Into Temptation: The Sinful Duet, #1

By Skyla Madi

I'm not a good Catholic girl.

 

A good Catholic girl would never use church on Sunday to lust over the Father's son.

 

A good Catholic girl would never pulse between her thighs and lose her breath over the boy who recites the closing prayer - even if his voice is low and sinful enough to make her toes curl in her shoes.

 

A good Catholic girl would never allow herself to be led into temptation by dirty, blond hair and dark eyes...

 

And a good Catholic girl would never use Bible study as an excuse to be used and abused.

 

But, like I said, I'm not a good Catholic girl...

And he's FAR from a good Catholic boy.

 

Caleb Andrews is everything I don't need, but he's everything I want...

 

God help me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skyla Madi
• Release date: Jan 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201252465

Skyla Madi

Skyla Madi is an internation bestselling novelist of a moxed bag of romance who lives in sunny Queensland, Australia. She spends most of her time indoors, writing with one hand and raising her three youn children with the other.  Skyla lovs to hear from readers and encourages messages on her website, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Goodreads.  All business related inquiries can be sent via email to [e-mail]

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The Slammed Series...

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The Unfortunate Trilogy...

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The Fortunates

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The Sinful Duet...

Into Temptation

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Standalones...

Beautiful Assassin

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Stream the playlist on Spotify HERE

"There are darknesses in life and there are lights,

and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights."

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― Bram Stoker, Dracula

Chapter One

C A S S I A

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My body hums as bolts of heavy, electric currents vibrate under my skin. I exhale, long and hard, but my chest doesn’t feel any lighter.

I’m a good Catholic girl.

I swallow hard, hyper-aware of a small bead of sweat as it rolls between my breasts.

I’m a good Catholic girl.

I think the sentence, over and over, desperately willing it to come true, but my impure thoughts are still there. They’re always there, plaguing me every Sunday. Taunting me. Tormenting me. 

His long, thick fingers twitch against the knee of his black slacks and I shiver, clenching my thighs together as my core pulsates.

This is not happening. Not in church on Sunday.

I fan my face with the service program we were given when we entered, and I close my eyes. My nerves are frazzled. I can barely contain them as flashes, hot enough to burn Satan himself, tear down my spine, making me ache all over.

Swallowing again, I open my eyes, and my stare zeros in on his large hands, on the crimson rosary beads he drapes between his long fingers. Seemingly in sync with every painful thrum of my pulse, he strokes the beads with his thumb, fueling the flames that threaten to consume me. To have me so captivated by his fingers alone is a testament to the rest of his physique. I flick my stare higher and a thrilling shiver zips down my spine as I helplessly drink him in. He’s mesmerizing and perfect, in a troubled kind of way...with his smooth skin, pink, kissable lips, and beautiful, dark green eyes. His hair, blond and unkempt, brushes over his forehead and my fingers twitch with the urge to rake my fingers through it.

Over the rapid thump of my heart, Father Andrews preaches about sin and forgiveness in a deep tenor, full of warning and disdain. He warns us about falling into the clutches of temptation, of evil. And here I sit, obsessing over it. 

Drowning in it.

Drowning in lust and depravity.

Because of his son. 

Beside me, my mother whispers a quiet amen and behind her, my Puerto Rican neighbor, Mrs. Clay, mutters her thanks to Jesus. Guilt punches me in the gut. They’re good Catholic women. They’re what I should strive to be, but I can’t. Not when all I can think about is the Father’s son fucking me six ways from Sunday.

On the altar.

Bent over the pew.

In the confessional box.

Against the plated gold statue of Our Lord and Savior—who grips his own rosary beads. 

I part my lips and let out a shaky breath. What decent human being has thoughts like this at Sunday Mass? I sink lower, careful not to let my pleated monochrome skirt slip too far up my thighs. 

I glance at the Father’s son’s strong hands, then his thick forearms. A light covering of blond hair spreads from his wrist to his elbows where it disappears underneath the cloth of his gray button-up shirt. I follow the crinkles and folds of fabric as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The top button of his shirt is open. What I wouldn’t give to graze my lips over the smooth flesh there...

My throat runs dry as he swallows and his Adam’s apple bobs.

Caleb.

That’s his name. Seeing Caleb smirk as his father introduced him to a gathering of churchgoers was all it took to consume me. Lust washed over me, filling me with an overwhelming desire to put his cock in my mouth. My breath hitches. I can imagine it now...

Clean.

Hard.

Pulsating.

I groan under my breath and shut my eyes for the second time.

I’m a good Catholic girl.

They say God sees our true intent. They say he sees through our words and directly into our hearts. If that’s true, God knows I’m not a good Catholic girl. He knows I never have been.

Opening my eyes, I look harder at Caleb. Though he embodies everything a good Catholic man should, there’s something dark about him. It’s in his aura, in the predatory way he glances around the room, like a big, bad wolf, hiding in plain sight.

Watching.

Waiting.

Something tells me Caleb’s presence under this roof is a slap in God’s face. Maybe, he’s not a good Catholic boy, like I’m not a good Catholic girl. My heart thunders in my chest at the thought. 

Caleb lifts his spectacular body out of his chair and crosses the varnished floor to his father. Has it been an hour already?

With an indifferent expression, he flicks through the pages of the book in front of him and I eagerly await my favorite part of Sunday Mass to begin; Caleb’s recital of the closing prayer.

When he finds his spot, he grips each side of the tall, oak podium and opens his mouth. The rest of us lower our heads and stare at our laps. I barely last a second before I tilt my head high enough to peer at him through my long, blonde, and wavy locks.

Our Father, he begins, his tongue twisting expertly around the sacred words, his voice sinfully dark.

If the devil played an instrument to incite desire in young women like me, it was in the form of Caleb’s voice. It’s rough, deep, and perfect, sending delightful tremors dancing along my spine. 

...against us. He lifts his daring, green eyes from the prayer typed before him, and my heart just about leaps out of my throat.

I’m breathless.

My lungs burn.

Something sinister flashes in the deep depths of his eyes and I’m the only one who sees it. A wolf among sheep. That’s what he is.

And guide us not into temptation, he states, the corner of his lips twitching.

But deliver us from evil, everyone in the room mutters.

Amen, he says,

Amen, we repeat, ending this week’s Mass. 

Caleb’s so enchanting time and space fall away and, before you know it, it’s over until next week. I clench my teeth against the urge to pout. Disappointment stirs deep in my stomach as Caleb steps aside and Father Andrews addresses the masses. Once again, his voice is background noise as I drink in Caleb’s tall, broad, manly physique. He looks friendly enough, but in the time I’ve sat here, watching him, I’ve noticed he hasn’t produced a genuine smile. 

Not once. 

Instead, he smirks, like he knows something no one else in the room does. 

The bench beneath me vibrates as people stand, and lively chatter fills the room. I move to my feet just as Mrs. Clay rounds the bench and engages my mother in conversation. I roll my eyes. It’s not like Mrs. Clay didn’t stop my father in the driveway to talk before we left our home this morning. 

While Mom and Dad chat to her about this morning’s service, I watch Caleb and the Father as a small family approaches them. With grace, they both extend their hands and welcome the family to their church.

Caleb drags his deceiving, green gaze all over the family’s eldest daughter, and my stomach coils. She stares back at him, standing less than three feet away. I envy her. I want to be close enough to feel his stare burn holes in my skin, to breathe him in.

Caleb drops his intrigued stare from her chocolate-colored hair, and classically pretty face, to her long, exposed legs. Though jean shorts wouldn’t be my first Sunday Mass choice, they blend nicely with her bright, yellow tee. 

Seemingly enthralled by the words of Father Andrews, her parents are clueless to the looks his son gives their daughter. 

But she isn’t. 

Her once still chest rises and falls rapidly. She clenches her fists at her sides and parts her pink lips. Now I really envy her. I envy her so much I might even hate her.

I want to flail my arms and draw Caleb’s attention, but I remain perfectly still as the courage to do so evades me. What good would it do, anyway? Caleb doesn’t see anyone else. He has his eyes on the prize and there’s no mistaking his motives. He wants to fuck her. 

I should be appalled he’s chosen such a sacred place to hunt naïve girls, but I’m not. I’m thrilled. It stirs a mass of tingles between my thighs and makes me feel...hopeful. 

My parents always tell me a good Catholic girl should want a good Catholic boy, but I’m not a good Catholic girl and he’s clearly not a good Catholic boy. Does that change the rules? Does that make it okay for me to want him as badly as I do?

Caleb cuts in on his father as he gestures around the church. The girl’s parents give happy nods and Caleb politely extends his elbow to the girl, portraying the perfect gentleman in her father’s eyes. She slips her slender fingers around his clothed elbow and, for the first time this morning, a smile manifests on his strikingly handsome face. Granted, it’s wolfish and predatory, but at least it’s something.

He leads her away from her parents and down the aisle to the back of the church. With a glance over his shoulder, Caleb opens the door and guides his new friend through it, closing it softly behind him. A sneaky, dense feeling of jealousy clenches my muscles and refuses to loosen.

I hate her.

Cassia? My father calls as he peers around my mother, drawing my attention.

I’m sorry, what?

He arches a thick, dark eyebrow. Are you ready to go?

Nodding, I inhale through my nose and blow it out of my cheeks. Yeah. I’m ready.

Dad pulls his crisp, black suit jacket around his protruding belly and turns away from me. In my gut, guilt manifests. I shouldn’t have these thoughts about Caleb. Haven’t I learned by now?

My parents moved states and switched churches because of my promiscuous behavior. After the events that unfolded almost a year ago, I promised them I’d make an effort to be the good Catholic girl they wanted. I cringe, thinking back to that humiliating Sunday. I won’t say what I did was wrong, but it was...nontraditional. 

There was a boy—a good Catholic boy—named Thomas. We’d been friends for as long as I could remember and, when we were fifteen, we made a silly sex pact. It was simple. If neither of us lost our virginity by the age of eighteen, we’d take each other’s. The only rule was to have sex once and once only...

We obliterated the rule after the first time.

Though Thomas and I weren’t romantically connected, having sex was liberating. It was fun, thrilling, and harmless, so we kept at it. For months, no one knew what we were doing. As good Catholic children, they trusted us. We’d never given them a reason not to...

...until one God-awful Sunday morning.

Like usual, Thomas and I snuck out the back door of our small church in North Dakota and hid upstairs in the youth Prayer Room. We engaged in the same old song and dance—kissing, touching, caressing, oral sex. 

As my luck would have it, my parents decided to leave Mass early because Mom wasn’t feeling well. When they found me, I was mid-climax with Thomas’s face between my legs. If that doesn’t traumatize your parents into confiscating your phone, smashing your laptop, and moving states, I don’t know what will.

I’d never seen my parents so disappointed, so disgusted, by me and they’ve treated me like a child ever since. I’ve been working like mad to get them to trust me again, to stop looking at me with such revulsion. It’s taken me a while, but I feel like they’re coming around. I can’t let my attraction for Caleb ruin that. Not now. If they find out how bad I want him to strip me naked and plow me like it’s our last hour on Earth, our next move will be to the North Pole...

...and I don’t do cold.

Chapter Two

C A L E B

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I quiver, letting my head fall back.

Her mouth.

Her smooth, wet mouth accommodates as much of my length as it can and it feels great. No. It feels better than great. It feels bad. I like feeling bad, especially after spending an hour of my life pretending to be good, pretending to be something I’m not just to keep my father happy.

Screw being good.

Screw all the rules.

You give your life trying to be a decent human being and for what? It doesn’t matter. Karma is vindictive. Selective. She messes with whoever she wants, whenever she feels like it. Karma doesn’t care if a bully steals your lunch money. In my experience, she stands on the sidelines, smiling like the bitch she is while you watch some asshole enjoy the salad roll you paid for. Karma has never helped me, God has never comforted me, and being good has never benefited me.

I flex my hips and her throat tightens, squeezing the head of my cock as she gags. I do it again, unable to bite back a grin when her throat reacts the same way. I want more. I want harder.

Faster.

Wetter.

Natalie knew what I wanted before we even entered my father’s office. She claimed she didn’t do this often, and it was a lie, of course. The way she expertly worked her hands into my slacks, all while keeping her eyes on mine. The way she smoothed her palms down my shaft and gripped the base as she lowered herself to her knees and teased the tip with her tongue. I’ve received enough head, across the entire experience spectrum, to know those aren’t newbie moves.

Natalie has sucked a lot of cock.

Whether she means she hasn’t sucked a lot of cocks that belong to a Father’s son, I don’t know, but she’s done this before. The lack of teeth is a dead giveaway. Team that with the skillful flick of her tongue against my head, and the enthusiastic twirling of her hand around my shaft, you have yourself a seasoned professional. I’m not complaining. I’d take a smooth, delightful blow job over a tooth-filled nightmare any day.

I run my fingers through her brunette hair and grip the smooth strands between my fingers. I don’t usually go for brunettes, blondes are more my thing, but it’s been a while and her legs are killing me in those tiny jean shorts.

I squeeze her hair in my closed fist to let her know I’m going to finish this my way. I like to draw out the sensations of a blow job as much as the next guy, but time isn’t a luxury I have on a Sunday morning, not in my father’s office.

I lean back, bracing myself against the large, oak desk. Gritting my teeth, I pull her off me with a ‘pop’ and smirk as she gasps for air, saliva dripping from her lips. Natalie’s glistening green irises catch mine for a brief moment and I savor the flare in her eyes. Then, something deep down in my core aches. Not for Natalie, but for something. Disappointment, maybe? Longing? I’ve been out of touch with my emotions for so long I can’t remember what any of them feel like. All I know is, it’s the same strange feeling that accompanies every sexual encounter I’ve had. It’s not excitement or arousal—though those are present too. It’s a fleeting emotion I can’t decipher. It feels like...

...like something’s missing?

Could be guilt. Could also be hunger. Whatever it is, it doesn’t last long. It quickly drowns in my dark veins, replaced by wickedness.

I glance at the door. The thought of someone catching me in the act fills me with a high I can’t get anywhere else. I love the feeling, the thrill of it all. It’s one of two times I’m not completely dead inside.

Caleb?

I blink until Natalie’s face sharpens. Did I zone out? I’m gripping her head in my hands, holding it firmly in place, barely an inch or two from the head of my dick.

What?

My hair, she hisses, the skin around her eyes crinkling in pain. It’s attached to my scalp.

I take in the whitening pressure around my knuckles, then ease up. Natalie exhales, then quirks a manicured brow at me. I fucking hate it. That look, the one people give you when they think you’re crazy, doesn’t sit well with me. I’m not crazy.

I tilt my hips forward, and she groans as the very tip of my dick brushes her lower lip, pre-cum glistening in my wake. Humming, I slide my fingers deeper into her hair and pull her head back until she opens her mouth for me. I contemplate slamming myself into her throat, but she’s wearing a fair amount of mascara. Hitting her throat will make her gag and her eyes water. I can’t have that. To regular Mass-goers, I’m an angel. I don’t make girls cry by choking them on my cock.

I bite back a grin that threatens to twist my lips. I like hiding my horns underneath a makeshift halo. I should feel bad, but I don’t. In this Catholic society, I’m not the only one with a dark side.

I remove my hands from her hair and grip the edge of the desk, letting her take charge of my pleasure for a little while. I peer at the clock and its thin, metal hands suddenly seem intimidating with every tick. We’re running out of time.

Think you can make me come in six minutes? I ask, nudging her with my tip again.

Her mossy eyes burn with a challenge and she flicks out her tongue, licking me, making me shiver and my blood hum. I’ll only need three.

Do it in two and I just might return the favor.

A wicked, determined smile stretches across her wet lips. Using both hands, she holds my cock and teasingly mouths the swollen head. A heavy breath falls through my parted lips and the desk creaks as I push my body harder against it. For five torturous seconds, she teases my over-engorged tip until I can’t take it anymore. Grunting, I forcefully flick my hips and, instead of being greeted by soft, warm flesh, I receive a purposeful scrape of her teeth.

Fuck! I hiss. Watch your teeth.

She pulls back enough for her lips to brush my tip once more. Don’t force your cock down my throat and my teeth won’t be a problem.

I like it deeper.

With a sigh, she flutters her smooth, silky tongue along the underside of my shaft before fisting the root with one hand and sucking me rhythmically into the back of her throat. I inhale sharply, my stomach muscles clenching painfully.

That’s it, I encourage her, rocking my hips into her mouth. Suck it just like that.

Natalie moans, sending toe-curling vibrations over every inch of my sensitive flesh. One of my hands finds her head again and I rake it through her hair, gripping tightly as she bobs up and down.

She grips and jerks my shaft in one hand while cupping my heavy balls with the other. She works me over proficiently, sucking me closer to the edge. I thrust harder into her, reveling in the way she traces her tongue along the protruding veins that line the underside of my cock.

Unable to keep up with the tempo in which I fuck her mouth, she drops her hands to my thighs and I push on, pressing the very tip of me as far into her tight throat as I can. She doesn’t gag.

You never do this, huh? I tease, groaning when she gives me access to her throat again. I push deeper and she still doesn’t gag. I bet this is all you do.

Natalie moans deep in her throat, sending vibrations up my shaft and into my balls. I glance at the clock. I wish I could draw this out. I wish I could push myself to the edge over and over again, only to reign it back in at the last second, but I’m running out of time.

A tight, pressure builds up in my cock and barrels towards the tip. I grit my teeth, willing it back down for a few more seconds—just a few more swirls of her tongue. I shiver as she sucks me to the back of her throat and swallows, her flesh spasming around my shaft.

Game over.

I thrust my hips against her face with animalistic vigor. I tighten my fingers in her hair and my toes curl in my shoes. I push hard, desperately willing my release to hit me so this beautiful torture subsides and spills down her throat. She gags, repeatedly, and my mouth parts as her slick throat continues to tighten. It’s all I need to push me over the edge.

Fire consumes me.

It taunts me, promising me all the orgasms I want when I’m dragged down to Hell.

So, I give in.

I stamp my express ticket to the Underworld for the one-hundredth time by shooting my load straight down her throat, groaning loudly. Without protest, without a gag, she swallows it all and licks my cock clean.

Perfect.

I have my cock back in my pants before she has the chance to stand up and fix her hair.

She glances at the clock.

Looks like we ran out of time. She pouts, batting her eyelashes at me. Reschedule?

Love to, I lie, blowing out an exhale. In a few weeks. I have some things coming up—

Natalie scoffs, her face pinching into a scowl.

Natash— I purse my lips. Oh, shit. Natalie. I meant to say Natalie.

Flipping me off, she storms from the office, slamming the door behind her.

I zip myself up and sit against the desk. The urge to have a cigarette creeps over my brain and nags at my lungs. Tomorrow marks my second-month smoke free, but it feels like I quit only yesterday, most days.

I slip my hand into the pocket of my slacks and pull out a chewed lollipop stick from this morning. I slide it between my lips and grind it between my teeth. When the craving to burn my lungs subsides, I stroll towards the open door, not too eager to get back to everyone else.

I’ve never been comfortable with farewells. What’s the appropriate etiquette anyway? A hug? A handshake? A nod of the head? People switch it up so often it’s hard to keep track.

I peer through the slit in the door and watch the litter of people as they leave the church. My father stands by the entrance, shaking hands and offering hugs to anyone who wants one. My brows draw in of their own accord and I can’t straighten them. Even from here the adoration they have for him can be seen. Hell, it can be smelled, that’s how thick they lay it on. I wonder if they’d still admire him if they knew how much he neglected his son, following

the death of my mother and the abduction of my sister when she was in my care. Sometimes, I swear I catch him looking at me, his eyes filled with disappointment and disdain. He often preaches about forgiveness, but where’s my forgiveness? It’s not like I could’ve prevented what happened. I was only eleven and I lost something that day, too. I’ve spent every day since then trying to make it up to him. I don’t give a shit about church or praying, I do it for him, and still, I see resentment in his eyes. Here, at the church, is the only place I see him smile. That smile, albeit fake, is the only reason I show up on Sundays.

For years I’ve lived with an emptiness in my heart. What started as a small, black hole has consumed every inch of my being. It eats at me. I’m rotting from the inside out and I don’t have the capacity to care anymore. I used to fight it, for my father’s sake, but now I want it to devour me until he’s happy. Until I get what I deserve... eternal, loveless darkness.

On the inside, I’m a demon consumed by petty temptations, devoured by grief, but in the presence of everyone else, I’m the morally sound son I was always meant to be, the first in line at the Pearly Gates.

Chapter Three

C A S S I A

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I run the slippery tip of my lip-gloss tube over my bottom lip, then trace it with my tongue. A tangy chemical they claim as apple tickles my taste buds and I scrunch my face.

A week has passed since I saw Caleb. Six grueling, painful days have come and gone and, finally, the seventh day is here. Sunday. It’s my new favorite day of the week, and not for the reasons it should be. If my parents knew their foremost Holy Day of Obligation has been tainted by my sinful thoughts, I’d be locked in my room for the rest of my life. 

I disgrace my religion by showing up to Mass only to lust over a man who doesn’t know I exist. The guilt it stirs doesn’t go unfelt. I was going to fake sick to get out of today, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I need to see him again. I’ve thought about him so much this week that, by Wednesday, his face became obscured in my mind. I haven’t been able to pleasure myself adequately since. I need to refresh the memory, from the shade of his hair to the darkness in his eyes.

Really, Cassia? You’re wearing lip-gloss to church?

I snap my attention from my clenched lap to the rearview mirror where Dad’s judging brown stare flicks between me and the road. I frown, confused.

It’s just lip-gloss...

He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and I swallow the frustration prickling at me. So, I messed up once? Big deal. I’ve only had sex with one person. It’s not like I go around whoring myself out to every guy who bats an eyelid at me. 

Doesn’t he recall what it’s like to be young? The raging hormones? The urge to explore yourself and the opposite sex? Science tells us it’s normal to feel this way, that’s it’s biology, the way we’re wired. Why doesn’t religion? Why would God give me the ability to feel these things, but forbid me from acting on them?

It’s unnecessary. He cuts his eyes at me. Unless you’re trying to impress a boy?

I roll my eyes and groan, earning a look of warning from Mom. It always comes down to that—a boy. I’m nineteen. Boys no longer catch my attention.

Lifting my shoulder with a half-hearted shrug, I say, maybe I’m trying to impress a girl.

Mom gasps and turns her attention out the window. A homosexual comment. Oh, the horror! I’m not surprised she checks out of the conversation. Once I go toe to toe with Dad, she no longer has an opinion, leaving me to defend myself. 

Dad lets out a bitter laugh and swipes his hand over his forehead. Fear burrows in my chest, suffocating me. How far off he is from pulling over and dumping me on the side of the road?

Are you that far gone, Cassia? You spit these dark, venomous words and challenge your parents constantly. This is not how we raised you!

Dropping my stare from his, I slip my lip-gloss into the pocket of my light blue summer dress and grip the small, black Bible on my lap. Fighting him is pointless. What right do I have? I live in his house, and I’m his daughter. Like the commandment says: you must honor your father and your mother. Who cares if they’re toxic nutjobs who’re ruining your life, right?

Silence falls in the car, and I keep my head down, feeling every sliver of shame he wants me to feel. It hurts. It hurts knowing I’m not the daughter they so desperately want me to be. I blink back tears that threaten to spill over the rims of my eyes. What’s wrong with me? Why am I wired differently? Why do I feel these things when it’s wrong and dirty? How do I stop the feelings from manifesting? The insatiable lust? The impurity? I run my finger along the golden edge of my Bible, patiently waiting for the answer to appear. Like always, it doesn’t.

I’m pulled from my thoughts when the sound of the indicator clicks throughout the car. I lift my eyes, and ahead the beautiful Caen Limestone Church looms. It’s gorgeous, nothing like the modern church we attended in Bismarck. While picturesque and majestic, it has a sense of Transylvanian darkness about it. The stained-glass windows that queue along the walls of the structure, and the rusted metal spikes that line the roof pique my curiosity, making me want to explore every inch of the mysterious building. 

Less than a mile ahead, the