Coming into his office early that morning he was greeted with a sheet of paper with a bright yellow sticky note in Lucy's careful and elegant handwriting "All taken care of."
Lucy had handled everything - that woman is truly a Godsend - but his peace is short-lived.
As he peels up the note he notices that it's Emma's volunteering schedule, and she's opted to help out at the dinners for the homeless and the AA meetings.
The latter is both interesting and problematic - since he has been planning to not only run the meetings, but participate in them. They've been a source of comfort to him ever since the day Father Brannan dragged his rum-soaked self to a meeting.
He wanted to hate them - the arrogance of thinking that a bunch of strangers actually want to sit in spectacularly uncomfortable chairs, drinking lukewarm bitter coffee and pretend to listen to your sob story - but that's not what it ever was. Everyone else was just as lost and hopeless as him, and even those who'd been sober for years seemed to have a healthy respect for those who'd fallen short yet again.
It's been 2 years for him. And he knows that despite his discomfort, he'll just have to deal with her presence at the meetings. Even if nobody else in the town shows up - he needs the them for himself. The first gathering isn't scheduled for another few days, so he'll have some time to pray about it and gather the strength to stay focused.
Besides, he's got work to do - and he's spent far too long sitting at his desk thinking of her. Time to get on with it.
She'd gotten off from work a little early, having tracked down her latest bail jumper quicker than she anticipated. Her boss joked that either the criminals were getting dumber, or she was getting pretty damn good at this.
The walk back to her apartment was short, but in the few minutes that it took to get home her mind had drifted back to the church and the sinfully attractive Father Jones. Once home, she kicks off her shoes and starts picking up a little. It's mostly take out containers and glasses left on the counters and coffee table, so it doesn't take long.
She flops onto her bed - feeling fitful with the leftover adrenaline from the chase, and nothing left to do. Rolling over onto her stomach she reached to pull her phone from the back pocket of her jeans - 4:03 p.m. Still pretty early, really.
Maybe a run would help.
She slipped into some spandex leggings and her favorite sports bra and strapped her phone to her arm before pulling her hair into a quick ponytail.
He was having a really productive day. A phone conference with the Bishop [checking up on him to see how he was settling in], sermons prepared for the next 3 weeks and a pre-marital counseling meeting with a young couple left him feeling encouraged and energized. Maybe he could do this after all.
"Lucy?" He came down the narrow stairs to find her replenishing a few pamphlets by the door [his eyes landed on the one about sexual immorality and he cursed inwardly at how obvious God can be sometimes.]
"Yes, Father?" She turned to face him and he saw concern cloud her features momentarily. "Are you feeling OK? You look a little flushed?"
"Just need a little fresh air I think. I was just coming down to let you know I'm going for a brief walk. If anyone stops by and you happen to need me, I have my cell."
"Of course, Father. Take your time." She smiled sweetly and continued her task.
The air was crisp and refreshing after spending all day inside and for a while the only sounds he hear were the crunch of gravel and leaves beneath his feet and the prayers in his mind. He found himself praying for God's wisdom as he shared the word with his parishioners. He prayed for God's grace and forgiveness with his mistakes and his sins. He prayed for the strength to stay on the path to the narrow gate.
But even in the prayer for forgiveness, his mind wandered back to the source of his struggles. Emma.
He found it disconcerting that he'd only met her the once, talked to her on the phone briefly, and he'd been dreaming about her, fantasizing about her, touching himself to the thought of her hands and lips on him.
The buzzing of his phone was a welcome interruption, and he quickly recognized the church's phone number on his screen.
"Hi Lucy, I was just headed back" he said, holding the phone to his ear and turning back toward the church - he could cut through the park and make it back a little quicker.
"Oh, good! I wouldn't have bothered you, but there's someone here for confession, and I'm afraid I can't be of much help with that." Lucy laughed in response.
"No, I suppose not," he chuckled with her. "I'll be there in just a few minutes."
He slipped the phone back in his pocket and picked up the pace a little, not wanting to make a bad impression by leaving a churchgoer waiting too long.
She was only a mile in when Hozier's Take Me to Church came on and made her want an entirely different kind of workout. Smiling to herself, she thought this might be a perfect opportunity to start on her list.
After all, the song inspired quite a few sinful thoughts, and she might feel better baring her soul (and maybe something else) in the confessional.
The secretary gave her a dirty look being in just her workout gear, but it was just a moment later that she got a call and with the phone to hear ear motioned to Emma that she could wait in the confessional.
He opened the main doors and was confused when he saw nobody around. His heart fell briefly, thinking he'd taken too long - his mind immediately conjuring an upset phone call from the Bishop about an anonymous complaint about his disappearance.
Just then a flustered Lucy came around the corner with her purse. "I'm so sorry, I have to take off a little early - my mother…"
Her mother had been in the hospital for months recovering for a series of strokes, and his heart broke for her. He'd insisted she take more flexible hours to visit her whenever she wanted - and to be there when the doctors needed to talk about treatments.
"It's alright, Lucy. Go ahead." Killian said soothingly, holding the door open for her.
"She's in the confessional, by the way. Just went in a minute ago." Lucy added as she made her way through the door.
"Oh, thank you Lord," He thought to himself, making his way to the confessional.
He absentmindedly straightens his collar - it's not like they can see him in there anyway, but it makes him feel better nonetheless - as he steps inside. The old wood groans a little under his weight as he settles on the bench and clears his throat to let the parishioner know he's arrived.
Sometimes he likes to start confession with a scripture reading, but he doesn't have anything prepared, and he's hopeful they won't think any lesser of him for it.
A delicate voice greets him - maybe even a little familiar.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It's been - well, actually, this is my first confession."
She starts to wonder if he recognizes her yet, after all, they'd only met once, and only spoken briefly over the phone - and he's been so deathly quiet she's not entirely convinced he's still in there.
He's holding his breath - that sounds an awful lot like…
"And what are your sins?" It takes all of his concentration to keep his voice steady.
She smiles wickedly at the obvious tension in his voice. Oh, he knows it's her.
"Oh, Father - I've been a very very bad girl." She almost laughs at the cheesy line, but the way he groans lets her know she's on the right track.
God, she's trying to kill him.
"Is that so?" He tosses back. He knows he shouldn't be playing this game, but the confessional makes it feel anonymous.
"Yes, Father. I've been having the dirtiest thoughts about a certain man. I think about him while I'm at work, when I'm at home, when I'm in the shower…"
She's hoping her breathy teasing words are having the desired effect - lord knows it's making her want him in all of those places she just mentioned.
His head falls back as he lets her words wash over him, the steady hum of arousal making it hard to the think of anything but what he wants to do with her right now. His breathing is labored and he's impatient for her to continue.
"I think of him when I touch myself," she relishes the thought of torturing him with these images, and the sound that comes from the grate is more of a growl than anything else - feral and desperate.
"I imagine his mouth on my breasts, his hands trailing down my stomach, my hips, his fingers dipping inside me, seeing his head between my legs - his talented tongue making me come over and over until I'm screaming his name."
Holy hell. She really is trying to kill him. He's harder than he's ever been in his life, it's almost painful - and he feels like he'll come just listening to her. He starts rubbing himself through the fabric of his pants to try and relieve some of the pressure, but he knows this is only going to end one way.
"In fact," she reaches down and dips her hand into her jogging pants - the stretchy material accommodating her slow and deliberate movements (she's a little surprised at how wet she is just knowing she's working him up.) "I'm touching myself now just talking about it."
Why is she doing this to him? Just to tease and torment him? She's reduced him to pure animalistic lust, and yet again, he gives in to it.
He hastily pops the button on his pants and pulls the zipper down, hoping nobody else comes into the church to see or hear what they're up to. He drags his tongue lasciviously along the palm of his hand, bringing it down to his generous length.
He hisses at the contact, squeezing gently as he starts to roll his hips upward in a slightly circular motion.
"Don't stop now, tell me more about this man." He's practically begging her.
She feels a rush of arousal at his insistence.
"He's off-limits. Forbidden fruit. He's supposed to be the epitome of innocence, but every time i think of him I just want to shove him up against the wall and fuck him senseless."
He swallows thickly as his hips and hand picks up speed.
"Tell me, Father. Tell me what I do to you." She says breathlessly as she feels her orgasm building low in her stomach.
"I can't stop thinking about you. I want you so badly." He screws his eyes shut as he allows the sensations to take him over.
"Just knowing you're right there, thinking of me and touching yourself, riding your fingers and wishing it was me inside you - stretching you."
He feels so deliciously filthy talking like this, doing this, in the confessional no less. There's a special level of hell reserved for him now, but he can't bring himself to care.
She's short of breath now and he can hear her soft groans and mewls through the grate and he knows she must be close, and knowing she's so close renders him speechless. She's quick to fill the silence.
"I want you too, I want it to be you between my legs instead of my fingers - I want to watch your cock disappear inside of me and watch as you drive into my tight pussy over and over - and - oh - God - oh - God, yes!"
Her orgasm hits her and she's seeing stars as her walls spasm around her fingers, rolling her hips a little to ride out the waves of pleasure. Hearing her cry out is what sends him over the edge, and he lets out a sharp yelp as his release spurts into his hand.
He hasn't even caught his breath before he's tucking himself away again, suddenly aware of just how dangerous that was.
"You're forgiven," he states simply, and he leaves the confessional and goes straight upstairs to his office - unable to face her.
He falls to his knees and prays for forgiveness, prays for the strength to resist her - but there's splinter in his brain that tells him it's useless.
She straightens her clothes and strides out of the church with flushed cheeks and a smug grin.
Who knew confessions could be so satisfying?