easy laugh. "Where would she go? She has nowhere." My hand flew to my mouth. My knees turned to water. My grandmother's voice rose in my head, so clear I almost spun around. “If you are ever truly afraid, Cora, you go to St. Jude's.” Pinehaven. A stone church with a red door. Richard had never heard of it. Something small and bright flickered in my chest, and for the first time in two years, my fingers stopped shaking. The study chair creaked. I flew back to my seat and folded my hands just as the door swung open. Richard crossed the room and laid his hand on my shoulder. "Give me your phone, sweetheart." "W-why?" I stammered. "Because I think it's time we stopped keeping secrets," he said quietly, and his grip tightened. "Unlock it. Now." "Richard, please," I begged. "There's nothing on it." "Then you won't mind," he said angrily, and he held out his hand. My thumb trembled as it touched the screen. The phone opened. In a folder I had named “Recipes”nineteen photographs of my own bruises were waiting for him.