My story deals with the attraction between a nun who works at a half-way house for women and an ex-junkie prostitute. Is that forbidden enough for you?
When you're through with my excerpt, head back to Blisse Kiss Central, for lots more sweet and sexy Sunday kisses!
Kitchen duties rotated among all the occupants of Serenity House, myself included. I was working on supper one night when Magnolia traipsed into the room, wearing a scarlet silk scarf wrapped around her head, leopard-patterned leggings and a Harvard University tee shirt.
“Hi, Sister. It's my turn to help out tonight.”
“Good evening, Magnolia. Can you deal with the potatoes?”
“Sure thing.” Her breasts hung free underneath her shirt. They swayed hypnotically as she grabbed the peeler and attacked the mound of tubers with her usual energy.
I forced my attention back to chopping garlic, onions and peppers for the meat loaves. I honestly didn't trust myself to look up.
We worked together in silence for five or ten minutes. I sauteed the vegetables, mixed them with ten pounds of ground beef, added eggs, tarragon, basil, massive amounts of black pepper and a tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce, and pressed the mixture into the odd assortment of pans the house owned. Once I had the loaves in the oven, I could escape to my room for an hour.
“Heard you were married once, Sister. That true?”
Oh, God! “Um – yes. More than ten years ago.”
“So you ain't no virgin.”
Startled, I looked up from the meat loaves. Heat shimmered through me. Despite her tone of levity, she was not smiling. The knowledge I saw in her eyes scared me.
“No – Tony and I – we -” I choked on my own words as tears gathered.
“You can tell me, Sister.”
It poured out of me before I could stop myself, the whole sordid story. The fairy tale wedding of Kathy Gallagher and her high school sweetheart Anthony Manzetti, with both enormous families in attendance. The all-too-brief flare of passion. Then Tony's cancer, diagnosed on our second anniversary, and the years of treatment: chemo, radiation, surgery, more chemo. Remissions and the rekindling of hope. Relapses and despair. I'd cared for him through it all: the sweats and the vomiting, the rashes and the sores, the terrible, terrible pain. Everyone praised my strength and courage. A saint, they'd called me.
Two days after his funeral, I'd slit my wrists.
I'd awakened in St. Margaret's Hospital, bandaged and restrained. An elderly nun sat by my bedside, stern and sorrowful. The weight of memory crushed me.
“Why did you save me?” I'd asked, so weak I could barely whisper. “You should have let me die.”
“For shame, child. Your life is a gift from God. How dare you throw it away, when you could be using it to help others?”
“Haven't I done enough, taking care of Tony all those years?”
“Apparently not, since your soul is not at peace.”
I shuddered at the recollection. Scalding tears streamed down my cheeks. Magnolia slipped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me against her pillowy chest. Lost in grief and self-pity, I scarcely noticed, at least for a moment.
She stroked my cropped hair. “Poor baby. Seems to me that becoming a nun yourself – well that was a bit much, wasn't it?” A sense of comfort stole over me. Her floral aroma mingled with the kitchen spices. “Maybe you chose wrong.”
She pressed her lips to my forehead. Terror and arousal streaked through me in alternating waves. I struggled against her entangling arms. “No, no,” I babbled. “Sin – suicide is a mortal sin – I had to atone...”
Magnolia released me with a deep sigh. “Ain't you done enough penance, Sister?”
I rushed upstairs to my room without answering, her scent clinging to my clothing, the mark of her lips branded on my forehead.