50 hours in the next six months. He'll have to see her for 50 hours in the next six months.
Killian runs his hand through his hair roughly - not paying attention to the fact that it makes him look just as addled as he feels.
She'll have to be supervised, of course, and his mind reels with any possible way that she can work with anyone else at the church.
Not likely - in the past few days he's come to realize that it's essentially just him and Lucy here. There were a few regulars at the parish who volunteered as ushers and making coffee, but himself and Lucy were the only actual employees.
He sighed deeply, resigning himself to the fact that he would just have to deal with it. He thinks to himself "See it as a test, Jones. A chance to show God how far you've come. You've faced temptation before and come out the better for it. This is no different."
Except it feels like it is.
"Miss Nolan?" His voice is shaking almost as much as his hand - her phone number now faded on his skin, the greying ink spiderwebbing a bit - making the numbers look a little fuzzy around the edges.
"Yea. Who's this?" Her voice sounds so flat through the phone.
"It's Father Jones, from St. Josephs?"
He can practically hear her demeanor change, even before she's opened her mouth.
"Ooooh, Father Jones. How are you?" It's like she's a different person now - her voice all silk and honey, teasingly drawing out her vowels.
"I'm doing well, thank you. I'm calling about your community service," he swallowed hard - trying to calm his nerves and keep up the professional tone. "Are there any programs in particular you're interested in? Maybe helping Lucy with some clerical work?"
She noticed the hopeful tone in his voice at that last suggestion. He was deliberately trying to pawn her off. She smiled darkly to herself - she was going to absolutely torture him.
"You know, Father, I was really thinking something a little more - intimate." His breath hitches at the way her voice drops lower at the word.
Holy hell.
He clears his throat in an attempt to shake it off - regain control, but it doesn't do anything to abate the intense desire he feels blooming. He needs to get off the phone. Now.
"I'm not sure what you mean by that Miss Nolan, but I'm sure Lucy can provide you with a list of suitable endeavors. I'll have her call you tomorrow. Good evening." He hurries through his goodbye and doesn't wait for her response before hanging up.
Leaning back in his chair, staring at the grain of the wooden beams in the ceiling, he takes a few deep breaths and tries to convince himself that he misheard her. He misinterpreted things. She couldn't have been...flirting?... with him.
Or maybe she's one of those women who has a thing for… Oh God. He desperately needs to think about something else. He can feel himself starting to twitch and harden just thinking about it.
He roughly presses the heel of his hands into his closed eyes - trying to crush the onslaught of inappropriate images - though it doesn't seem to do any good. He mutters a few prayers through gritted teeth, but despite his best efforts he's hardening further - there's no point in fighting it now, his pants are growing uncomfortably tight.
Cursing under his breath he admits defeat and calls down to Lucy and tells her to take a half day. She protests, so he tells her he needs her to visit Emma's probation officer and put together a list of suitable activities for her community service.
She seems satisfied with the task - and he stands at the window to make sure she's really gone before palming himself through the thick black fabric. Even just at this, he hisses. He'd forgotten just how good this feels.
It's been years since he touched himself. Through seminary he took it as a personal challenge to show the extent of his willpower, but all of that came crashing down when he heard her talking like that.
He resigns himself to his sin, and decides he'll just have to ask for forgiveness later. He hastily undoes his pants and settles into his desk chair with his knees falling to the side. He lifts his hips to pull his briefs down and takes a deep breath at the relief of being free from their confines.
Bringing his hand to his lips he licks a solid stripe along his palm before lightly moving it over himself. He shudders at the intensity of the feeling - he won't last. It's been so long. He squeezes himself a little harder, his hand moving along himself of it's own accord.
He's panting and groaning now - and with his eyes screwed shut he's assaulted with unwelcome images of Emma on her knees between his legs, writhing underneath him, bouncing on top of him, riding him hard.
His stomach does a somersault as he feels his balls tighten up, and he nearly screams with pleasure as he spurts his release into his hand. His vision goes dark with exhaustion and satisfaction.
He tucks himself away before his vision clears again and heads to the bathroom to clean himself up. There's no doubt in his mind he'll be doing that again. It's amazing that he went so long without it, and with 50 hours of Emma in his life, there's just no way he'll make it without doing something.
This woman is going to be the death of him.
Emma laughs heartily at how successful she was at unnerving Father Jones. There's something deeply satisfying in taking someone whose entire identity is their superior purity - and take them down a notch. Remind them they're no better than anyone else. Not to mention she loved the feeling of being in control.
She knows she already has this guy wrapped around her finger - and that he likely had his fingers wrapped around himself after that phone call. Her mind starts to wander as she imagines him touching himself because of her words, and she's surprised at how her body responds.
She quickly finds herself soaking wet and rolling her hips thoughtlessly. Might as well enjoy the depravity - she thinks to herself, walking over to flip the lock on her door and popping the button on her jeans - dipping her hand into her pants as she walks over to her bed.
Settling on her back, she doesn't bother removing her pants, her fingers deftly rub tight circles over her sensitive bundle of nerves. Bringing her hand even further down she dips her fingers lightly into herself, coating her fingers before swiping them back up to her clit.
The added slickness is what does her in - and images of the ordinarily uptight priest with his head thrown back in pleasure (still wearing his clerical collar no less) accompany her release as the tight coil of desire finally snaps. Toes curled, jaw held open in a silent cry her body spasms as she rides out the waves of her orgasm.
It's one of the best orgasms she's had in a while - something about the juxtaposition of someone who is supposed to be so innocent in such a decidedly sinful situation. Who would've guessed she'd be turned on by the whole "naughty priest" thing?
If she can have that great of an orgasm just thinking of this man, she can't even imagine would it would be like if it was his hands on her, or his tongue...
That night she had vivid dreams of her naughty priest in all kinds of compromising positions, and when she wakes up she reaches over to her phone and opens up her notepad application, jotting down a few ideas for future use with Father Jones.
First up - the confessional.