Cisco
I watch Mercy’s curvaceous ass sway as she climbs the stairs in high-heeled shoes. My trousers grow tighter at the groin by the second. I tug the white, stiff cotton band around my throat for air, but it’s no use.
From the moment she walked into the church, my body reacted with heat and longing so deep that it hurt. When she sat to kiss me on the cheek, and her breasts almost spilled from her new top, I almost lost my mind.
My need for her thundered in my veins with a vengeance, furious at being denied all day—all week. Dio. Has it been that long? Stealing a private moment with her has been hard.
I am busy, yes. But I am also a little afraid. I had thought after the curse left me that my hunger for her in the bedroom would abate, or at least dim to a manageable level.
But I want her more.
I think about taking her all the time, in every way, in every place. I want her in the bedroom. I want her in the shower. In the garden. During Mass. Confession. Meals. I want her basically every minute of my existence.
I am not afraid of the hunger, but I know that I can’t be quiet. I don’t want to be. I don’t want her to be. I want to fuck her so hard that we make holes in the wall from the banging bedposts.
I don’t want to think about the people in the room next to ours. I don’t want to think about the children sleeping down the hall.
I can’t live like this.
So came up with a plan.
But now we’re here, and Mercy’s plump behind sways at my eye level, practically begging to be bitten—I’m suddenly nervous, and a thousand worries flit through my mind.
What will she think of the Pope’s offer?
What will she think of mine?
What will she think of my gifts?
Is my surprise stupid?
Did I go overboard?
Dio, the gifts. There are boxes of them. I tug my collar again and swallow the lump forming in my throat.
Every nerve ending goes numb when she opens the trapdoor to the belfry, sticks her head up through the hatch, and gasps.
“Cisco!”
“Let me explain—”
“Oh, my God!” She scrambles up before I can stop her, shoes falling on my head. “When did you have time to do all this—oh, shit. Babe, is this what I think it is?”
I hear her cross the floor above me as I collect her shoes and toss them up after her.
My heart is pounding a million miles an hour. The basket is slipping from my sweaty palms. The Pope’s letter burns a hole in my back pocket and in the other, something much smaller, gold, and circular.
Her head pops through the trap door, red scarf haloed by golden sun rays filtering through the louvers.
“You all right there, Padre? You look kind of ill.”
I clear my throat. “Is good.”
“Is good?” Her brows arch at my slip into broken English.
A flush of embarrassment creeps up my neck, and I mutter a string of curse words under my breath.
“Love it when you talk dirty to me.” She winks.
My cock twitches.
Mercy reaches down for the basket. “Come on. You’re missing the sunset.”
I let her take it, and then lever myself up through the hatch, closing the trap door behind me. I take a steadying breath and say a silent prayer of gratitude. The stench of urine and whiskey is still hidden beneath the faint scent of bleach I used to clean yesterday. At least, there’s that.
When I turn around, Mercy already sits cross-legged on the pile of enormous cushions I brought in as if it’s just another Tuesday. She unpacks the contents of the picnic basket onto the rug, setting about the plates, glasses, and crockery.
I glance around to make sure everything is in place—gauze curtains and fairy lights hanging from cobweb-free rafters—sorry, spider friend.
The new open (weatherproof and soundproof) shutters I installed over the louvers are open wide, letting in the evening breeze.
The trunk full of gift boxes sits in the corner where I left it.
It’s the perfect hideaway from home. Cheeks still burning, I crawl to the center of the rug and sit beside her on the cushions. I watch her set out the salad and meats. She says nothing as she pours the wine into glasses.
I can’t take it any longer.
“Mercy,” I growl.
She looks up innocently at me and bats her eyelashes. “Yes, my love?”
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
I gesture around, then grab a glass of wine because I am about to die of waiting. She stops my wrist moments before the glass meets my lips.
Our eyes meet over the rim.
“Babe,” she murmurs, and gently pushes down on my wrist until I lower the glass. “I can’t tell you what I think about it until I know exactly what ‘it’ is.”
I close my eyes. Cazzo, this is difficult.
It all seemed so easy in my head when I came up here and hammered nails into the wooden shutters.
But I am no coward. I take a deep breath, and tug her up to stand with me. I twist her in my arms so that she faces outward and her back is to my front. I hug her around the waist, and then shuffle us toward the louvers looking out at the abbey.
She feels so good in my arms. I had been so afraid in Rome. When she refused to leave my side and stayed with me until the end, I thought for sure we would both be dragged into Hell. I still can’t believe she burned for me, and I need her to know that I would do anything for her too.
A slit of warm sunshine hits our faces, and a balmy breeze wafts through the gaps, bringing the fresh scent of the outdoors. The abbey main building is directly across from us. A few figures can be seen through windows, but I ignore them and point to a particular one at the end.
Her breath hitches. “That’s our room.”
“Remember I told you I watched you once?”
“Yeah . . .” She pauses. “You don’t come up here and perve on everyone, do you?”
“What? No!”
“Just me, then.”
I growl and nip her skin, right over the biggest freckle. “Mercy, that day I watched you was the first day I—”
“Masturbated to me?” She gasps and twists to look at me, grinning from ear to ear. “You liar. You told me you didn’t.”
I drop my face into the crook of her neck and laugh. “Only you, Mercy.”
“Only me, what?”
“Only you can tease me so, mess up my plan, and yet I am thankful for it.”
“You’re welcome. But also . . . sorry.” She covers my hand on her belly. “I know I can be . . . extra.”
My heart squeezes, and I pull back from her.
“Oh no!” She faces me. “Seriously, I didn’t mean to ruin anything. I know you’ve been working on this for a while and—”
I stop her with a finger to the lips. Both our eyes widen at the move, then we release an awkward laugh.
“Sit,” I say, and point to the picnic. “Nothing is ruined.”
But as she slinks to the rug and sits, shoulders and chin lower than what they should be, I cross to the chest and start pulling out her gifts.
She watches curiously as I lay the series of ribbon-wrapped boxes out before her.
When they’re all out, I pull out the crumpled, still sealed letter from the Pope and set it down too.
I keep staring at it, unable to meet Mercy’s eyes.
“It was hand-delivered today,” I say, “but I want to open it together after my surprise.” I chew over how to say the next words for a moment, unsure. “I want it in this order because I need you to know that it comes second to you. Whatever is inside is not important.” I lift my gaze. “You are.”
Emotion glimmers in her eyes, and she presses a palm to her beating heart. “Okay. I’ll be serious, I promise.”
My lips curve, and I hand her the first box. “I hope not.”
“Okay, Padre.” She gives me a curious look. “Now I’m intrigued.”
“Open it.”
She rips at the bow, yanks the ribbon off, and opens the lid with a gasp.
“I don’t want to change you, Mercy,” I say as she pulls out the glass anal beads with wide, excited eyes. Heat rushes up my neck and burns my ears. “I just want . . . I mean, I—” I plant a hand on my face, but hiding doesn’t help the words flow. “I still want you to—Dio.”
I drop my hand, and she’s already lifting the lid off the next box. It’s the one with the spanking paddle, cuffs, and feather thing the lady at the store said goes hand in hand with the kit.
“Babe, I love it!” she exclaims, then rips open the next box and squeals so loudly that I’m sure birds in the trees take to the sky outside the belfry. This one is full of battery-operated toys. “I love, love, love these!”
“We left your favorite ones in Rome,” I mutter, secretly mortified as she reaches for the final box and lifts the lid. “And I didn’t want you to think—”
“Fuck me. Is this what I think it is?” Blue eyes collide with mine and wait for an answer.
I wince. “Maybe?”
She lifts the product box and reads the label. “Make the perfect replica penis, just add water.”
“There is blue glitter in there too—if you want.”
Her hand drops with the box, her bottom lip pops out, and she looks at me with watery eyes. When she speaks, it’s high-pitched and squeaky. “This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.”
I clear my throat and dig into my pocket for that small, circular thing. “There’s more.”
“More?” She grabs a tiny olive oil bottle and shows me. “But I only bought you this little gift, and you did all this!” She waves around the belfry.
“I brought you here, to this special place, because I want it to mean something when I propose to you.”
My head dips to look at my pocket because I can’t get the ring out. She must think I’m avoiding her because she grips my face and forces it back up.
“Cisco, what did you just say?”
Her eyes are so big and blue. The fairy lights choose that moment to twinkle on, triggered by the solar sensors now that the sun is low enough.
I laugh as she looks up and gasps at the lights, then I laugh harder as she remembers she is trying to grill me for answers, and glowers at me. This feels so good. Warm and big and full in my soul.
“Stop laughing!” she shouts. “Start talking, Padre. What—”
I hold up the diamond ring between us, and her gaze drops to it.
This and the toys are the only things I wanted to spend Angelotti money on.
The church still pays me, so I didn’t care about the rest. It will be hard enough to forgive myself for what happened as it is, but I know if I have Mercy in my life, I’ll have a chance to accept it at least.
I want her to be mine forever, and I want a ring on her finger to prove it, and I want that ring big enough to show any fool of a man who gets too close to her to see that she’s taken. She’s mine. And if they don’t care, then I want the diamond sharp enough to cut when she punches them in the face.
I tell her all this, and she starts hyperventilating. “It’s an engagement ring?”
Eyes crinkling, I take her hand and slide it onto her ring finger. “Perfetto,” I mutter when it fits. When I look up, she’s frozen, eyes wide, and not breathing. “Mm.” I nod. “I was afraid this would happen.”
“What’s happening?”
“You are still afraid, but you don’t need to be.
” I take her hands, already cold with anxiety, and envelop them in mine.
Then I bring them to my lips and blow warm air to help boost her circulation.
Against her knuckles, I murmur, “Mercy, it doesn’t have to be an engagement ring. It can be whatever you want it to be.”
“Wha—wha—” She tries to say. Gulps. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Then be sick,” I say. “I will love you anyway.”
Her face crumples. Tears glimmer in her eyes.
“Piccola!” I cup her face. “It was a joke.”
“A joke?” She screws up her nose and punches me—actually punches my shoulder.
“Not that kind of joke.” I yank her to me, hold her tight, and school my expression into something serious.
When I speak, my words are soft, and I look deeply into her eyes so she doesn’t misread my meaning.
“With or without a wedding . . .” I kiss the palm of her hand.
“Sei il mio amore.” You are my love. “Sei la mia vita.” You are my life.