The sermon was in full flow.
The parishioners looked on in rapt attention; each one fixed on every word.
But her focus was on his mouth. The way his lips caressed each word. Their soft fullness. The motion of his tongue as it slipped out to moisten them every now and again.
Occasionally his voice would rise as he made a passionate plea to his flock. The fervor it contained penetrated her skin, like a hot knife through butter, making her core tremble as she saw the passion inside this man. This priest.
She tried closing her eyes a few times. But his voice and that lilting accent - that played with each word, giving it a new flavor and layering it in tissues of meaning - washed over her like a wave and she was soon drowning in his wake.
Desperate, she pressed her hips into the hard wooden surface of the pew where she sat, semi hidden in shadow, at the back of the nave. The flicker of friction made her bite her lip and push her knees tightly together.
She shouldn't be thinking about him.
A man of the cloth.
A priest!
Celibate…
Emma knew it was wrong: and that the fact that she knew he was chaste turned her on even more was just terrible. The knowledge that nothing would ever - could ever happen - did not evade her.
But, damn, she couldn't stop thinking about him.
Ever since that day when she had met the priest - when a petty thief had stolen the collection plate and she was called to St. Robert's - the tension inside her had started to build. She found herself visiting the church on a ludicrously regular basis; part of the rounds of course, she told herself. But then she began to volunteer - the roof raising auction, the annual summer fete, helping organize the candlelight carols at Christmas… Anything to be near him, to see his warm smile, to enjoy the way her body twitched and melted in his presence.
She let herself look up at the pulpit. His large hands were moving to emphasize his words, clenching and pleading and reaching out to the congregation. The crisp white chasuble he wore draped over his cassock created a stark contrast of light and dark. Right and wrong. Good and evil.
The pure and the forbidden.
On his face she detected the barest hint of stubble. She sighed, imagining the feel of it rubbing across her cheeks and down her chest as he explored her body, slowly, achingly…
The chorus of, 'amen' shook her from her thoughts. Pulling her coat a little tighter around her shoulders, she tried to fight away the chill that had began to pervade her. One of anticipation. Of nervousness.
A smile had risen on his lips.
His blue eyes: she could see them sparkling even from afar. She had always thought there was something hidden in his gaze. An edge. Something kept underneath the surface that she craved to understand and know more of. Secrets. Passions.
The chorus of the final hymn began to play, the thick music of the organ filled the room as she half heartedly mouthed the words. Inside her chest, her heart began to race and the cool, sickness of nerves crept into her stomach.
Because today, Emma Swan needed to confess something.
The passion inside her that was tearing her apart.
The dreams.
The feeling that they belonged.
The nightmares of him - the ones where he left and she was alone and bereft…
So she was going to tell him.
Ease her burden.
It was selfish, of course. But the need inside her was greater than that of reason and even though Emma knew that falling madly, passionately in love with a priest was possibly the stupidest thing she had ever done, she couldn't help it.
He needed to know.
As she formed the sign of the cross and her fellow Storybrooke residents rose, a new determination swirled inside her. Be damned with the consequences. The time for secrets was over.
The flood of parishioners leaving dwindled into a slow trickle. She watched him from afar, waiting patiently.
Finally he slipped away into the vestibule, returning minutes later, free of his priestly robes, now dressed more simply in a charcoal grey shirt and black slacks; the white square at his collar the only indication of his status.
He made his way to the confessional; the clipped sound of his shoes was loud against the tiled floor.
Emma again waited. She looked around the now empty church- checking no one else was there; making sure that they had… privacy, of a sort.
Heart in her throat, she quickly covered the distance to him, pausing to take a deep breath as she stepped inside the wooden booth and sank onto the low, narrow seat.
Across the lattice work that separated them she could hear his breathing, steady and deep. His presence was already working on her in wicked, wicked ways: coiling inside her like the tightening of a spring. The same feeling she always got when he was close. But now it was magnified tenfold in the confined space.
"Bless me father, for I have sinned."
"How long has it been since your last confession, child?"
"I-" she paused, heart racing, "This is my first."
She could hear the smile in his voice, "It's never too late to repent."
Thank God, she thought - the irony in his response not escaping her as she shifted on the uncomfortable seat.
Letting out a soft laugh, she dampened her lips with her tongue. "Father… I've been having thoughts. Impure ones."
"Hm." The thud in her chest seemed to grow exponentially in the seconds of silence that passed. "We all, at times, struggle with undesirable urges," he finally replied.
Oh but they are not undesirable, she thought, moving closer to the partition. "Do you, Father?"
He seemed to hesitate. She was sure he must have recognized her voice by now, its low and silky tones were rather unmistakable, of that she was very much aware. But she liked knowing he knew it was her; moreover she needed and wanted him to know.
"Of course, child. I am but a man, and even men of God must suffer through the same trials as their lay cousins. These feelings you have - urges perhaps - they are natural. You must not punish yourself unduly."
Steeling herself, her lips parted again - "I understand. But Father, these feelings - urges - I have been having. They are for someone who I can never be with."
Across the small space, she heard a breath sink from his chest, "Is this man… married?"
"Not exactly-"
"I do not understand, child."
Time to bite the bullet.
"It's complicated. He's, in a way, married to his job. He is… chaste…"
The breath that had just escaped his chest was quickly sucked back in. He seemed to rear backwards into the cubicle.
"Oh-"
Emma began to blush a little, a prickly heat rising on her cheeks.
"And, what of these thoughts… How…" His voice trailed of, cracking a little. She could tell he was trying to restrain himself, keep his surprise hidden. But at the same time she knew he was curious; she could hear the lilt of questioning rising as he spoke.
"I can't stop thinking about kissing him. Every day when I wake, I see his face. I imagine the feel of his lips on my skin and it burns me inside. Knowing it can never be."
"Go on," he urged, barely a whisper.
"He is in my thoughts every moment. Sometimes I let my mind wander…" Emma slipped a hand onto her neck, trying to cool down the burning sensation that always arose when she allowed herself to think about him; allowed her mind to indulge itself.
"And?"
"I can almost feel his flesh against mine. Sometimes it feels so real I-" she swallowed, "I think I'm going crazy. It's almost as if I've been with him before - my mind tells me exactly how it would feel - every touch of his hands - his mouth, the sound of his voice as he whispers in my ear, telling me just how much he wants me and I-" she paused again, her voice breaking
And perhaps she was imagining it, but he seemed to be almost panting. She looked up at the partition. His forehead was resting against it now; tendrils of hair peeked through.
"Father-"
"Yes," he replied quickly.
"Do you know who I am talking about?"
"Yes," he repeated, his voice lower. "I think I do…"
"And?" she asked, her voice raising slightly as her brow furrowed.
She heard him swallow, heard his body shift against his own seat.
"Continue…"
With a soft groan, she let those vivid scenarios she would usually try and hold back flood her mind.
"I've dreamed of him making love to me. So many times - I've lost count. It's so real… His hands on me, touching every inch of my skin, kissing me so tenderly I want to cry out for the want of it-"
There was a grunt across the thin wall; followed by a soft thud that sounded like a fist glancing off the wood.
"It's like I'm losing my mind. I know what it would feel like to be with him. But I know it can never be…"
"It can never be," he echoed in a soft whisper.
"No."
This time the quiet was deafening, not comforting. All those images and thoughts cluttered her mind and she quickly became overwhelmed. She had revealed her secret - confessed herself to him. And that was…that.
She felt deflated.
Why had she done this? She would never be able to look at him again…
"Em-" he began, before correcting himself, "Child. You say you cannot be with him. Because he is… unavailable. But what do you know of his feelings for you?"
The question took her by surprise. She'd never thought of his feelings - his desires - assuming that it was impossible for him to consider any woman as something more than a friend or an acquaintance.
"I- I don't know."
"Have you asked him?" he quickly asked. The burn between her legs increased a degree. She hadn't been expecting this.
"I-I…"
Her voice quivered with unexpected emotion as tension filled the air around her like a choking fog, sucking the oxygen from the space and leaving her breathless. But then he spoke again and she didn't get a chance to answer.
"You asked me, if I ever… struggle with unwanted feelings."
"I did…" she whispered.
"There is someone," he began, his voice getting quieter with every word, "Someone of whom I think very highly of. But I cannot deny that my carnal urges are sparked by this… person."
Emma reached up and placed one hand on the wall that separated them, bringing her ear closer the the partition.
"How do you cope?"
She could swear he laughed, just a little, then she heard him cluck his tongue and take a deep breath - every sound magnified in the small space. "How does anyone? Prayer. Penance."
"And does this work?"
And Emma prayed that he would say no, just as she prayed and wished that he was talking about her.
She was sure he was talking of her. It had to be her.
"Sometimes," was his cryptic reply and she felt her self begin to melt in a puddle of want and need and unexpected hope. "But when I am alone," he continued, "And my mind is clear, she is there. And I'm tortured by visions of her beauty - her skin, eyes, lips, body; so much so I can feel their presence and - and it's overwhelming."
"What do you do, when you feel this way?" she asked, almost breathlessly.
"What would any man do?" was his simple reply, accompanied by the soft opening of a zipper and the rustling of fabric being moved.
"I want to hear you," she blurted out, be damned with the consequences. Maybe they couldn't be together but she yearned to hear him, be near him-
The heavy breathing was her reply.
Instinctively she pulled up the hem of her skirt and slipped her hand into her underwear, silently thanking someone that she had not chosen to wear her usual pants. The wetness she found was soft and hot and her fingers sank into herself so effortlessly she had to stifle a little cry.
"What-," she swallowed as her fingers rubbed over her clit, biting her tongue gently, "What urges do you talk of?"
The gently slapping of skin against skin told her he was working on himself as she spoke. She'd never felt desire like it. Filling her like rising floodwater, lapping over her edges and washing over her in crashing waves. His closeness was strangely metered by the thin wall dividing them - an odd sensation of intimacy and concurrent solitude overcame her.
"I want to take her -peel away her clothes, lavish her skin with my tongue, taste her-"
The image of his tongue trailing across her body began to drive her wild.
"I want to feel her wetness, her hotness against my mouth, my fingers, my-" he hesitated, she could hear him moaning slightly and his pace quickening, "cock."
"Oh God," she muttered, working her fingers faster, alternately slipping inside her already pulsing core and rubbing tight little circles against her bundle of nerves.
This was wrong, wrong, wrong…
But she couldn't stop.
"I want the same… I want him inside me. I want to feel the burn. I want him to take me. I want to wrap my lips around him and make him quiver with desire. I want to envelope him with my body until he cries out-"
The stifled moan from the other side of the room made her stop. Soft little groans followed. Her stomach flipped, pules of electricity flooded her body and she felt her strength sapping away as she finally muttered, "I want you…"
And as her world began to cascade around her, she could swear she heard him say, "And I you."
It was seconds later before she came to- or maybe minutes or even hours? Time seemed to disappear as her vision blurred and her hearing was overtaken by a high pitched dining noise.
She began to breath more softly, composing herself, as she straightened her skirt and pushed back from the wall where she had slumped.
Had she imagined this all?
Wearily, she opened the small wooden door and slipped out into the silent church.
Where had he gone?
She turned to close the door and her breath caught as she saw a small slip of paper on the floor - neatly folded in half - on its front, in simple fluid script, was one word. Emma.
Scooping it up she quickly turned it over.
Three words only.
Three words that made her heart skip and told her she most certainly had not been dreaming.
11pm. The docks.
Reviews are the food of my muse!