SAINTS DON'T MOAN

•Penelope•

  I ignored the tingling between my thighs all evening. It didn't help that during mass, Father Marshall, bless his soul-suddenly looked like Dr. Miguel Ramirez from the side. Same silver hair, same calm, unreadable expression.

  I blinked hard, looked back down at my prayer book, and didn't look up again.

  After service, I moved quickly through the hallway, pretending not to feel flustered, pretending not to notice how warm my palms were. Sister Miriam called after me, something about setting up for the morning medicines, but I was already halfway down the east corridor.

  I needed air.

    I slipped outside into the small garden behind the chapel, where most of the sisters wouldn't bother looking for me. The roses were in full bloom, wild and a little overgrown. They reminded me of how I felt-pulled in every direction, tangled and barely held together by faith and willpower.

   "Escaping already?"

  The voice behind me stopped my breath cold.

   I turned slowly.

   Dr. Miguel leaned casually against the stone archway, coat slung over his arm, the top buttons of his shirt undone like he had just stepped off the pages of a magazine and into my personal torture.

  "I didn't realize you were still here," I said, too quickly. My voice sounded thinner than I wanted it to.

  He smiled. "I was hoping I'd get a proper tour."

  "This isn't a tourist site."

  He stepped forward, eyes locked on mine. "Maybe not. But the view's worth staying for."

  I looked away before he could see what that line did to me, God, please help me.

  "I'm not sure you should be here," I said, trying to keep my tone steady.

  "I know but you're here and I like your company, Sister Penelope."

  My body turned hot, and I could feel my cheeks heat up, I needed to change the topic from wherever it was headed.

  "I come here to think," I said, folding my arms across my chest, suddenly remembering that my blouse looked too thin under sunlight.

  He took another step toward the fountain, not close enough to break rules, but close enough to bend them. "And what are you thinking about now?"

  "That it's late and how you should probably head back."

  He hummed softly. "That's a very polite way to dodge the question."

  "I wasn't aware I owed you an answer, Dr. Miguel."

  His smile deepened. "You don't. But I've always found honesty far more interesting than politeness."

  I didn't reply. Mostly because the words forming in my mind weren't appropriate. Not for a woman of faith. Not for someone who still wasn't entirely sure if this path was a calling or an escape.

  He knelt beside the roses, brushing his fingers over one of the open blooms without picking it. "These are beautiful. A little wild but not overgrown. You can tell someone trims just enough to keep the shape without taming them completely."

  I stared at him, unsure if he was still talking about the roses.

  "Did you plant these?" he asked.

  "No," I said carefully. "But I take care of them now."

  "Then I'll thank you for the view twice."

  I swallowed hard. "You really should go."

  "I Should," he echoed, still crouched. "There are several things I should be doing, unfortunately I can't just yet."

  He stood slowly, dusting off his knees. "It's peaceful here. No wonder you hide out."

  Did he just brush off that conversation without properly hinting at what he should be doing? 

  Lord, why does it bother me why he does what he does? It wasn't my business.

  "It's not hiding," I finally answered.

  "Of course not," he said lightly. "You strike me as someone who faces everything head-on."

  I blinked. "You don't even know me."

  His eyes met mine calm, unreadable, and far too curious for my comfort. "I think I'm starting to and I want to know more about you in every aspect."

  I didn't know what to say. Everything in my body was telling me to move-to step back, to breathe, to stop letting this man turn casual garden conversation into something that felt like... foreplay.

  But before I could find an excuse, the sound of heavy footsteps approached behind me. Sharp, deliberate, and painfully familiar.

  "There you are," Sister Matilda's voice cut through like a cold slap. "Penelope, we've been looking everywhere."

  I straightened instinctively, taking a step back as if that would erase the space Miguel had invaded.

  "I-I just came out for air," I said, cursing myself for how breathless I sounded.

  Her eyes flicked between us, narrow and full of suspicion. "You're needed in the storeroom. Now."

  Miguel didn't move, didn't even look remotely apologetic for being caught. In fact, he had the audacity to glance at her with the kind of calm detachment that said he'd been in worse situations, probably while half-naked.

  "Apologies, Sister," he said smoothly. "I kept her talking longer than I meant to."

  Sister Matilda didn't smile. Not even a polite twitch of the lips.

  She turned back to me, voice clipped. "You have duties. You're not here to entertain guests."

  Heat flared in my cheeks, though whether it was from embarrassment or the way Miguel raised an amused brow at that word-entertain-I wasn't sure.

  "I'll be right there," I managed.

  Matilda waited a beat too long before turning on her heel and stomping off, her skirts swishing like judgment in motion.

  Once she was out of earshot, I turned to Miguel. "You shouldn't flirt like that. Especially not here."

  "Flirt?" His brow arched, feigning innocence. "I was only admiring the garden."

  "Sure you were. Look I don't know your deal and I don't want to know, just stay away from me. In a couple of months I'll be a nun and I don't want anything to come in between that."

  He smiled-slow, amused, and completely unrepentant. "Do you think I'm hitting on you, Sister?"

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

  He stepped past me, voice low enough that only I could hear. "You're lovely when you're flustered, Penelope. You aren't wrong but you aren't right either."

  He walked off leaving me alone in the garden with my pulse racing, my hands shaking, and the distant echo of Sister Matilda's disapproval chasing behind me like a shadow I couldn't shake.

  I made it to the storeroom two minutes late and two sins too flustered.

  The air inside was dry and stale, thick with dust and faintly medicinal. Boxes were stacked up to the ceiling-bandages, donated clothes, expired vitamins, holy cards, and several things we hadn't bothered labeling because no one wanted to admit we'd probably just throw them out.

  I leaned against the door the second it shut, pressing my hand flat over my chest like it would stop my heart from giving me away.

  I muttered a small prayer for composure and made my way toward the box labeled Medical Supplies – Private Donor. Of course it was sitting at the bottom of the stack. Of course.

  Kneeling down, I sliced the tape with the side of a broken ruler and peeled it open.

  The first thing I saw was a clipboard with neatly organized inventory sheets, he'd written notes in the margin in the most neat clean handwriting.

  Everything about this man was precise and proper, and somehow it ignited a passion in me.

  I skimmed the list. Antibiotics, antiseptics, prenatal vitamins, syringes, gloves.

  My gaze ran by a couple of things before landing on a closed box, my fingers shook as I lifted the lid.

  It was a shiny stethoscope, used but still newer than anything we had in the infirmary.

  My fingers curled around the cool metal before I could stop myself. I imagined it hanging low around his neck or better still pressed to someone's heartbeat, preferably mine.

  I dropped it back into the box like it had burned me.

  Oh Penelope, this is wrong, very wrong.

  I wiped my palms against my skirt, forcing myself to breathe.

  I can't be having these carnal thoughts about Dr. Miguel, but I couldn't help the growing sensation in my thighs again.

  Help me Lord, I whispered. Help me fight the gnawing temptation.

  When I finally stood, Matilda was in the doorway again.

  Her eyes dropped to the box, then flicked back to my face.

  "Try not to take too long," she said flatly before leaving the room.

  It felt like she could read my mind or at most my body language, it was begging to be touched, to be pleased.

  I walked towards the entrance bolting it shut, no one would walk in now.

  I slipped my hand beneath the hem of my skirt, fingers trailing up the soft inside of my thigh. My breath hitched when I reached the damp heat of my panties. I hesitated just for a moment. 

  Then I pushed the fabric aside and slid my fingers over my wet pussy, my head tilted back as I pressed my palm against my clit, fingers parting gently. I was completely soaked. I circled my clit slowly, teeth sinking into my bottom lip to stifle a moan.

  I could hear his voice clearly in my head, "You're lovely when you're flustered, Penelope."

  God damn, why did he have to sound like the perfect tune, so gruff and so sweet.

  I moved faster, sliding two fingers down and back up, teasing myself, building the tension in the pits of my stomach. 

  My free hand gripped the table edge behind me, steadying my legs as they began to tremble.

  I imagined his eyes on me, standing on the doorway with heat in his eyes as he savored the sight of naughty sister Penelope, masturbating to the imagination of him.

  "I knew you had it in you, little Penny."

  I felt his lips suckling around my neck, the weight of his body pinned me, murmuring filth I wasn't supposed to cave for.

  "You want my fingers pumping deep into you right?"

  My hips rolled against my hand as the pressure built more.

  I rubbed tight circles over my clit, fucking my wet pussy faster with my fingers, chasing the oragsm I'd been denying since the moment he said my name. My skin burned with the need to be touched harder, lower, deeper but this would have to do.

  And God, it did.

  My orgasm ripped through me, breaking my body in waves. I bit down hard on my lips as I came, my legs shaking while my fingers moved slower, drawing it out as long as I could.

  When it passed, I slumped forward, forehead resting against my arm.

  My breathing was shallow, and sweat clung to the back of my neck. My fingers were coated with evidence of the lustful sin I had just committed and yet I didn't feel an ounce of guilt.

  I pulled my hand away, legs still unsteady, and wiped my fingers clean on the inside hem of my skirt before straightening it again.