GLORIA

A SINNER SHORT STORY

SIERRA SIMONE
 1

Sean

“S EAN , WE CAN ’ T .”
I have my fiancée pinned against the outside wall of a
restaurant, her delicious ass in my hands and my face in her
warm neck. Her legs are wrapped around my waist, and
despite her protests, she’s pressing against me, dropping her
head back so I can kiss and lick her throat.
Snow is falling all around us.
“Sean,” Zenny tries again. “The rehearsal dinner is over.
We’re not supposed to be around each other until the
wedding tomorrow.”
“We haven’t technically left dinner yet,” I say, nuzzling
her. She smells like roses, like blown petals in late summer
tumbling softly to the ground. “So that means the rehearsal
isn’t over and I can still see you.”
“But…” she starts and then breaks into a pant as I hitch
her against my groin. I know she can feel my erection even
through our thick winter clothes.
2 SIERRA SIMONE

I know she can feel it because literally all the blood in

my body is in my dick right now, and I’m pretty sure said
dick is about to drill a hole through the tailored wool of my
trousers in order to get to her pussy.
I’m already relentless when it comes to Zenobia Iverson,
my best friend’s younger sister and the woman I stole away
from God last year, but our wedding rehearsal made me into
a madman. Standing in front of her, holding her hand
while Father Jordan Brady walked us through how the cere-
mony would unfold, knowing that in less than a day she’d
be Mrs. Sean Bell…
Well. I was already obsessed with my little former nun,
but what I’m feeling tonight is beyond mere obsession. I
need to exist entirely inside her, around her, with her, and
nothing is good enough until her mitochondria and my
mitochondria are close enough to make out, I swear to God.
“Sean,” she pants again. “People might see.”
“Don’t care,” I growl, biting her neck. She shivers as I
grind the heavy bar of my cock against her tights-covered
cunt, shivers like no one’s ever made her feel good before.
(And yes, before you ask, I spent the morning riding her
until we were both covered in sweat and too spent to move.
But it wasn’t enough then and it’s not enough now.)
I reach under her bright red coat to palm a breast and
am greeted by a stiff, pebbled nipple. “You need to come,
don’t you, baby? Just real fast, just to take the edge off until
tomorrow night. Just until I can take my time with my new
wife and give her everything I’ve been saving for her.”
Zenny is arching against me now, trying to rub her core
against me. But she still musters up a protest. “You have to
take your brothers back to the hotel,” she says.
“Fuck my brothers.” I run my thumb over her nipple,
making her whimper.
 Gloria 3

“And we’ll get covered in snow.”

“We’re already covered in snow.”
“And my parents could walk out at any moment.”
Ah.
Shit.
I pause, thumb still on her nipple, heart beating fast.
I’ve known Zenny’s parents basically my entire life—
Zenny’s brother and I were inseparable growing up, and
still are—but to say they were reserved about a thirty-six-
year-old asshole millionaire crashing into their college-
aged daughter’s life would be an adorable understatement.
Even now, the night before the wedding, I’m still not sure if
I’ve been forgiven by the Iversons for the whole “earning
their trust for three decades before abruptly robbing the
nun-cradle” thing. I swear Zenny’s dad’s eyes haven’t
unnarrowed once since I asked him for permission to
marry her.
So anyway, being caught dry-humping their daughter in
public would not be ideal.
I push my forehead against hers, unable to let go, my
body begging me not to pull away from her warmth.
“You can make up for lost time tomorrow night,” Zenny
murmurs in my ear. “And on the honeymoon.”
“I already fuck you like I’m making up for lost time,” I
grumble, kissing her soft lips once before I’m batted away
for lipstick reasons I don’t care about. I set her on her feet
and then tug her dress back down to her knees. “If I make
up for any more lost time, I’m going to fuck you right into
the Iron Age.”
Finally all put back together, Zenny peers up at me and
gives me one of those smiles that makes my heart feel like
it’s outside of my chest, beating besottedly in her slender
hand.
4 SIERRA SIMONE

“I’m surprised you know what the Iron Age is. Surely
that doesn’t come up a lot in finance.”
“It’s because of bible study,” I mumble. Embarrassed. (I
now know more about Paul the Apostle’s stupid shipwrecks
than any former playboy should.) I’m fumblingly, clumsily
rewriting my relationship to God, and part of that is partici-
pating in things that I’d written off as bullshit a long time
ago: bible studies and Sunday masses and rosaries prayed
with the little rosary book open because I can never
remember the mysteries on my own.
Anyway, the embarrassment is worth it when Zenny
beamingly raises to her tiptoes and lands a light kiss on my
jaw. My cock jumps and I force myself to take a step back
before I maul her outside the second-best steakhouse in
Kansas City.
But stepping back is a mistake too, because then I see
her, really see her. An oval face with high cheeks and a
slightly buttoned nose, a lush mouth with an upper lip that’s
slightly fuller than the lower one. Copper-ringed brown
eyes fringed with long lashes, and sepia-brown skin gilded
by the fairy-tale light of a nearby streetlamp.
A wide halo of curls long enough to brush against her
shoulders.
Her curls and eyelashes are currently caught with glit-
tering snowflakes, matching the glint of her nose piercing
and of the small cross at the base of her throat. She looks
like a winter dream, like Miss December on the best
calendar ever made.
Soon to be Mrs. December, mind you.
“Tomorrow,” Zenny promises, probably seeing how
looking at her has made me ravenous all over again.
“It’s going to be an eternity,” I say. I’m still so goddamn
 Gloria 5

hard, and if there’s anything I know for certain about tomor-

row, it’s that it’s going to take far too long for me to have her
wedding gown shoved up to her waist and my face between
her legs.
“It’ll go by fast,” she soothes. “Especially because we’re
dropping off so much at the church tonight. You know the
drill, right?”
“Yes,” I say obediently, glancing at my watch. “You’ll go
to the church to drop off your dress and shoes while I drop
my brothers by the hotel. And then by the time I get there
with the tuxes and the license, you’ll have already left, and
we won’t see each other, and all of American wedding tradi-
tion will be saved.”
I must have said that last part a little forlornly because
she finds my hand and kisses my palm. “Just imagine how it
will feel when you see me walking down the aisle to you.”
My throat does A Thing, and I make a clearing noise so
it won’t be obvious that just thinking of that moment makes
my eyes burn.
But she knows anyway, because of course she does. “I
love you,” she says softly and then she lets go of my hand.
“I love you, Zenny-bug.” And then I add, sternly, “And
drive safely in the snow. I will spank your beautiful ass raw
if you so much as look at anything above twenty miles an
hour on your speedometer. Got it?”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” she says with a
laugh. “But I got it, Daddy,” she adds with a coy smile as she
spins away.
Lust hits me in the stomach
like
a
cannonball.
6 SIERRA SIMONE

“Daddy? Really?” She’s never called me Daddy before. I

didn’t even know that was a thing she wanted to call me.
And now I need to find out how fast I can make her use that
word again, if I can make her say it to me over and over.
“You’ve never—you can’t just say something like that
and leave—get back here and explain yourself right now,
Miss Iverson—”
And then of course, with the worst timing possible, a
horde of Bell brothers pours out of the steakhouse door,
cutting off my words and letting Zenny off the Daddy-hook.
The horde finds me, hassles me to get them to the hotel
bar as Zenny waves and prances off, and then I’m left with
three drunk brothers and no sexy fiancée.
And now tomorrow really won’t come fast enough.

The hotel is only a short distance away, but apparently

eight inches of snow isn’t enough to call out the city’s snow-
plow drivers, so it takes us twenty minutes to make it a mile.
Aiden and Tyler—the middle brothers—are in the back,
arguing about whether or not the Walmart logo looks like a
butthole, and Ryan, the Baby Bell, is currently in the
passenger seat, listening to the whole exchange with an
expression of boredom. Or cool amusement. It’s hard to tell
with Ryan sometimes.
“There’s a void in the center of it,” Tyler is explaining
patiently as I white-knuckle my Audi through the snow.
“Anuses don’t have voids in the center.”
“They do if they’re dilated,” Aiden protests. “How bad is
your married sex life if—”
 Gloria 7

“My married sex life has nothing to do with the Walmart

logo.”
“Not yet,” Aiden says in tones of prophecy.
“Does everyone remember what time they need to be at
the church tomorrow?” I ask over their bickering.
“Elijah will get us there on time,” Aiden replies easily.
Elijah is Zenny’s older brother, my best friend, and the only
choice for my best man. He’s also Aiden’s boyfriend,
somehow, even though Elijah is the epitome of style and
sophistication and Aiden is—despite being a successful
businessman in his thirties—an overgrown frat boy.
“I think it will depend on the snow, so I’ll be keeping an
eye on the weather in case we need to leave earlier than
planned,” Tyler says. Tyler once left the priesthood for a
stripper, but don’t let that little vocational speed bump fool
you—he’s very serious and responsible and good. (Unless it
comes to red-lipsticked socialites-turned-exotic-dancers.
Then he’s very bad. His one Kryptonite, I suppose.)
Tyler’s goodness can be very irritating sometimes—
except for right now, because I need help corralling our
brothers. “Okay, Former Father Bell, you’re in charge of
rounding up the college student and the flake—”
“Hey!” Aiden protests from the back seat.
We all ignore him.
“And everyone needs to be at the church by ten. No
excuses. No matter how much you drink at the hotel bar.
Or in Ryan’s case, however much weed you vape in your
hotel room, since you can’t legally drink yet.”
Ryan’s eyes glitter at me from the passenger seat. He lifts
a brow when I turn fully to look at him, as if to say who’s
going to stop me? And I swear looking at my youngest
brother is like looking into a mirror, because even though all
of us share the same too-wide smiles, the same too-deep
8 SIERRA SIMONE

dimples, Ryan’s got the blond hair and the blue eyes to
match. He’s also got the same ruthless stare I’ve made a
career from.
Sometimes, looking at that ruthless stare, I do worry that
he might grow up to be a bit of a villain, but I put it out of
my mind for now. Wedding first, potentially evil baby
brothers later.
“Okay, we’re here,” I say, stopping the Audi fully. “I’m
going to drop stuff by the church and then I’ll be back.”
“Drive carefully,” Tyler says. “They’re expecting another
eight inches tonight.”
And then Aiden laughs so hard—choking out a sput-
tering I bet they are—that Tyler has to physically push him
out of the car so I can leave.

It takes me another twenty minutes to get to the church,

even though it’s only two miles from the hotel, and by the
time I park and grab the tuxes and tote bags, the snow is
nearly up to my knees. I’m starting to think getting married
in the weird week between Christmas and New Year’s might
have been a bad idea.
Father Jordan leaves his church unlocked, especially in
bad weather, and I have no problems getting inside and
finding my way to the rooms the bridal party will be using
tomorrow. The lights throughout are dimmed—it’s late
enough that Father Jordan is probably in his rectory across
the street, talking to angels or whatever it is that he does in
his free time—and when I pass by the sanctuary, I see that
all the votive tea lights are still burning their silent prayers
 Gloria 9

into the empty air. Coupled with the sconces over each of
the stations of the cross and the lit Christmas trees around
the altar, it creates a soft golden glow in the sanctuary. Snow
buffets against the clerestory windows and the stained glass,
and the air smells like cold pine and recent incense: a space
of holiness, lonely and lovely, both at once.
Tucking my car key into my pocket, I step forward
between the pews, wondering what it will be like to walk
down this same aisle tomorrow. Knowing that when I reach
the end, I’ll be waiting for my bride, waiting to seal my love
for her with a vow, because anything less than forever with
her is too short. Anything less than everything is not
enough.
And yet all of this is only a play, only a gesture, because
the real truth of it is that I gave her forever the moment I
saw her outside that gala last year. I gave her everything the
first time we kissed.
I’m already hers, already pledged and devoted with my
very heartbeat remade to sigh out her name. Most hearts
beat the way they should: thump-THUMP thump-THUMP .
But mine beats uniquely for my bride, my nun, my
obsession:
zen-NY zen-NY.
And my heart is beating out her name when I hear foot-
steps behind me, stuttered and stompy, like someone is
trying to shake the snow off their shoes.
“Hello?” I call, expecting to see Father Jordan or maybe
someone taking shelter from the storm. But then I hear a
squeak—a familiar squeak—and turn to see a flash of
scarlet and marigold disappear from around the corner.
“Sean!” Zenny cries. “You’re supposed to be at the
hotel!”
“No, you’re supposed to be at the hotel,” I say, walking
10 SIERRA SIMONE

towards where she’s hiding. Worry twists my stomach, and I

imagine every single snow disaster that might have befallen
her. “Are you okay? What are you doing here?”
“My car got stuck in the snow on the other side of the
parking lot,” comes her voice, a little farther distant now,
like she’s trying to move away from me. “I’ve been trying to
dig it out for the last thirty minutes.”
“Zenny, stop moving,” I say in exasperation.
“We’re not supposed to be together before the wedding!”
she says. Her voice is echoing now, like she’s in the hallway
beyond the lobby.
“I want to make sure you’re okay,” I say. I can’t shake the
image of her on her knees in the snow, trying to dig out a car
with nothing but her hands. “Are you cold? Can you feel
your fingers and the tip of your nose? Do you feel drowsy?”
Zenny laughs from the hallway just as I step out from
the sanctuary doors. I catch a glimpse of red wool before
she ducks into a doorway. “Stop chasing me! And my father
is a doctor, Sean, I know the symptoms of hypothermia. I’m
fine, I promise.”
“People with hypothermia usually think they’re fine!
Just before they remove all their clothes and run off to chase
a bear!”
She’s still laughing. “Sean.”
I’m a little panicked now. “Zenny, at least let me feel
your hands to make sure they’re not too cold. I’ll close my
eyes and everything. We can even walk backward to each
other, if you want. Please?”
A silence. Then, “Okay, but turn around now. And close
your eyes. I don’t trust you not to peek at me.”
She’s smart, because I shouldn’t be trusted. I want to
look at her every chance I get, and that’s not even when I’m
worried that she might have hypothermia.
 Gloria 11

But this tradition is important to her, and that makes it

important to me, and so I turn around and squeeze my eyes
shut.
“Walking to you now,” she calls, and together, slowly, we
walk backward, guiding each other with our voices, our
footfalls uneven and uncertain, until finally I feel the soft,
damp wool of her coat against my fingertips.
Without waiting, I grope behind me for her hands and
find them in their cool leather gloves. Zenny allows me to
peel off the leather and grip her hands until I’m reassured
that they are still warm. No frostbite.
I exhale in relief.
“And you’re sure your nose is okay? You don’t feel like
taking your clothes off?”
“And here I thought Sean Bell would never have an
objection to a woman taking her clothes off.”
“Zenny!”
“Yes,” she says, laughing again. “I promise I’m fine.”
With her hands warm in mine, I’m starting to believe
her. My muscles unclench a little and then I try to think
through Stage Two of Taking Care of Zenny, which is
making sure she has the wedding of her dreams tomorrow.
“Give me your keys, baby,” I say. “I’m going to see if I can
get your car unstuck.”
Cold keys land in my hand, wet with melting snow, and
then Zenny says, in a quiet voice that tells me she’s starting
to panic, “Let me know if you need help.”
I squeeze her other hand with the confidence of a man
who’s decided no car can be that stuck and then trot outside
to rescue her vehicle.
But alas, twenty minutes later, I tromp snowily back into
the church a defeated man, and doubly defeated, actually,
because I have to announce, “My car is stuck too.”
12 SIERRA SIMONE

“Sean, no,” Zenny says from around the corner. “No.”

I kick the toes of my shoes on the thin weather mat just
inside the church door and then unbutton my coat, hot from
trying to dig out two cars and then the sudden warmth of
the church on top of it. “We’ve gotten at least two inches in
the last hour, and as much as I hate to admit it, my Audi is
not a snow-worthy beast. It got about three feet across the
parking lot before it met its wintry end.”
“Can someone come and get us?” Zenny asks, sounding
desperate.
“Only Elijah and your parents have their cars at the
hotel, and they’re both Priuses. I don’t know that it’s any
safer for them to have a Dr. Zhivago moment right now
either.”
“But,” Zenny says, and her voice is rising. “We have to
get back to the hotel no matter what. I’m supposed to get up
at five to start my hair. And then after hair, it’s makeup, and
Mom forgot my veil at her and Dad’s house when they left
for the hotel, so I have to make sure I go get that—and
everyone is going to be in my room at five in the morning,
Sean. It’s a thing. We’re having mimosas. Mom will be
arguing with her cousin. Poppy will be judging the makeup
artist’s lipstick skills. I’ve been looking forward to it for
months. And did I mention that my veil is at their house
several miles away? I can’t get married without a veil!”
I’m already walking toward her, reaching with my eyes
closed (okay, I’m cheating a little bit, but just enough to see
the floor) until I’m in the hallway and my hands close over
the soft wool of her coat. I drag her into me, holding her
close. Her hair brushes against my chin.
“Sean,” she whispers. “What if we can’t get married at
all?”
 Gloria 13

“That’s not going to happen,” I say firmly. “I will make a

sled out of a pew and drag Father Jordan here myself if I
have to. We’re getting married tomorrow, I promise.”
She nods against my chest, but the taut worry in her
shoulders doesn’t disappear. “But what about my parents?
Elijah? Your brothers? And…and…”—her voice wobbles so
sweetly here—“my veil?”
Eyes still closed, I kiss her head, and then her forehead,
and then her temple. “We will hope the roads are plowed
by morning. And you will be stunning with or without a
veil.”
“You’re right.” She sighs as I kiss her ear, working my
way down by memory alone to her jaw and then to her
mouth. “I’d get married to you naked if that’s what it took.”
“Then let’s pretend you forgot your wedding dress too?”
She ignores that, pressing her face into my sweater. “It’s
just that all the ways I’ve ever imagined taking vows—either
as your bride or as Christ’s—a veil was involved,” she
mumbled. “I know it doesn’t actually matter, but it felt like
this important thread for me. Zenny Iverson was always
going to wear a veil. Somehow. And now…”
“We don’t know what the next few hours will bring,” I
reassure her, kissing her head again, rubbing my hands up
and down her back. “The roads might be plowed before
long.”
“And if not?” Her voice is muffled by my chest.
“Then we’ll already be here, with my tux and your dress,
and I’ll make you a bouquet of icicles and parish newsletters
to carry down the aisle.”
She snort-laughs into my sweater and then her hands
slide around my waist and pluck idly at the waistband of my
trousers. I tense, silently begging her to go further, to touch
14 SIERRA SIMONE

my skin, to trace her fingers over my ass, my hips, to play

with whatever she wants. Nothing is off-limits to her.
Nothing ever will be.
My erection is very nearly back to full strength when she
pushes her hands up the dress shirt I’m wearing underneath
my sweater and then scratches her fingernails lightly down
my back. I shudder, my pulse pounding fast.
“You know,” she says, “maybe the tradition doesn’t count
if there’s a snowstorm.”
“I think you’re on to something,” I say—a little weakly,
because she’s pushed her hands up the front of my shirt
now. I hiss when she scratches over my nipples, and she
makes a pleased little hmm when she hears it. I had no idea
last year when she first asked me to test her vocation that
she would turn into such a vixen, but here we are.
Now I’m the one rendered helpless by her touches; I’m
the one stunned by how quickly she brings me to my knees.
And then one hand drops down and palms my aching
shaft through my pants, pressing it back against my stom-
ach. Sensation ripples into my stomach and down my
thighs, and then she does something that absolutely
breaks me.
She presses that soft, fuckable mouth right above the
collar of my shirt and kisses my throat.
“Zenny…” I manage, barely hanging on to my control,
barely able to keep myself from pushing her against the
nearest wall and finishing what we started at the restaurant.
Her mouth is so plush and warm, her hand is a weapon of
pure torment against my trapped dick. I’m dying. I’m dying.
“What if we make a new tradition about what people do
the night before their wedding…” she purrs, and thank fuck,
because my control is gone, shredded by the smallest kiss of
hers.
 Gloria 15

“I already have something in mind,” I growl, and I swing

her into my arms and carry her into the nearest room that’s
not a freezing cold lobby.
The sanctuary.
 2

Zenny

“S EAN ,” I BREATHE , KNOWING I SHOULD PROTEST , I SHOULD

tell him that we can’t make love in a church, much less in a
sanctuary, but after what I did with him the morning I was
supposed to take my vows, I probably shouldn’t be casting
any stones here.
And anyway, if there’s anything true of a Bell brother, it’s
that they’re not so fussy about what they do in a church.
Sean looks down at me—looks—and I look back up at
him, abruptly dazed. I know we just saw each other at the
restaurant, I know we live together, I know tomorrow we will
cleave and cleave again, but for a moment, it feels like that
fateful first night all over again, like seeing him stroll out
onto that terrace with his hand in his tuxedo pocket and a
sinful smile spreading across his face. Like seeing a fallen
angel coming to tempt me and knowing that I’m already
plunging from heaven to join him.
And he looks even more like a cursed angel than he
usually does right now, the lights from the Christmas trees
 Gloria 17

around the altar turning his blond hair gold and his dark
blue eyes into a starry sky of glittering lights. His chiseled
jaw and high brow are classically handsome, of course,
especially coupled with a body imported straight from a
Renaissance sculptor’s fever dream, but it’s his wide mouth
and those long-lashed eyes that make it almost painful to
look at him. And I suddenly can’t remember why I ever
wanted us to stay away from each other. Not when he looks
like this, his eyes burning into mine as he stalks toward the
front of the sanctuary.
Without breaking his stride, he lowers his mouth to
mine and gives me a hot, possessive kiss—tongue and teeth
and that unbearable hunger of his that never seems satis-
fied, like he wants to spend the rest of his life devouring me
—and the only other love I’ve ever felt like that in my life is
the love God has for me, a love so consuming that surrender
is the only option.
Although as Sean breaks the kiss and I look up to see the
tormented expression on his face, I have to wonder who’s
surrendered to whom.
Who’s devouring whom.
He passes rows of empty pews, drawing close to the altar
and the raised area it perches on, but he doesn’t carry me
there. Instead, we stop beside it, at the marble baptismal
font to the side of the steps leading up to the altar. He sets
me on the ledge—which is more than wide enough for me
to sit on comfortably—and then kneels on the floor
between my feet.
I don’t know what I expect, but it’s not him sliding his
hands under my coat to find my hips and yanking them
close. With how tall he is and the height of the font, it’s a
perfect match, and we both groan as my center makes
contact with his. I can feel the iron bar of his cock stretching
18 SIERRA SIMONE

to his hip, and I can feel the trembling in his hands as he

holds me still and gives himself several hard, shuddering
thrusts, dry and rough through our clothes.
I could come like this, I think, both of us still in coats
and shoes, but Sean tears himself away with a grunt and
rips off his coat, tossing it carelessly on the floor. His sweater
is next, leaving him only in his button-down and his silk tie,
and then he goes for my coat and scarf too. I help him,
eagerly, stripping off everything but my dress and tights,
even toeing off my little ankle boots, and then we’re kissing
again, my fingers twining in that silky hair, his hands
roaming all over my body like it’s the first time he’s ever
touched me, like he can’t get enough of me.
And his touch moves to my legs, under my dress, and I
can feel the heat of his hands over the fabric of my tights. I
think he’s reaching for the waistband, I think he’s going to
peel them off my legs, but instead I feel his fingers meet at
my center, twist hard in the fabric and pull. The tearing
noise feels loud in the relative silence of the church,
matched only by the wind outside, and Sean meets my gaze
with a slow, carnal smile as he rips the tights all the way
open in the middle, exposing my silk-covered pussy to the
open air.
“Watch,” he orders, as he pushes my dress to my waist
and then strokes once over my panties. His hands are big
and strong, so much larger than my own as they smooth
over my thighs and back up again, and it looks so wrong like
this, so forbidden with my skirt around my waist and with
the empty pews behind him. With the altar so very close,
with the still waters of the baptismal font behind me.
His fingers hook around the silk of my underwear, and I
shiver out an exhale as he pulls it to the side, because now
there’s nothing between me and his avid stare. I remember
 Gloria 19

our first kiss, how he begged to see my cunt, his voice hoarse
and his eyes wild—like it was the only way he’d be able to
draw his next breath. Like there was no way he could carry
on living without seeing that forbidden part of me, and I’d
never known that desire could be like that, like a force, like a
theft, stealing away everything but need.
It had been intoxicating. It’s still intoxicating, and
doubly so because I feel it too. If I don’t touch him, see him,
hear him groan for me, I think I might die. I want him to
come as badly as I want to come myself, like both things are
linked, his pleasure and mine, and release is no longer an
option but necessary. It’s air and gravity. The axis on which
our world turns.
I think he might finger me. I think he might unbuckle
his belt, free his cock and then wedge it where it belongs.
But he does neither of those things. He grabs my hips, drags
me to the edge of the font’s wall, and then bends down.
With a famished inhale, his mouth is on my sex, slick,
hot, ravenous—and sometimes Sean takes it slow in bed,
dragging my sanity along the edge while he tortures me
with that sinful mouth—but tonight he eats me like he’ll
never have another chance again. Tonight, he wastes no
time licking into my hole, finding my clit and sucking it
until my soft, broken cries are echoing throughout the sanc-
tuary. Until my head is hanging back between my shoulders
and I’m staring sightlessly up at the dark ceiling, shivering
my way through the pleasure.
“No,” he growls up at me.
I look down at him, dazed.
“Watch,” he orders again and lowers his head back to
me. And this time, I keep my eyes on him, on the hair
glinting gold from the lights of the Christmas trees, on the
flash of his hot blue eyes up to my face. I can trace the broad
20 SIERRA SIMONE

lines of his shoulders as they keep my thighs pried open, I

can see the muscles of his back moving under his shirt as he
eats my cunt. His narrow hips and firm ass are perfectly
showcased by his trousers; there is no escaping the bigness
or hardness of his body, looking at him like this. No ignoring
the strength, the size, the predatory intent written into every
line of him. All of it bent on one place between my thighs.
It’s his feet, though, that I’m captivated by. His feet, clad
in dress shoes made by a designer whose name I never
remember, moving on the marble floor as he works me
closer and closer to a mind-bending climax. Sometimes he
braces them, bending the shoes at the toes, to push against
me harder or to lick me even deeper, and sometimes those
expensive shoes slide back or sideways as he angles himself
to reach new territory, or to suck my clit in juuust the right
way to make me choke out his name.
Gleaming leather on gleaming church marble, and if
that isn’t Sean Bell and me, then I don’t know what is.
Profane and sacred.
Wicked and devout.
“I’m going to come,” I whisper, and he gives me a look
I’m very familiar with—a look that says good girl, but I’m not
done with you just yet—and then he works two of those big
fingers inside my channel. He can’t ever seem to get enough
of my wet cunt, of seeing it and touching it, and I love it, I
love having all that raw, feral obsession at my disposal.
And it seems fair, because that’s how I feel about his
body too. I can’t get enough of his firm lines and muscled
curves, of the ladder of his abs, of that line of hair leading
down to heaven. Of his perfectly sinful mouth and his even
more sinful dick. I could work myself into a sweat on that
thick cock morning til night, and still need more of it.
His fingers, warm and strong, curl inside me as he gives
 Gloria 21

me the flat of his tongue against my clit to fuck myself

against. And I do, I do fuck myself against his mouth, my
hands braced on either side of my hips, my thighs as far
apart as I can get them, my tights torn and my dress
rumpled up to my waist. I know how it must look, a picture
of corruption with me so unraveled and this older man
between my thighs, shamelessly indulging his hunger, and
maybe...maybe I love that a little. My entire life has been
playing by the rules, has been composure and expectations
and living up to what being an Iverson means—and then I
met Sean, and everything I thought I knew flew apart like a
flock of startled birds. The individual pieces were still there,
but the shape they made in my life changed. Opened.
I changed and opened.
And that is the magic of a Bell brother, I think. The
shamelessness, the filth, the need, it all comes threaded
through something so pure and beautiful that you can’t
imagine the beauty without the filth. You can’t imagine love
without torn tights and dress shoes sliding wickedly on a
church floor.
The peak comes faster than I expect, and I’m keening
Sean’s name, I’m stabbing my fingers through his hair and
curling my body over his head, trapping his mouth to my
cunt as pleasure seizes me. Up into my chest, where my
nipples are pulled taut and my breasts ache even more than
they have been lately, and down to my thighs, where the
waves of delicious release take me, and Sean’s making a low,
pleased noise against my flesh, like all he’s ever wanted is to
have his face ridden in a church.
I cry out again as the climax surges anew, shuddering
over Sean, wishing I could feel this forever, and also
knowing that it will feel even better after tomorrow. It’ll be
my husband’s wicked mouth on my pussy, my husband’s glit-
22 SIERRA SIMONE

tering eyes on my curves, and after I tell him the little secret
I’ve been saving for his wedding present…
God, who even knows how it will feel then?
I slowly uncurl from around him, and Sean lifts his head
to give me a wide grin that looks all the more dangerous for
those angelic dimples in his cheeks. His mouth is wet
enough to shine in the twinkling lights, and when he
straightens, I can see the massive erection tenting the front
of his trousers.
He reaches up with one hand and slowly loosens his tie.
His other hand stays between my legs, fingers still inside me,
like he’s worried someone is going to come take his favorite
toy away from him.
It’s maybe the most obscene thing I’ve ever seen, him
working open that tie with his fingers inside me, and I’m
breathing hard, maybe still from my climax, maybe from
this beast of a man in front of me, who looks less like a
smitten bridegroom right now than an incubus ready to
feed.
Tie undone, he slides the silk free from his neck with a
soft shhh noise. It falls to the ground.
I lift my own hands to the Peter Pan collar of my dress,
thinking I’ll undress too, but he shakes his head.
“Can’t wait,” he grunts, his free hand popping open the
top two buttons of his shirt. He finally pulls the hand
between my legs free and then presses those fingers to my
lips. “Open.”
I open and taste myself—rich, creamy—and then I
suck his fingers clean, like I know he wants. His blue eyes
are nearly black in the shadows of the church as he
watches.
“Turn around,” he says. His voice is rough. Dangerous.
Ten minutes between my legs and the wayward angel has
 Gloria 23

fallen even further into hell. “Elbows on the ledge, knees

apart. I want to see what I can fuck.”
I shiver as renewed need pours in a molten pool
between my legs, and I slide off the lip of the font to my
knees and then turn. It took me so long to convince Sean
that he could be as filthy with me as he wanted, as much
with me as he wanted, because I wanted it too. Maybe even
more than him, because I’d spent my entire life planning to
be a bride of Christ, and so my heart and body weren’t made
to accept love and hunger in any way that was less than utter
and complete.
And also it turns out I really love having sex. Like really,
really love.
So I adore it when he gets like this, even after I’ve
already chosen him, even when I have a wedding dress
hanging in a room down the hallway. Like we still have to
wring as much sweet depravity from every moment as we
possibly can.
(And just between us: I get a sick thrill from knowing I
made him like this. Slick, successful Sean Bell with all his
millions—turned mindless and feral just by looking at me.)
I arrange myself with my elbows on the ledge, my knees
apart, and my panties tucked to the side, and then he pushes
my dress back up to my waist and utters a vicious oath as he
sees the view he asked for. My hips and ass and wet cunt, all
framed by the tights he tore open to get at my pussy.
“I can’t believe anyone would expect me to wait until
tomorrow for this,” he says in a low, dark voice, and when I
look back at him, his eyes are on my backside and one hand
is unbuckling his belt. And then he’s unzipping himself and
freeing that monster of his. It’s rigid and thick and needy-
looking, with the crown so swollen that the skin is a dark,
dark red. There’s a slick of moisture shining at the tip. “I
24 SIERRA SIMONE

need it all the time, Zenny. Constantly. It claws me up from

the inside how much I need to fuck you.”
“Same,” I breathe, watching as he grips his cock in his
big fist and gives it a few punishing strokes. “I hate every
second we’re apart.”
“God, me too,” he says, but despite the agony painted all
over him as he says it, despite the naked need in his voice,
he’s never done anything less than support me totally. Even
as nurse-midwifery school eats away at my days and nights,
even when I’m still involved with planning the birthing
center, he is my constant champion and source of energy
and patience. He wants my dreams for me as much as I do—
if not even more than I do.
Sean jerks himself one last time and then presses the
blunt tip of himself to my opening. I’m so wet from being
pleasured that he has to hold his shaft to keep his aim true,
and then with a ragged grunt, he shoves himself home.
And he’s big.
So fucking big.
Something I feel like I have to re-learn every time, and
no matter how wet I am, no matter how horny, that first
thrust always takes my breath away. My head drops down
between my shoulders as I pant through it. I realize—as he
pulls out and then rams himself in again—that when I look
down, I can see my reflection in the water of the baptismal
font. I can see the way the light of the trees and candles
traces the swoop of my nose and the arcs of my cheeks. I can
see my nose ring glinting like a star, and my curls swaying as
Sean slowly gets up to speed. I can see how my lips are
parted in shocked pleasure, how my eyes are hooded like
I’ve had far too much communion wine.
“You feel so good,” Sean says, almost accusingly, like I’ve
 Gloria 25

done it on purpose, possessed the perfect pussy just to

torment him. “I can’t ever stop needing it.”
Pleasure is scalding its way through my veins, another
climax simmering in the place he’s fucking, and my eyes
droop farther closed. “I know the feeling,” I mumble. Why
can’t we just fuck forever? Just the two of us in this empty
church, wet and swollen and almost angry with each other
for how incredible it all feels?
And then something moves in what’s left of my field of
vision, and I open my eyes all the way to see Sean’s face next
to mine in the water. He’s bending over me now, bracing his
hands next to my elbows and his knees planted on the
insides of mine, pushing them farther apart. He’s covering
me, claiming me, and his face in the water is haunted with
lust as our gazes meet in the reflection.
“Pretty Zenny,” he says, voice filled with praise and
whatever praise’s hornier cousin is. “Gorgeous girl. Perfect
girl. God, you make me an animal.”
And sometimes when he’s talking like this, in the filth-
iest corner of my mind, I hear it not as Sean Bell, my secretly
squishy, not-so-secretly devoted fiancé, but as Sean Bell, my
older brother’s best friend. Sean who I had a girlish crush
on, who starred in the dirtiest daydreams I could possibly
daydream as a soon-to-be-nun. I pretend that he’s saying it
to me not as the man who’s about to marry me, but as the
man who has no business being between my legs. As the
man who shouldn’t be under his friend’s sister’s dress, but
just can’t help himself.
“I like when you’re an animal,” I whisper, still watching
that beautiful incubus face in the reflection. He is massive
inside me, big enough to stretch, but it feels so good, it feels
like not enough even. I want more and more, I want harder, I
26 SIERRA SIMONE

want to come again using that crude length inside my cunt.

“Fuck me harder, Daddy,” I exhale with a moan.
And then.
I freeze.
I hadn’t meant to say that. I’d said earlier as a joke, as a
tease, but the way it just left my mouth a second ago was
not…joking. And even though he’s never hinted at wanting a
word like that, even though we’ve never so much as watched
a porn together where someone was called that, it doesn’t
change how fucking hot it is to say out loud. Especially
when I see Sean’s face sketched in utter shock—and then
dark, depraved greed.
“Say it again,” he breathes, his eyes burning into mine
through the reflection. The water is still enough that I can
see how he licks his lips and lifts his chin. “Call me that
again, baby.”
“Daddy,” I whisper and he rewards me with a noise torn
right out of his gut.
“Again,” he commands.
“Daddy,” I say and then his hips pull back and then he
gives me a rough, hard churn.
“You like that word?” he says, his voice matching his
lewd movements, his primal, brutal expression. “You like
saying that word to me?”
“Ye-e-es,” I say, the single syllable broken into several
sounds by his unrelenting thrusts. I push back into him,
meeting him thrust for thrust, needing it hard enough to
feel tomorrow under my wedding dress. “Harder, Daddy.”
“Shit,” he curses and curls his hands around the lip of
the font. To give him more leverage, I realize. To give him
more leverage to rifle that thick thing into me. And the first
time he does it, uses his upper body strength to plunge into
 Gloria 27

me, sparks fly across my vision and settle somewhere deep

in my cunt. The second time, I gasp.
By the third time, I’m over the edge and spasming in
pleasure, urgent pulses clenching my core. I’m squeezing
around him like he’s the very center of my soul, and my
body wants to hold onto him with everything it has.
“That’s it, baby,” he grunts. “Come for Daddy.”
I’m whimpering—his name, God’s name, nonsense
words—because it’s the kind of orgasm that cries for more
and more, and I’m still trying to fuck myself on him too, still
keening, and I feel a hand slide up my back and then wait
patiently at the nape of my neck.
I desperately nod my permission at his reflection. He
spears his hand into my curls and cinches them in his fist,
guiding me upright so that my back is to his chest and my
head is pulled slightly to the side so he can lick and nibble
relentlessly at my neck. It’s aggressive enough to be hot, but
deliberate enough that it doesn’t actually hurt.
“Want to feel your tits,” my fiancé grunts, his free hand
sliding up to fondle me. They’re tender enough that I shud-
der, just enough pain to give the pleasure a bite, and then he
makes another helpless noise. Even when he’s literally
fucking the breath from my lungs, my breasts are still his
Kryptonite. “God, they’re so perfect. I want to suck on them
all the time. Fuck.”
“My clit,” I beg. “Touch my clit.”
“You want to come again, little nun? Two times not good
enough? Don’t worry, it’s not enough for me either.” But
instead of moving his hand between my legs, he finds my
own hand and guides it there, pressing my fingers right to
my clit. “Right there, baby. All you have to do is rub. Rub
for me.”
28 SIERRA SIMONE

I melt into my own touch, low rolls of pleasure flooding

my already-sensitive body, my swollen clit barely needing
anything to start revving up for another climax. He finds my tit
again, squeezing and groping, and his long, thick pumps give
me no quarter, no respite. Between his nipping mouth at my
neck and his hand possessively pulling my hair—between my
fingers on my clit and his big cock stroking the most hidden
parts of my body—I’m lost. I come for a third time, and this
time he comes with me, letting loose with something like a
roar as the hand around my breast tightens and he pounds
into me so deep and so hard that I can barely breathe, that I’m
dizzy, and that dizziness sends my climax soaring even higher,
launching me into a place where I’m nothing but scattered,
searing bliss in the shape of a woman named Zenny Iverson.
He fucks me through his orgasm, his seed slicking the
way for him to go faster and deeper, and it’s hot and messy
and hard, and I feel like every stroke is pushing me closer to
heaven, closer to eternity, and he’s holding me so tight, so
close, his breathing harsh in my ear as he drains himself
inside my body, venting all of our lust and need and greed at
last.
And then there’s only the wind and snow against the
stained glass.
I slump back against him, trembling, dazed, faint. He
lets go of my hair to wrap his arms around me and bury his
face in my neck. One hand, however, still stays possessively
clamped around my breast.
“You’re amazing and perfect,” Sean mumbles into my
skin. He’s still inside me, and when I giggle a little, he
groans as my pussy flutters around him. I do it again, just to
hear that noise.
“Go easy on me,” he says weakly. “I’m an old man.”
I squirm in his lap and smile when I feel his cock jerk to
 Gloria 29

life inside me.

“Baby,” he says hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop me, and I
keep squirming until he’s fully hard again. With a groan, he
wraps me up tight and stands—I’ll never not get a thrill out
of feeling all that strength of his—and carries me to a pew,
where he sits down and arranges me on his lap, penetrating
my wet cunt anew with a hungry hiss.
We’re facing each other now, my arms looped around his
neck, his hands big and warm on my waist. His trousers are
still around the tops of his thighs, the ends of his belt
pressing into my ass, and it feels so good, that hint of
discomfort every time I rock against him, working that erec-
tion against my needy spots inside.
“You don’t have to use that word if you don’t want to,” he
says breathlessly as he looks up at me. “You don’t have to do
anything if you don’t want to do.”
I’m sex-drunk enough that it takes me a moment to
understand what he’s saying. “You mean Daddy?” I ask,
grinding in his lap. I twist my fingers into the hair at the
nape of his neck and pull. His eyes shine as he looks at me
through hooded eyes. “That word?”
“Yes,” he says. His voice is still hoarse. “Daddy.”
“But I like saying it,” I say, twisting again in his lap. “It’s
dirty. And it fits you.”
His eyes close as my fingers continue to play in his hair.
His shirt clings to the broad muscles of his chest and the
tight corrugations of his abs, and I just want to lick him up,
all of him. And the way he looks at me when he opens his
eyes…like I’m the only person who exists. The only person
who’s ever existed.
“I’ll be a Daddy whenever you want,” he says, his hands
slipping down to find my ass and urge me along. “Whenever
you need.”
30 SIERRA SIMONE

I almost tell him then. Almost spill the secret I’ve been
keeping for a whole week, but I don’t. Instead, I lean
forward and slant my mouth over his, which he accepts
eagerly, licking into my mouth with hot flicks of his tongue
until I’m moaning.
“I want to feel you come again,” he says against my lips.
“One more, baby. Give me one more.”
I’m too sensitive, too wrung out, but it simply doesn’t
matter right now. Not with Sean Bell underneath me, his
throat working in barely restrained delirium, his heavy
inches buried between my legs. Not knowing that tomorrow
he’ll be mine forever and I’ll be his, sealed to each other’s
hearts for the rest of our lives.
“That’s it,” Sean whispers as I find just the right angle, as
I start moving faster and harder, chasing the climax. “Use
me, baby. Use me to make that sweet cunt feel good.”
That’s all it takes and then I’m over the edge again, my
exhales hitching like sobs because so much pleasure can be
so fucking agonizing to feel. He presses up into me with a
grunt, his jaw tight and his stomach flexing under his shirt
as he empties himself once more. His eyes never leave mine
as his cock swells and pulses and swells and pulses, and I
feel like I’m falling into those blue depths for the first time
all over again.
They tell us girls to watch out for wicked men, but they
don’t tell us what to do when those wicked men are secretly
perfect and hopelessly obsessed with us.
They don’t tell us what to do when it turns out that we’re
just as wicked too.
Both of us slowly unwind and go still, and then Sean
tucks me against his chest, his hands moving in slow,
possessive passes on my back. “I think I like this new tradi-
tion,” he says, kissing my temple.
 Gloria 31

I T ’ S hard to do sex cleanup in a church, but we do our best

in the bathrooms and I give my valiant tights a paper towel
burial in the bathroom trash can. When I emerge, I see a
light glowing from the hallway and hear Sean’s deep voice
calling out to me.
I find him in the room the church uses for donations,
standing over a big lump of blankets and coats on the floor.
He gives me a proud, dimpled beam.
“I made us a bed,” he declares, like he’s just hunted a
giant animal and dragged it to our doorstep to provide for
me. “Behold!”
“It’s a great bed,” I say, coming to sit on it.
“And look what I found in the scarf pile!” He hands me a
silk scarf, and I smile up at him as I take it and wrap up my
hair.
Our makeshift bed is a little lumpy and there’s no getting
around that it’s a pile of coats and blankets on a floor, but it’s
squishy enough to be comfortable, and after Sean kicks off
the light, crawls next to me, and pulls me into his arms, it’s
very warm.
I listen to his heart drum steadily in his chest as he
strokes my arm. “I’ve set my alarm for a few hours from
now,” he says quietly. “If the roads aren’t better by then, then
we’ll need to talk about our plans.”
He says it gently, regretfully. And I know I should be
more upset that our family might not make it from the hotel
to the church, that our priest might not make it to the
church, that there’s an entire reception’s worth of food that
will go uneaten if no one can even make it to the venue.
But right now, I’m mostly just upset about my stupid
veil.
32 SIERRA SIMONE

But.
But.
“I don’t want to postpone it,” I say abruptly. “I don’t want
to wait.”
I mentally say goodbye to the veil, mentally drape it into
its box and put it away. The veil is only a symbol; the real
thing has its arms around me and its confident, powerful
heart beating warmly under my ear. I don’t need the veil,
because I only need him.
“Are you sure?” Sean asks carefully. “It’s not impossible
to figure out.”
“I’m sure,” I say. The week after Christmas is hardly the
most obvious time to have a wedding, but it was the earliest
we could get married with the required pre-martial counsel-
ing, and we didn’t want to wait a single day longer than we
had to. And I still don’t want to wait.
“I want to be married tomorrow, come hell or high water.
Or high snow, I guess. I want our lives together to start, and I
—” I think about how I want to say this. “I think I’m made
for vows. Something about choosing, about speaking my
choice aloud to God and in front of the people who care for
me…it’s important. It’s the only way I can imagine living. Is
that strange?”
There’s some light spilling in from the door, but it’s the
faint golden light from the sanctuary filtering though the
narthex, and so I can barely see Sean’s face when I look up
at him.
But what I can see is pure, raw love.
Rough and tender, just like him.
“No, Zenny-bug,” he says in a soft voice. “That’s not
strange at all.”
 3

Sean

T HE DOORS BURST OPEN IN A WHIRL OF SNOW AND WIND ,

letting in faint daylight, a powdery spill of snow, and three
red-cheeked Bell brothers.
I’m pacing in the lobby, tuxedo on, bow tie tied, looking
at my watch.
“It’s about time,” I grumble as they stomp the snow off
their shoes and start shucking their coats. The snow has
slowed down—a softly sifted glitter now, rather than
massive, pillowy flakes—but they’re covered in the stuff.
“Poppy, Dad, Elijah, and Zenny’s parents got here from the
hotel an hour ago! What have you been doing?”
“Excuse me,” Aiden says. “Are you complaining about
our arrival right now? Our arrival in the midst of a historic
snowstorm?”
“Your arrival is fifteen minutes before my wedding is
supposed to start,” I growl. “And you still have to change
into your tuxes.”
“I can’t believe we hitched a ride on a snowplow for
34 SIERRA SIMONE

this,” Aiden complains as Tyler takes him by the upper arm

and drags him back to the groom’s room. I stalk behind
them to supervise the process. I trust Tyler to wrangle the
other Bells, but he’s got to get dressed too. Plus when I walk
into the room and see Elijah already in his tux, looking crisp
and handsome, I know I’m going to have to keep Aiden’s
focus tightly corralled. As it is, Aiden’s already strolling up
to his boyfriend with an interested smile on his face like
they didn’t just spend the night together, presumably naked
and sweaty.
Which I get, I really do. But this morning is not the time
for flirting!!! Not when I’m about to have the most important
day of my life!
Somehow we all dress—and then Tyler, Aiden, and I
have an oh shit moment when we look at Ryan in a tuxedo
and realize he’s definitely not a kid anymore—and then we
gather in the lobby, which Tyler reminds me is a called a
narthex because us Catholics can’t have normal words for
anything, and wait for our signal. There’s no pianist here,
not even a deacon, and so our only cue is a nod from Father
Jordan, who showed up this morning looking fresh and
unbothered by the snow, without so much as a single flake
in his dark gold hair.
And then we’re down the aisle, we’re waiting in front of
the altar, and it abruptly doesn’t matter that there’s only one
bridesmaid, that there’s no music, and no guests other than
our parents and siblings.
Everyone we need is here, and the wind and crackle of
the waning storm outside should sound cold and lonely, but
as it all echoes through the sanctuary, it sounds like some-
thing altogether different. Like the whisper of God himself,
like soft, sacred murmurs for my and Zenny’s ears only.
I think of Lizzy, my sister, whom I couldn’t save and
 Gloria 35

whom I still miss after all these years, who would have been
giving me shit all morning for being so hopelessly
bewitched by my bride.
I think of Mom, who would be crying in the front row
next to the Honorable Letitia Iverson right now. Who would
have straightened my bow tie before I walked down the
aisle, who would have kissed my cheek and pretended she
didn’t notice how shiny my eyes were.
And then the doors to the narthex open again, and who
isn’t here this morning slowly melts out of my mind, and
there’s only who is here.
My lips are buzzing, my hands are shaking. My heart
feels like it’s pumping pure light though my body instead of
blood.
And then she steps inside the sanctuary. My Zenny, my
bride.
And her dress is…well, it’s some kind of magic.
Sparkling, sparkling, a silky, dreamy off-white gown
with sheer sleeves and a full, filmy skirt, all of it shimmering
with tiny gems. They wink on her deep umber arms and
around her gleaming collarbone, they move in her skirt as
she walks, making her glitter like the snow under the sun.
She’s carrying a bouquet I made her this morning before
she woke up, paper flowers that are indeed made of parish
newsletters—and that don’t look half bad (thanks,
YouTube). Father Jordan had donated several of the poinset-
tias arranged around the altar to the cause, and so big red
blooms are mixed into her bouquet, which is tied off with
matching red yarn I found in the Sunday School room.
Her face is radiant, clear, smiling. I know she was
nervous because she didn’t have any makeup here, but she’s
more beautiful to me in lip balm than any other person in
hours of makeup. Her gorgeous eyes are wide and bright,
36 SIERRA SIMONE

her lush mouth is curved into a heart-stopping smile, and

she is glowing.
She doesn’t have her veil, and maybe God wanted it that
way, because veiling all this luminous, resplendent beauty
would be a sin. A denial of God’s creation. She’s meant to be
seen, she’s meant to awe.
She’s meant to bring me to my knees.
My bride’s hand is tucked into her father’s arm, and
when they get to the front of the altar, I see that his eyes are
wet and his chin is dimpled ever so slightly. When he kisses
her cheek and then puts her hand in mine, he gives me a
small nod, and I know what he’s saying. He’s saying no one
will ever be good enough for her, but I’m trusting you to try.
I nod back, because he’s right, I’ll never be good enough
for Zenobia Iverson, but goddammit if I won’t spend the rest
of my life trying to be.
Zenny’s hand is slender and warm in mine, and when
our eyes meet, it’s like that first night at the gala all over
again. Those molten copper eyes with their doll lashes,
blinking up at me with something between innocence and
hunger. That feeling of fate strung between us. That sense
that I’m exactly where I need to be.
With her.
Giving her every bit of the world that I can.
I’m not even totally sure what happens next. It’s a full
mass, I know that, and it’s strangely intimate, just a handful
of us in the snow without the usual music or the rehearsed
pomp that’s such a feature of Catholic ceremonies.
For music, there is only Father Jordan’s voice, stagger-
ingly beautiful as it lilts up to the high ceiling of the sanctu-
ary. For responses, there is only the familiar voices of the
people closest to us in the entire world.
Tyler reads something. So does Dr. Iverson. Our vows
 Gloria 37

are echoed by the snow singing against the stained glass. We

kneel. I eat a wafer, I taste wine.
Everything feels like a dream with Zenny next to me, her
presence incandescent, like a star set in the night sky.
And at the very end, when it’s time for our kiss, I turn to
the angel in front of me and my entire body is shaking. I
think I’m crying. Actually, I know I’m crying, and I also
know that Aiden and Ryan will never let me live it down, but
fuck it. Let them torture me about it, because their time will
come one day, and I will laugh long and hard.
I look at this perfect girl, this girl I stole from God, and I
think of the other life she could have had. The one where I
wasn’t selfish, the one where I didn’t show up at her
monastery and claim her in the very dress she was meant to
be sworn to God in. She would have a veil in that life, a
permanent one, even if she didn’t wear it every day. A veil
and a vocation, and maybe the blizzard took the first from
her today, but I took the second long before now.
The hell of it is that I can’t even feel sorry that I did. I’ll
spend every hour of every day making it up to her, but
knowing that she chose me, a life together, is the best gift
I’ve ever been given.
Salvation in the form of a nursing student with a dream
for helping her city.
And what sinner doesn’t grab at salvation with both
hands?
I ache for her lack of veil though, and instead of
reaching for her waist or neck to kiss her, I lift my hands to
the empty air below her chest. I carefully pinch the air with
my fingers and then raise the invisible veil up and over her
head and settle it at her back, taking as much time as I
would to lift a real veil and then make sure it was smooth
and hanging straight behind her.
38 SIERRA SIMONE

A single tear slips down her cheek, and I brush it away

with gentle fingers before I lower my mouth to hers and
finally kiss my wife.
I can’t kiss her the way I want in front of her parents, but
I give her a little taste anyway, parting her lips and rubbing
her tongue with mine until I hear the little catch of breath
that tells me her pretty nipples will be all furled and hard
under her dress.
I pull away with an evil smile, and she shakes her head
at me.
“May I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Bell,” Father Jordan
says, and the sound of clapping and cheers and whistles fills
the church. There might only be ten people in this space,
but three Bell brothers make a lot of noise when they put
their minds to it, and then as we start walking down the
aisle, sound plays from the speakers.
“I found some music!” Aiden yells from somewhere, but
it’s not normal church music, it’s Christmas music.
It’s “Angels We Have Heard on High,” the one with the
Latin chorus, and Zenny laughs as I give a short, irritated
exhale through my nose. I hate Christmas music after
Christmas. It’s like leaving a used condom on after sex. Or
eating cold French fries. It shouldn’t be done.
“Is there a problem with our exit music, Mr. Bell?” she
murmurs.
I look back at the rest of our family, not seeing my
annoying brother. I’m going to have some words with him
later. “There’s a problem with Aiden. And that’s Daddy Bell
to you, by the way.”
“Yes,” she says warmly, as we get to the doors to the
lobby. “It is Daddy Bell to me. And…to this little one here.”
And then she takes my hand and presses it to her belly.
There’s tulle and gems and silk, and underneath all that
 Gloria 39

is the taut stretch of her stomach, and I stop walking and

stare at her and then stare down at where she’s pressing my
hand against her. Our brand-new wedding rings wink
together in the light.
“Really?” I ask. Hoarsely. She went off birth control two
months ago, because she wanted to give her body a year or
two to adjust before we intentionally tried for a baby, but
we’ve been rhythm method-ing like good Catholics since
then.
And I guess also like good Catholics, we’ve just failed at
rhythm-methoding.
She smiles, looking like an angel. “Yes,” she says. “Really.
I just found out this week.”
I think I might float off the ground. She’s too young, she’s
not done with school, but oh my God, I’m floating. I love her
so much and this baby so much already and I just want to
give them everything, the entire world, and who cares if it’s
too soon, too early? It’s the perfect time, because any time
with her is the perfect time. Because she is perfect.
Gloria, goes the song still playing in the sanctuary, in
excelsis Deo.
Glory be to God on high.
And suddenly I don’t mind the too-late Christmas
music, the snowstorm, the thwarted wedding. Suddenly all
of it feels like destiny; suddenly it all feels glorious.
I kiss her, even though we’re supposed to be done with
the kissing (at least in front of her parents) and keep my
hand pressed tight to her belly, to where our family is begin-
ning to grow.
And as another refrain echoes through the church
—gloria, gloria—Zenny smiles against my mouth.
“You’re crying again,” she whispers.
“I’m so happy that it hurts,” I admit, pulling away
40 SIERRA SIMONE

enough to look into her eyes. “And I’m so in love with you
that it might kill me.”
“Well, we can’t have that,” she says and gives me a
mischievous smile. “I have plans for Daddy Bell tonight.”
And that—plus the promise of all the nights for the rest
of our lives, the sexy nights, the sleepless, newborn-rocking
nights, the nights when we are old and gray and the nights
when we do nothing but touch and breathe and exist
together—sounds more than wonderful.
It sounds glorious.

Want More of Those Filthy Bell Boys?

Get Aiden and Elijah’s Story Now!

Saint is set five years after Sinner, and it’s a dirty second-
chance romance with a monk, his ex-boyfriend, and a
Sierra-sized helping of the forbidden . . .
 Gloria 41

Some facts about Saint:

it stars Father Bell's younger brother Aiden Bell

(who's now a monk instead of a millionaire)
42 SIERRA SIMONE

M/M
second chance romance
deep conversations about what it means to live a
holy life
Also deep conversations about Flamin' Hot
Cheetos
Sierra gets creative with altars (again)
are crucifixes kind of sexy???? (asking for a
friend.)

Saint is available everywhere now!

I can’t have Elijah Iverson.

I can’t have him because he’s my older brother’s best friend.

I can’t have him because I broke his heart five years ago;
because he’s now engaged to someone else—someone kind
and dependable who deserves his whiskey eyes, his soft
mouth, his fierce intellect.

I can’t have Elijah because I’ve chosen God instead.

The Bell brothers, though . . . well, we don't exactly have the

greatest track record with vows. But I’m determined to do
this monk thing right—to pledge myself to a cloistered life
and spend the rest of my years in chastity and prayer. But
now Elijah’s here. He’s here and he’s coming with me on my
European monastery road trip, and between the whispered
confessions and the stolen kisses and the moments bent
over an ancient altar, my vows are feeling flimsier by
the day.
 Gloria 43

And vows or not, I know in my heart that it would take more

than a good and holy monk to resist Elijah Iverson right
now. It would take a saint.

And we all know that I’m no saint.

(This is the third full-length standalone in the Priest

Collection, featuring Father Bell's brother, Aiden Bell.
You do not have to read Priest or Sinner to read Saint.)

Meet Brother Bell Here!

 ALSO BY SIERRA SIMONE

Co-Written with Julie Murphy:

A Merry Little Meet Cute
Snow Place Like LA: A Christmas in July Novella
A Holly Jolly Ever After

The Lyonesse Trilogy:

Salt Kiss
Honey Cut (Coming early 2024!)
Lyonesse #3

Standalones:
Red & White: an FFM winter story — FREE!
Supplicant: an age gap novella
Sanguine: an MM vampire story
Sherwood: an FFM novella
My Present This Year: a forbidden Christmas story - FREE!

The Priest Series:

Priest
Midnight Mass: A Priest Novella
Sinner
Saint

Thornchapel:
A Lesson in Thorns
 Feast of Sparks
Harvest of Sighs
Door of Bruises

Misadventures:
Misadventures with a Professor
Misadventures of a Curvy Girl
Misadventures in Blue

The New Camelot Trilogy:

American Queen
American Prince
American King
The Moon (Merlin’s Novella)
American Squire (A Thornchapel and New Camelot Crossover)

High Spice Historicals:

The Markham Hall Series
The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
The Education of Ivy Leavold
The Punishment of Ivy Leavold

The London Lovers

The Seduction of Molly O’Flaherty
The Wedding of Molly O’Flaherty

Far Hope Stories

The Chasing of Eleanor Vane

Co-Written with Laurelin Paige

Porn Star
Hot Cop
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sierra Simone is a USA Today bestselling former librarian

who spent too much time reading romance novels at the
information desk. She lives with her husband and family in
Kansas City.

Sign up for her newsletter to be notified of releases, books

going on sale, events, and other news!

www.thesierrasimone.com
thesierrasimone@gmail.com