Unholy Cravings: A Collection Of Steamy Stories.

Blurb: In a monastery built for repentance, two holy men will teach her the art of temptation.

Chapter 1: 

Elara’s POV

I stepped through the heavy oak doors of the monastery, my chest aching like a weight was dropped on it.

At twenty two, I'd lived a life of reckless indulgence, spent my nights in silk sheets with lovers I barely remembered and my days chasing highs that left me hollow.

But my last relationship, the one with the married man whose wife had almost stabbed me with a knife. It left me wondering what I was really doing. I needed atonement and I needed to purge that fire that was burning inside me as though it was insatiable.

The air inside was cool, scented with incense and aged wood, a stark contrast to the heat outside. 

My simple white dress clung to my curves, the thin cotton damp from sweat, outlining the swell of my breasts and the flare of my hips.

I hadn't worn undergarments, it felt like a small act of defiance to remind me what normalcy felt like.

Two figures emerged from the alcove near the altar.

Priests, of course. The abbey's guardians, sworn to celibacy and the divine. My breath caught as they approached, the same way it did when I first saw their photos.

The first was older, perhaps in his forties, with salt and pepper hair cropped close and eyes the color of storm clouds. Father Elias.

He moved with deliberate grace, his hands clasped before him. I couldn't get my eyes off his fingers. 

Beside him was father Thorne, younger, in his thirties, he had an athletic build that I marveled at how he had maintained it. His hair was a tussled mop of chestnut waves. 

For some reason, I knew their full names by heart, Father Elias Hawthorne and Father Thorne Blackwood, but I couldn't remember the name of the last guy I'd fucked.

His smile was crooked, almost boyish, but there was a predatory edge to him that made my core clench.

Why the fuck was I ogling a priest. I should be praying now, or doing something that didn't involve drooling over two men that were probably as chaste as the vows they swore.

As they drew nearer, I had this urge to bolt, run and hide. But I didn't move, I stood rooted in place and I caught their scent, earth and musk, like rain soaked soil after a storm.

“Sister Elara,” Father Elias's voice came as a low rumble that vibrated through me. 

He gestured towards a pew. “Welcome To Sanctum Abbey. The mother superior has informed us of your intentions. We are here to guide you towards redemption." 

I nodded, my throat dry as I took a seat. They flanked me, one on each side, their presence a warm pressure against my arms. They were so close that I could feel their body heat.

Father Thorne's knee brushed mine, the contact sending a shiver up my spine. Heat pooled between my thighs and I clamped them shut, willing my body to not betray me.

He didn't pull away immediately and when he finally did, his eyes met mine with a flicker of something dark. Amusement? Desire?

It was gone before I could name it. Maybe I had imagined it, maybe I was so far gone that I actually saw sin where there was chastity. 

“Tell us,” Father Thorne urged, his tone lighter,  as he leaned in so his breath ghosted my ear. "What burdens bring you to our gates? Confessions are always the first step.”

My heart hammered in my chest. I probably imagined that too, Father Thorne did not just lean in like he wanted to taste me.

The confessions tumbled out in a rush. The string of lovers, the married men, the lies, the way I had revelled in the power of my body over men. And beneath it all, the ache that never left me. I admitted how parts of me still craved it all.

As I confessed, my voice grew husky and I shifted in the pew. I was wet already, shamefully so. Thank God they couldn't smell it on me. Or could they? 

Somehow, baring my soul to these two men had gotten me hornier than I ever felt. 

Father Elias listened with his eyes closed, as though he was savouring each sinful syllable. When I stopped, he opened them, his gaze locking on mine with an intensity that made my nipples harden against the fabric. 

“The flesh is weak, sister," he murmured, “But through discipline, we can find strength. You will join our morning vigils, our labours in the scriptorium. And tonight, we will begin with private prayer." 

The words hung in the air. Why did the word private make me imagine things that had absolutely nothing to do with praying.

Father Thorne's fingers twitched on his thigh that was merely inches from mine. I imagined them tracing the hem of my dress, slipping beneath to find the wet puddle waiting there. 

I closed my eyes briefly. Focus, Elara. He's a priest.

A hand gripped my wrist, making my eyes snap open at once. 

Father Thorne's palm covered my hand and was faintly brushing my thigh.

“You do not have to be ashamed of your thoughts.”. He peered into my eyes. Before I could fumble a response, Father Elias stood and gestured to the direction we were to go. 

He led and I couldn't help staring at the way his habit draped over his broad shoulders, hinting at the muscles beneath.

I wondered how those hands would feel around my breasts, cupping them, thumb circling my peaked nipples until I whimpered.

Then I became hyper aware of Father Thorne at my side, and I realized his entire focus was on me. I wanted to show him just how my thighs pressed together to ease the ache. 

By the time we reached what looked like a chamber, I was a wet trembling mess. The priests stopped at the threshold.

“Rest now,” Father Elias said, his voice rougher than before, his eyes raking over my body. "You can join the private prayer tomorrow.”

Father Thorne lingered around as Elias stepped away, his hand brushing the doorframe near my hip. “If you get tempted in the middle of the night, remember that confession is always open." 

I didn't miss the meaning behind his words.

Alone, I collapsed on the bed, my body a live wire.  I tried to sleep, tossed and turned until not a single sound could be heard aside from my shallow breaths.

I rose, slipping into the corridor. I told myself I was going to join the prayer and nothing more. Did I believe that?

Not even a little.

I peered through the half opened door of what I assumed was their private chapel. 

They knelt in the middle of the room, eyes shut and lips moving. 

As if they sensed me, their heads turned in unison, “Come," Father Elias commanded softly, and I obeyed, kneeling between them, my dress riding up my thigh. 

Thorne's hand found my back, “Pray with us," he murmured, his palm sliding down my spine, stopping just above my ass. 

We prayed for what felt like hours, our bodies inching closer and closer. My skin prickled under the near touches, the accidental graze of Father Thorne's wrist against my breast as he crossed himself and the way Father Elias's knee pressed against my thigh when he shifted. 

Each contact was a spark, igniting the fire I'd come to quench.

When the vigil ended, they rose, helping me to my feet. 

Father Thorne's grip on my elbow was firm, his thumb circling the bone in a way that sent jolts straight to my core.

“You should sleep, Sister. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

Back in my cell, I stripped down hastily, lying naked on the sheets. My finger delved inside my wetness, thrusting with rhythm and circling the swollen clit with a moan that echoed off the walls. 

I pictured them both, Elias's mouth on my neck and Thorne's eager hands parting my thighs.

I came hard, whispering their names as I bucked, biting the pillow to muffle my cries. Waves crashed through me, my pussy clenching around my fingers and my juices soaking the sheets, but the release only sharpened my hunger, leaving me gasping, skin flushed and nipples aching.

These men were unraveling me without even having to do anything.

And I loved it.