And somehow that made everything so much worse, because now it was only the thin line of my self-control that kept me from bending her over a pew and spanking that creamy white ass for making me hard when I didn’t want to be, for making me think about her naughty mouth when I should be thinking about her eternal soul.

I cleared my throat, three years of unflagging discipline the only thing that kept my voice even. “And just so you know…”

“Y-yes?” she asked, biting into that full lower lip.

“You don’t have to drive up from Kansas City just to come here for confession. I’m sure any priest there would be happy to hear you. My own confessor, Father Brady, is really good, and he’s based in downtown Kansas City.”

She tilted her head ever so slightly, like a bird. “But I don’t live in Kansas City anymore. I live here, in Weston.”

Well, shit.

Tuesdays. Fuck Tuesdays.

I said early morning Mass to a mostly empty sanctuary—two hat-wearing grandmothers and Rowan—and then I went for my run, mentally cataloging all the things I wanted to get done today, including putting together an informational packet for our youth group trip next spring and writing my homily for this week.

Weston is a town of river bluffs, a topography of fields sloping towards the Missouri River, punctuated with punishingly steep hills. Runs here are brutal and vicious and clarifying. After the first six miles, I was covered in sweat and breathing hard, turning up my music so that Britney’s voice drowned out everything else.

I rounded the corner onto the main drag through town, the sidewalks mostly clear of people browsing antiques and art shops since it was a weekday. I only had to dodge one elderly-looking couple as I forced myself up the steep road, my thigh and calf muscles screaming. Sweat dripped down my neck and shoulders and back, my hair was soaked, each breath felt like punishment, and the morning sun made sure that I was greeted by waves of August heat rolling off the asphalt.

I loved it.

Everything else bled away—the upcoming renovation to the church, the homilies I needed to write, Poppy Danforth.

Especially Poppy Danforth. Especially her and the knowledge that the mere act of thinking about her made me stiff.

I hated myself a little for what had happened yesterday. She was clearly a well-educated, intelligent and interesting woman, and she had come to me, despite not being Catholic, for words of help. And instead of seeing her as a lamb in need of guidance, I had been unable to fixate on anything other than her mouth while we were talking.

I was a priest. I was sworn to God not to know another’s body while I lived—not even to know my own body, if we were getting technical about it. It wasn’t okay to think the kind of thoughts I had about Poppy.

I was supposed to be a shepherd of the flock, not the wolf.

Not the wolf who had woken up this morning grinding his hips into the mattress because he’d had a very intense dream with Poppy and her carnal sins in a starring role.

Guilt wormed through me at the memory.

I’m going to hell, I thought. There’s no way I’m not going to hell.

Because as guilty as I felt, I didn’t know if I could control myself if I saw her again.

No, that wasn’t quite right. I knew that I could—but I didn’t want to. I didn’t even want to give up the right to carry her voice and body and stories in my mind.

Which was a problem. As I came up on the final mile of my run, I wondered what I would tell a parishioner who was in the same situation. What I would offer as my honest insight into what God would want.

Guilt is a sign from your conscience that you’ve strayed from the Lord.

Confess your sin to God openly and sincerely. Ask for forgiveness and the strength to overcome the temptation should it arise again.

And lastly, remove yourself from the temptation altogether.

I could see the church and the rectory, only a short distance away. I knew now what I would do. I would shower and then I would spend a long hour praying and asking for forgiveness.

And for strength. Yes, I would ask for that too.

And the next time Poppy came in, I would have to find a way to tell her that I couldn’t be her confessor again. The thought made me depressed for some reason, but I’d been a priest long enough to know that sometimes the best decisions were the ones with the most short-term unhappiness.

I stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light to change, feeling lighter now that I had a plan to follow. This would be so much better; everything was going to be fine.

“Britney Spears, huh?”

That voice. Even though I’d only heard it twice, it had been seared onto my memory.

It was a mistake, but I turned anyway as I pulled out my earbuds.

She was running too, and by the looks of it, she’d run just as far as I had. She wore a sports bra and very, very short running shorts, that only just covered her perfect ass. Sweat dripped from her too, and she was absent the red lipstick, but her mouth looked even more amazing without it, and the only thing that saved me from staring hungrily at it was the fact that her toned thighs and flat stomach and perky tits were on such ready display.

Blood rushed to my groin.

She was still smiling at me, and I remembered that she had said something.

“Sorry, what?” My words came out harsh, breathless. I winced, but she didn’t seem to care.

“I just didn’t peg you for a Britney Spears fan,” she said, pointing to where my iPhone was strapped to my bicep and clearly displaying the cover of Oops…I Did It Again. “Retro Britney too.”

If I weren’t already roasting from the run and the heat, I would have flushed. I reached for my phone and tried to subtly change the song.

She laughed. “It’s okay. I’ll just pretend I saw you listening to—what is it that men of God listen to when they run? Hymns? No, don’t tell me. Chanting monks.”

I took a step closer, and her eyes flicked across my shirtless torso, sweeping down to where my shorts hung low on my hips. When she met my eyes again, her smile had faded a little bit. And her nipples were hard little points in her running bra.

I closed my eyes for a minute, willing my swelling dick to settle down.

“Or maybe it’s totally opposite, like Swedish death metal or something. No? Estonian death metal? Filipino death metal?”

I tried to think unsexy thoughts as I opened my eyes. I thought about my grandma, the threadbare carpet by the altar, the taste of boxed communion wine.

“You don’t like me very much, do you?” she asked, and that brought me crashing back to the present. Was she insane? Did she think that my uncontrollable hard-ons around her were a sign of dislike?

“You were so nice the first time I came in. But I feel like I made you mad somehow.” She glanced down at her feet, a move that only highlighted how long and thick her eyelashes were.

Her eyelashes made me hard. That was a new benchmark for me, I had to admit.

“You didn’t make me mad,” I said, relieved to hear that my voice sounded more like normal, in control and kind. “I’m so grateful that you found enough value in your experience to come back to the church.” I was about to follow that up with my request that she find a new place to say her confessions, but she spoke before I could.

“I did find value in it, surprisingly. Actually, I’m glad I ran into you. I saw on the church’s website that you have office hours just to talk, and I was wondering if I could visit sometime? Not for a confession necessarily—”

Thank God for that.

“—but, I don’t know, I guess to talk about other things. I’m trying to start a new phase in my life, but I keep feeling like something is missing. Like the world I’m living in is flattened somehow, de-saturated. And after I spoke to you both times, I felt…lighter. I wonder if religion is what I need—but I honestly don’t know if it’s something I want.”