Page 54 of Bad Habit
Eight
Faith
Iwas floating, drifting, so awash in all the things Mac’s hands and body and mouth were making me feel. Long ago, I’d lost track of what he was doing, what part of him was touching which part of me. I’d lost all sense of right or wrong or sin or modesty, giving myself over to pleasure—only pleasure. I could sort everything else out later.
Somehow his hand had found its way under my robe, and his large palm and fingers caressed my bottom—something I’d never imagined letting anyone do, but it felt so good that I lacked the will to stop him.
The place between my legs had gone way beyond buzzing and now felt on fire. On fire but wet. Who knew those two things were possible together? I couldn’t keep still, could barely keep my feet on the ground, then with only a tiny bit of shame, I realized one of my legs had actually lifted and was hooked around Mac’s back. I was wanton, wild, and definitely enjoying our sinning.
If all sins felt this good, no wonder priests and nuns spent so much time trying to stop parishioners from committing them.
Mac’s lips left mine.
I instantly missed them but tipped my head back against the window, eyes closed, hoping he planned to return his lips to my breasts. The things he’d done there, to my nipples… and when he’d kneaded my flesh, I’d felt it through my entire body.
Answering my prayers, he kissed his way down my throat and chest. His hungry mouth traveled to one breast, then the other, kissing and nipping and sucking, as his one hand continued to massage my bottom and thighs, waking up dormant nerves, nerves I didn’t know existed, and making my body feel newly discovered. Discovered by him—and by me.
His lips drifted lower and his tongue lapped my skin, tracing down toward my waist where the belt was nearly strangling my stomach. I reached to tug at the knot, but I’d tied it so tight Mac might need a knife to release me. At this point, I’d be happy if he used an axe if it gave his hands access to more of my skin.
He dropped to one knee, and his hands moved to the outsides of my hips. One underneath the robe, one above it. He must be planning to study the knot to better untie it.
“Oh!” I looked down. What was he doing?
“Relax,” he said deeply. “Lean back.”
I did what he said. At that moment I’d have jumped out the window if that’s what he’d asked.
As I leaned back against the glass, his hands slid up my legs, starting at the ankles and massaging me as they rose. Gently, he guided my feet farther apart, and as his hands roamed above my knees, I realized he was pulling the hem of the robe up as he went. It was now bunched near my hips.
His hands—and his face!—were getting so close to my most private area, the area so full of heat and dampness and shame. If the robe rose two or three more inches, he’d seeeverything.
I felt mortified, but couldn’t find the strength to stop him. I didn’t want to, even though I felt that I should.
Just as he was about to expose me in the most intimate way, he rose to kiss me. I sighed my relief into his lips. It hadn’t seemed decent for him to see me down there. He must have realized that, too.
Absorbed in our kissing, I barely realized that the robe was still lifted up to my waist and that his hand stroked at the very top of my thighs.
I gasped as his hand drifted across my lower belly, so low he must have brushed my private hair.
My body tensed, but he cupped my head with the hand not on my belly and kissed me deeply as he caressed my stomach, tracing circles that rose up toward my belly button and down again to graze my hair.
I should feel ashamed, but at this point I only felt shame when I reminded myself. Too many other sensations had invaded. My body was fluid, on fire. I was molten lava tracing long hot rivers down the side of a recently woken volcano, wending their way to invade every groove of the landscape incinerating everything in its path.
“Move your legs wider,” he said against my lips.
I shifted my stance, terrified but excited about what would come next. Wasn’t I supposed to be lying down when he pushed his penis inside me? I braced for the pain.
But no pain arrived. Instead, I felt so much pleasure I gasped and then almost bit down on Mac’s tongue. His fingers stroked my pubic hair below my belly with a teasing touch—like a tickle but more tormenting—and each stroke grew more delicious than the last until I realized the exploration range of his fingers had continued to expand.
His fingers slid over my upper thighs, traced along the place where my legs met my torso, and then teased the hair covering my opening down there. He was touching parts of me even I had never touched.
I banished my inner voice that told me to stop him. No part of my body wanted to stop him. Neither did my mind. Not really. I’d be insane to ever want this feeling to end.
Gradually his touch became more demanding, not just brushing over my hair, but sliding against the actual flesh down there and parting my protective folds.
“You okay?” he asked in a short break from the kissing.
“Yes.” I heaved a few shallow breaths.
