Page 84 of Heathens
I nod and pull him closer as his finger inches to the side of my underwear. I throw my head back as his thumb makes contact with my clit through the fabric. Car horns sound from below us, and I suck in a breath. I’m so high up—this is so, so stupid—
“Relax,” Salem whispers into my ear. “I’ve got you.” With one swift motion, he pushes two fingers inside of me, and I arch my back, finally believing him, finally relaxing and letting go.
It's invigorating and exhilarating—doing this with him, like this, so close to falling to my death, so close to my climax at the same time. I rock my hips against him, and he only growls in response. The smell of the Mediterranean hits my senses, perfume from one of the shops below, Salem's sweat, the beads forming on his forehead as his hand works me. Watching him watch me sets me off, the furrowed concentration, the true dedication of pleasing me at the expense of his comfort...
I cry out, shaking and trembling against him, feeling my muscles tighten and pulse around his fingers as they massage me. I claw at his back, not caring if I fall, not caring about someone seeing us, not caring about anything other than the sweet euphoria filling me. I finally fall against him when it’s over, and he lifts me up and moves me back inside the room. I bite my lip as he sets me down on my feet and takes a step back.
“Don’t you want...” I trail off, and he watches me with hungry eyes.
“I do,” he murmurs, wincing and rubbing his lips as if he’s in pain. “But, if I fuck you right now, I’ll want you all night.”
Fuck you.
The words coming out of his holy mouth send a jolt of lust through me.
“So?” I tease, taking a step toward him. “You’re not the only one who hasn’t gotten enough,” I purr, pulling my lower lip between my teeth and tossing my hair over one shoulder. He makes a low noise, something between a growl and a moan.
“Let me at least take you on a proper date,” he says, gesturing to the dress hanging in the wardrobe.
“Ah, I was wondering what the dress was for.” I grin. “Where are we going?”
“Wherever you want,” he says, smiling and watching me in awe.
I nod. “Okay. Let’s get the fuck out of Monte Carlo.”
He laughs. “I was hoping you'd say that. Bring your passport and a sweater, and meet me downstairs in two hours.“ His eyes linger on me for a few heartbeats, and I can see the hesitation and the fight written all over his face.
“Okay, Father Tempest.”
He groans—actually groans and slumps his posture a bit before turning and leaving without another word. Smiling from ear to ear, I walk to the bathroom and begin to run a bath.
* * *
Two hours later, I’m wearing the blond wig, the red dress, and the black, spiky heels I bought just for this dress two days ago. I’m wearing minimal makeup—just some mascara, bronzer, and dark red lipstick. More than one head turns as I make my way through the lobby. I even see the two priests sitting at the restaurant for dinner. Auguste is still in his room, wallowing in his loss.
Little does he know; this is only the beginning.
“Madame Damewood?” A concierge walks up to me in a red uniform—the royal color of Monaco. I nod. He gestures to the golden, rotating doors leading out to the front of the hotel. “Mr. Tempest asked me to let you know that your car awaits you outside.”
I smile and thank him, walking out the door and into the early evening heat. I stifle a laugh as a small, red, two-door convertible whizzes into the valet line, Salem behind the wheel.
“You’re kidding.” I guffaw and look around.
Salem smiles and puts the stick into neutral. “Hop in.” He reaches behind him and fishes out a black, silk cloth. “For your hair. I wouldn’t want you to mess it up.”
I tap my lip with my fingers and shift my posture, narrowing my eyes. “Where’d you get a car like this?” It’s old—it has the smooth, round lines of a classic car, though my knowledge of cars is laughable, so what do I know?
“A friend of a friend,” he purrs, sweeping his hand over the steering wheel lovingly. “1971 Alfa Romeo Spider.” He looks at me, and for the first time, I notice the tuxedo and bow tie. No cassock, no clerical collar. Just a man in a tux picking up a girl in a gown. “I have a thing for cars,” he adds, giving the car another adoring once-over.
I twist my lips to the side, unable to hide my smile any longer as I bend over and swipe the scarf from him.
“Wait!” He hops out quickly, jogging around and pulling my door open. “After you.”
I giggle. “Thanks.”
As I adjust the scarf around my wig, I pop my sunglasses on, looking in the rearview mirror.
“You’re beautiful,” Salem whispers, and I jump. He’s leaning over, his lips inches from my ears. I hadn’t noticed him watching me.
