Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99406 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99406 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
“What? I didn’t have that many—”
“Quiet!”
My jaw ached as I held it rigidly shut, wanting more than anything to disappear. Was he going to beat me for eighty-seven minutes? Good fucking God, I wouldn’t survive that.
How many strikes could I withstand before passing out? No one had ever hit me before.
“Hear me loud and clear, Miss Constantine.” He pushed off the desk and stepped to the enormous crucifix on the wall. “You will serve your penance without complaint or sloppiness. Failure to do so will reset the clock and add more time on the end.”
“I need to use the restroom.”
“No.” He crooked a finger. “Come here.”
I held his gaze with each begrudging step. It wasn’t easy. His eye-contact game was far superior to mine, his glare so much more arrogant and threatening. But I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cower. I was a Constantine, and dammit, I would act like one. So I kept my eyes leveled on his and sauntered across the short distance.
“Stand here and face the wall.” He pointed at the spot beneath the morbid cross.
At no time did I want to give him my back. I didn’t see a strap or cane in sight, but he wore a belt. And a frighteningly cruel scowl. He was going to hurt me.
If I didn’t stand where he indicated, he would hurt me worse.
The position put my eyes on the horror show that hung on the wall. The wooden feet of Jesus were life-size, nailed together on a board, and painted as if dripping with blood.
Why would anyone think it was a good idea to put this in a classroom?
I flattened my palms on the brick and tried to measure my breathing as he approached my back. Each menacing step directed the staccato of my pulse. Pressing closer, the length of his body aligned with mine. He dwarfed my smaller frame, saturating my skin with his heat.
No part of him touched me. Except his breath. His hot, invasive exhales stroked my nape and curled around my throat.
Then a huge, unsympathetic hand rested beside mine on the wall as he moved his mouth to my ear. “Touch your lips to his feet.”
“Ew! What?” My gaze flew to the crucifix. “I’m not doing that!”
“Ninety minutes.”
“Oh my God, what is this? Do you have some kind of foot fetish?”
“Ninety-three minutes.”
“You can’t be serious! How many mouths have touched this thing?” My breaths grew wild. “It’s not sanitary.”
“Ninety-six minutes.” He drove his face millimeters from mine. “We can do this all night, Miss Constantine. But you will kiss his feet for the full duration of the time owed.”
He wasn’t fucking around. He wasn’t even crossing any lines. Instead of a physical beating, he wanted me to kiss a crucifix for ninety-six minutes.
Fuck me.
Was this better than bruises and welts? I truly didn’t know. I couldn’t fucking think straight. Not with him so goddamn close, breathing down my neck.
I lifted on my toes, straining against the wall, the heat of him all around me, smothering. No escape. His hard physique blanketed my back, caging me in without touching.
It felt wrong. Sinful. Forbidden. If he were anyone else, maybe my thoughts wouldn’t have gone there. But there was something profoundly sexual about Father Magnus. Not just his virility and strikingly gorgeous features. It was in his bearing, the way he bossed me around, came at me from all directions, and watched me from inches away, breathing roughly, heatedly against my face. Like he wanted to bend me over his desk and fuck me raw.
I didn’t want that. Not with him. But my pussy thought it was a splendid idea.
Losing my virginity was high on my to-do list. Giving it up to a priest, though? This priest? The notion was insane. Petrifying.
And brilliant.
If he rejected my advances, I would get expelled. If he were as corrupt as everyone else in the world and welcomed my advances, I would report his ass and shut down the whole damn school.
But there was an extremely urgent problem.
“My bladder. It hurts so bad. Please…” The aching plea in my voice reached a whimpering pitch, dialed all the way up to engage his sympathy, if he possessed such a thing. “Please, let me run to the bathroom—”
“If you utter one more word about it, I’ll double the length of your punishment.”
Iron sheathed in suede, that voice belonged to a man who bent for no one. His sculpted lips lured victims to the altar with the promise of heavenly salvation before condemning them to eternal hell.
Ninety-six minutes would feel like eternal damnation with my bladder screaming and my mouth pressed to the graven image of a crucified white guy.
“Before we start…” He shifted, releasing my back to lean his shoulder against the wall. The position moved his arresting blue eyes impossibly closer. “Carrie just made me aware of an assembly of girls who gather before Mass to watch me run.”