Page 73 of Heathens
I laugh when I get another text immediately.
Salem: Do you know how difficult it is to conceal an erection while I’m giving a nice family a blessing?
At that, I throw my hand over my mouth and cackle, imagining his discomfort.
Me: YOU ARE NOT.
Salem: A blessing, a prayer, and some light marriage counseling. Voldemort is in his cassock—the tool—so he’s attracting attention.
Voldemort. I snort. What a great nickname for Auguste.
Me: Well then, I’ll let you get back to your priestly duties, Father Tempest. I’m in 2C if you have the time to do another blessing.
And I know exactly what sort of blessing I’d like. It would be similar to the dark room experience.
Salem doesn’t respond with words—only the smiling devil emoji. I slip out of my boots and sit down on the soft seat, staring out of the window as we begin to creep out of the station. My hands nervously fidget with the cap of my water bottle, and I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror at least five times before we start going at full speed—the French countryside whipping past us at almost 300 kilometers per hour.
After a couple of hours pass, I start to pace the room again, having smoked multiple cigarettes—another bonus of having a private room. Smoking isn’t technically allowed, but I smell smoke coming from the other cabins. Only in Europe...
Why did I agree to this again? Salem will be busy all day, and I’ll be lying in wait for him—too supercharged to concentrate on anything else other than the feel of him against me. Perhaps it’s because we haven’t slept together yet—maybe if we do it once, we can get it out of our systems. Truth be told, I’ve been putting it off. Just being near him wears me out emotionally—runs me raw. I can’t imagine whatsexwill do to me. Something tells me I’ll begin acting like a rabid, foaming-from-the-mouth sex addict.
Also, I think I’m still trying to come to terms with his prior celibacy. With being the reason he gives it all up.
Three hours into the trip, I decide to make my way to the dining car. Petulantly, I shove my feet into my boots, leaving my phone on the table. If I’d known he’d be taking his sweet time, I would’ve eaten hours ago. Maybe after I eat, I’ll walk my way back to coach... just to see...
I slide the door open just as we pass through another tunnel—effectively cutting off most of the lighting—and gasp when I see Salem leaning against the door frame, his head hanging as if he’s deciding whether or not to knock. He raises his face to mine. His hair is falling over his left eye, and a diabolical gleam enters his eyes. He looks over my shoulder, shadows from the window passing over his face.
“Definitely a hovel,” he declares, his voice low and gritty. He’s so close to me—I can smell the coffee on his breath.
“What a dump,” I whisper, tracing his lips with my eyes. My heart pounds wildly in my chest as my eyes flick back up to his—the intensity of his gaze burning me into the red carpet.
The way he smells...
The way his hair falls over his eye...
His clerical shirt, and the real reason he’s here—
We barrel further into the tunnel, and the lights get even dimmer. All I can see is the outline of his face, his arched brows, the white square on his collar.
Without warning, he pushes me further into the room, and the cabin door slams shut behind him as his lips find mine and his hands grip the sides of my face. Breathing heavily, he backs me against the opposite wall—the one with the window—his mouth hungry, his body warm and hard against mine. I arch my back so that my middle is pressing into him, and his hands slide down my neck to my chest, where he diligently begins to unbutton my blouse with little success.
“Fuck it,” he murmurs into my mouth, and with one swift motion, rips the fabric down the middle.
Panting, I feel my throat bubble with laughter. He unclips my bra in seconds—priorities—and then I’m topless in front of him.
“Salem,“ I whimper as his thumb circles my taut nipple. I lift my head, and his lips find my neck as he lifts me up a bit, pressing my bare back into the glass. He moves his hand to undo his collar, but—
“No,” I whisper, my voice feverish. “Leave it on. Leave it all on.” I pull back to look at him. His pupils darken as he assesses me, his eyes roving over my stomach, chest, neck...
“I want to break all of my rules for you, Lilith Damewood.”
I swallow the words I want to say—all the things he makes me feel—and the fire explodes through me until I’m biting my tongue and unbuckling the belt on his trousers. His hand stops me, and he takes a step back.
“Let me worship you.”
And then—in one motion—he gets down on his knees, his sharp, blue eyes finding mine as he kneels before me. Diligently lifting his hand to my jeans, he unbuttons them slowly, sliding the denim down my legs without breaking eye contact. Slipping a finger along the hem of my underwear, he peels them to the side as his tongue suddenly darts against my clit. I hear him whisper something, but I’m too distracted to make it out.
It sounds like a prayer.
