Her Priest (Divine Domination Book 1) Read online

Chelsea parked her bike on the bridge, locking it on one of the many rungs next to a dozen other bikes that looked just like hers. The air felt warm and dry after a long, wet winter. The air smelled of spring—dirt, trees, and flowers—reminding her of the days she’d fallen hopelessly in love with Emerson in college.

  She briskly walked along the busy streets. The café was up the road, and she knew he’d be sitting in the window looking for her. She wore her cute brown booties with brown leggings and an oversized cable knit sweater with an accenting pink scarf. Despite pushing forty, she looked younger than her age, and outfits like this made her look youthful again—like when they met. Despite the warm day—it was, after all, only May and still very cool in Amsterdam—she’d be glad later that she had decided to wear a sweater when the breeze kicked up, as it did with the surrounding water.

  Her heart galloped knowing he watched her coming down the sidewalk—she’d be clearly in his view at this point. She refused to look up, knowing she’d catch him staring, instead, preferring to play coy. She tossed her long sandy hair over her shoulder; she’d just added some blonde lowlights to it this week, and knew it shimmered in the unusual display of sunshine today. Swaying her hips slightly, she smiled to herself, imagining his reaction. His cock would be lengthening, growing thicker and stirring behind his pants. Her clit began throbbing, her hands itching to touch the silky length.

  The traffic light changed at the corner. She quickly checked for oncoming bicycles racing up the lane, and metros in the other direction. She, along with dozens of other people, quickly darted across the busy street. Her eyes flitted up to spot him sitting in their window, his chestnut, wavy hair only slightly tamed. His eyes sparkled over the large white mug he drank from, obviously amused that she caved and made eye contact with him. She could never pull the wool over his eyes; he knew she’d been aware of him watching, flirting with him from a distance.

  Chelsea licked her plump lips, stained in a burgundy brown to match her outfit, languidly sliding her tongue along them; she knew that her pink tongue would have his balls tightening, his body shifting on the hard wooden chair.

  Maneuvering around a group of people, she climbed the two steps to the café, pulling on the brass handles of the heavy wooden door, only to have it thrust toward her.

  Emerson.

  Her heart leapt. Would she ever see him and not react? She hoped not. She loved that his smile and presence took her breath away.

  “Here’s my bad girl.” He reached out for her hand, guiding her up to him, and letting the door close behind them. “You look amazing today. But you knew that.” With a sexy smirk and a hand to the small of her back, he guided her in front of him toward their table.

  She looked over her shoulder. “Thank you, Emerson.” Taking her seat, she looked over to see the prominent bulge behind his brown dress pants, partially hidden by his tweed jacket, but still present to one who was looking for it.

  “Eyes on me, girl.” He sat down, narrowing his gaze at her, even though the glare didn’t reach his lips, which were still kicked up into a sly grin. “So did you enjoy the catwalk display you performed for me on your way over here?”

  Chelsea cleared her throat. “I have no clue what you’re talking about, dear.”

  “Mmmm. We could add lying to your punishment today. Is that what you’re looking for?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

  Punishment?

  “Wha—did you say punishment?” Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t enjoy his punishments—after they were over, maybe. But a discipline session with Emerson wasn’t something to be toyed with; he took the task seriously. She’d planned on having fun with him today—walking through the parks and shops, eating at some of the restaurants. Not this.

  “Indeed. Do you want to venture into guessing why?” He waved to a waitress, who quickly came to the table. “She’d like a vanilla latte, please, and I’ll have another hazelnut latte as well. Thank you.” He watched her leave before returning his attention to her. “Are you going to guess?”

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat. She had an idea of what it could be, but didn’t want to admit to it in case she was wrong. She wished against all wishes that he would give her a hint. “I’m…well, to be honest, I’m not sure.”

  “Really?” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his long legs, his dark brown shoes gleaming in the sunlight. “Guess we’ll just give you time to think then.” Emerson pulled out his phone, opened an application, and started to read.

  Damn!

  The barista came to the table with their coffee. Chelsea took a sip, her gulp sounding loud in her ears. She found it difficult to swallow with her throat so tightened.

  Chelsea stared at this gorgeous man she’d loved for almost half of her life. It didn’t matter that she’d married—and miserably divorced five years later—a wonderful, brilliant man. David’s biggest problem? He wasn’t Emerson. Everything David said or did ran through the Emerson Filter, and after five years, the man just couldn’t live in the shadow of a priest he’d never met. He packed his bags, had lawyers forward the paperwork, and they had a neat and tidy divorce within a year.

  She loved everything about Emerson. His hair, his twinkling blue eyes with the crow’s feet, evidence of his lighthearted and funny personality. He made everyone smile. His eyebrows were knit as he read something on his phone—more than likely politics or foreign affairs. He loved reading just about anything. They’d curl up in the open window of his apartment or hers, the gentle breeze brushing on them, the noise of the street filtering in, both of them content with the quiet and whatever world they were transported to through their books.

  He had a small cleft in his chin that she loved to stick her tongue in. She loved the feel of the ridge there; it made him giggle every time, so she did it often. If something struck him funny or amused him, a small dimple would show up on his right cheek. It wasn’t a deep indent, and more often than not, fleeting. She loved that dimple, its transitory presence.

  The front of his pants fluttered, the outline of his hard cock evident, twitching just under the surface. Chelsea squirmed on the chair, rubbing her thighs, giving her clit a little relief.

  Clearing his throat loudly, “Are you answering me, or do we need to cut this short, bringing you to my apartment so I can spank it out of you?”

  She jumped out of her reverie. “Uhm…well…I may have not had lunch yesterday.” Giving him a furtive glance, biting her lip.

  “That’s not it, but I’ll address that later as well. Try. Again.”

  It was a kabuki dance they did. She needed to wait him out, hoping for hints before confessing, but not pushing him too far or he’d snatch her out her chair dragging her like a recalcitrant child out of the café and directly to his apartment for a spanking she’d be feeling for the rest of the week. She loved nothing more than a good thrashing, but not a punishment. She needed to walk a fine line with him.

  She tried again. “I…is this about going out last night?”

  “It is. In part. What other parts do you think I’m upset about, girl?” She was distractedly twirling a napkin around her forefinger. He grabbed her hand, tossing the napkin aside.

  “That I didn’t call you when I got home.” She bit her lip; she knew this was the brunt of the issue for him. He worried about her when she was out, and even more so when she didn’t communicate. A rule he had instituted for her while they were still in college.

  “Damn straight. And then you let my phone call go to voicemail—not once but twice and—”

  “But—”

  He put a hand up halting her. “Don’t interrupt. I’m still talking.” He narrowed his gaze at her. “As I was saying. You let my calls go to voicemail—twice, and I think I know why. What time did you get home?”

  And here we go.

  “Well, there was traffic, and I had—”

  Emerson sighed loudly, interrupting her. “I’m growing weary with your tactics. Answer the question, Chelsea Lei
gh.”

  Shit! Middle name.

  She took a loud, deep breath, exhaling while she mumbled her answer fast, slurring her words. “Twelve-thirty, Sir.”

  “Say it again.”

  “Twelve-thirty, Sir.” She raised her voice just a bit, saying it slowly and clearly.

  He shook his head, staring at the table, fiddling with the spoons before lifting his gaze to her. “You were to be home by eleven. Yes?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And why did I choose that time?”

  “Because I had a cold last week. B-but it was too early and Anna had to wait for her ride and I didn’t want to leave her alone.” Her friend had always been a little flighty, and leaving Anna alone in a bar wouldn’t be the wisest thing to do. But, in hindsight, disobeying Emerson was never a good idea. She never seemed to remember that, however, in the middle of whatever fun she was involved with at the time.

  “What should you have done?”

  “I should have texted you or called you, asking permission to be late.”

  “And you didn’t, Chelsea. Why?” His hand twitched on his thigh; it was never a good sign for her bottom when that happened.

  “I didn’t want to…” Her voice trailed off into mumbling and she stared intently at the bottom of her coffee cup.

  His long finger tilted her chin up. “Speak clearly. If I have to ask again, we’ll have a session with the hairbrush tonight, and I’m sure I can come up with a lesson that requires you to loudly speak with every swat if you need help with your enunciation.”

  “I didn’t want to look like a teenaged kid or something. It’s embarrassing explaining to my friends that I have to ask permission from you…like you’re my father.”

  He winked at her, squeezing her hand. “You normally like that—at least when we’re alone.”

  “That’s different.” She knit her eyebrows, pouting at him.

  “Come.” He abruptly stood, grabbing her hand. “We’re going to my apartment. It’s time we had a discussion.”

  Shit!

  Chapter 3

  With a hand to the small of her back, Emerson guided Chelsea into his apartment. His place was small, but he didn’t need much. After spending ten years with only a room in a rectory, he didn’t require much space. Given the dwindling number of priests assigned to churches, living with another priest had been a luxury, one that he hadn’t taken for granted either. Many of his friends from the seminary were the only priests in their congregations, and missed the companionship. But either way, he’d learned to live with a little and didn’t require anything fancy.

  The dark pine floors gleamed from his cleaning the day before. They both toed off their shoes, leaving them at the welcome mat in his entryway. He had neighbors on either side of him; the houses were tall and narrow, as is customary in Amsterdam.

  “Go to my room. Everything off. Stand in the corner.” He made sure there was a harsh edge to his voice, wanting her obedience and no sassy backtalk.

  “Yes, Sir.” Her large green eyes in contrast to the light blonde hair made her stunning, but right now, her doe eyes had widened with trepidation.

  He slapped her bottom through her brown leggings—hard, sending her to his room with a bit of a sting.

  She scurried out of reach, running up the stairs, rubbing her backside.

  He’d only been in Amsterdam for a couple months, but it felt like they’d been together for eternity. How many nights (and days) had he spent in Philadelphia thinking of her, his cock hard and aching? How he’d missed their languid days in bed, kissing and licking every inch of her body.

  Being a priest in South Philly had been difficult, but sharing a congregation with Father William McKenna had been a luxury, especially with the dwindling number of priests in America. It was a rare thing for two priests to share a church. Many of his fellow priests struggled alone.

  Emerson wondered how things had gone with Bishop Kearney. The bastard. The bishop didn’t care about the people; he only cared about lining his pockets with blood money. The poverty stricken families and children were only photo opportunities for him. They were used to splash his face across every television and paper, showing his love of the flock, caring concern for their plight. When in reality, he’d bribe and steal money from local priests.

  Emerson and Father McKenna had begged, several times, to receive monies for a new addition to St. Theodore’s. Their congregation had outgrown the school, and they had classes with too many students in rooms that weren’t big enough for them. The fire marshal had told them he wouldn’t be able to say the school was up to code if changes weren’t made for the next year.

  The public schools weren’t up to standards, and St. Theodore’s was the only ticket for most of these kids—a ticket to a better life, a way to leave poverty behind them.

  The Bishop had told them that if they wanted their school slated for improvement the next year, they had to give him the balance of money they had in their cemetery fund. Money that was slated for upkeep, Christmas wreaths, lilies, American flags, etc.

  I’ll be damned!

  Emerson had vowed to Father McKenna that he’d take this up with the Cardinal of Pennsylvania if necessary. And now that he’d left the priesthood, the task would be easier. He didn’t have to worry about stepping on toes or not playing the game. The politics had been one of the things he was happy to leave behind. But leaving St. Theodore’s and Bill had been tough.

  He’d make phone calls tomorrow. Today, he had a beautiful ass to paddle.

  Walking toward the downstairs bedroom and bath, he stripped off his clothes, his cock hard, pressing against his belly. He took a quick glance at himself in the mirror—not bad for someone almost forty. He’d kept himself in shape playing basketball and baseball with the kids. He’d have to start a gym membership to keep himself trim. He patted his midsection. Definitely a gym membership.

  Walking into the closet, he pulled down a box from a shelf. Opening it, he pulled out a gold clasp and his collarette. Typically, it was worn with a mandarin collared shirt, but today he’d be wearing it around his bare neck.

  She loved nothing more than fucking him with his collar on—Her Priest.

  He could put the collar on in his sleep. He missed it many days, missed the snugness—a constant reminder of his commitment. Similar to a collar for a submissive. A reminder of their love, vows, and a physical reminder of their dynamic.

  He snapped the gold clasp at the back of his neck, tugging on it, centering it perfectly. Climbing the stairs, his bare feet padded lightly on each wooden step. God help her if she wasn’t in the corner; her stubbornness knew no bounds some days.

  The door was propped against the door jam. He lightly pushed it open, peeking around it to find her standing obediently, nose pressed against the seam of the walls—just as he expected.

  “Don’t turn around, bad girl.”

  Her back stiffened, but she stayed in place, her chest rising and falling rapidly with her breathing. She had a pink blotch on her right bottom cheek where he’d slapped her earlier. Sitting on the bed, he gripped his cock in his right hand, lightly stroking it, wanting nothing more than to slide it between those lush, creamy cheeks, bumping on her little pucker. With his thumb, he swiped at the pre-come, smoothing it over the tip of his penis.

  There’s no time for that now. Not yet.

  “Come here, bad girl,” he barked. Keeping her anxious would benefit both of them.

  She pivoted in the corner, gasping at him sitting with only his collar on, her eyes dilating, a pink blush rising from her chest to her face.

  He stood, his cock bobbing in front of him, pointing at the floor in front of him. Walking slowly, she knelt at his feet. And leaning forward, she kissed his hot and aching rod.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  He rested his hand on her bowed head. “How long has it been since your last confession?”

  She pulled in a shaky breath. “It’s been three days since
my last confession, Sir.”

  “What was your sin, my child?”

  “I told you to shut up in a fit of temper.”

  He smiled to himself, making sure that it didn’t affect his words. “Bad girl. What was your penance? Look at me while you say it.” He knew the humiliation would be difficult, but he also knew that she’d love remembering it later.

  “I had to give you a blow job and I was spanked.”

  He nodded. “Yes, you were. Is your bottom still sore, girl?”

  “No, Father.”

  His cock twitched. He loved hearing her call him Father. God help him, he knew he shouldn’t.

  “What is the sin you’re confessing today, little one?”

  “I…I came home past curfew, didn’t answer your phone calls, and I yelled at you when you said I’d be punished.” She dropped her head and stared at the floor.

  “And what else?”

  She looked up at him, confused, her facial expression blank.

  Shaking his head, he tsked loudly. “And you compromised your health. You were sick with a cold last week. Resting is important. Defying my order could have made you relapse.”

  “B-but it was so early. And Anna had to get a ride, and I couldn’t leave her alone at the bar. It wouldn’t have been right.”

  “Are you whining?” He furrowed his eyebrows at her.

  “No…well, maybe a little. Sorry.” She barely murmured her response, dropping her head in defeat.

  “Leaving your friend wouldn’t have been right, you’re correct. What should you have done instead of ignoring my texts and calls?”

  She swallowed, replying in defeat. “I should have called you to ask for permission. But it’s hard to explain to my friends. It makes me look like a teenager.”

  “Being submissive isn’t always easy or convenient, girl. There are sacrifices to be made by all involved. Correct?” He rose from the bed, standing above her, waiting for her answer.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He nodded. “To atone for your sins, first, you’ll give me a blow job, and then you’ll be spanked. I won’t have you ignoring my phone calls or orders. And then you’ll be napping to make up for the hours of sleep missed last night by your blatant disobedience. Clear?”