Page 51 of Church Girl
Von voiced what I’d been too scared to say before—my father had failed me.
As did my mother when she went along with it.
“So I take it they didn’t bring you to the police. Have you ever told anyone what happened?”
“No, Daddy convinced my mother to leave it alone. He swore he’d never allow David back into our house. He made me promise to let our business stay our business. Outside of my therapist, I’ve only told one other person about it.” I pause. “You.”
“Not even your cousin?”
I shake my head and huff out a low breath. “I haven’t because it’s become a habit not to say anything about what happened, but my guilt also eats me alive. I don’t believe I was the first child David tried that with. And because I kept quiet, how many more children has he—”
“No. Don’t you fucking dare finish that thought.” He lifts a hand, pinches my chin and tips it down so I’m staring directly into his eyes. “None of this is on you. You were a kid, a baby. You had no power then, which is why what the adults did and didn’t do in this situation is all the more egregious. And your uncle’s sins belong only to him. He’s the criminal here, not you. If more kids were harmed, that’s because he’s a sick fuck. It has nothing to do with you. Let that shit go, ma.”
I nod, absorbing his admonishment like a sponge run across a wet counter. I’ve told myself the same thing several times over the years. But hearing the words from another person—from him—it validates what my heart had a difficult time accepting.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
His head jerks back. “Don’t ever thank me for something like that, ma. That’s what’s wrong with muthafuckas now. Want credit for what they’re supposed to do. Any person who’s in your life—parent, friend, your man—should give you honesty and speak life into you.”
My lips curl into a small smile as I tilt my head. “Speak life into me? Let me find out you go to church and listen.”
He snorts, dropping his hand back to my waist. “I’m not a PK like you, but I do have a mother who didn’t let me or my sister miss a Sunday school or morning service.” He tilts his chin up. “Be honest with me, Liyah. This is important because I don’t want to do anything to inadvertently cause you harm. Why were you thinking of your uncle while we were kissing? Is sex a trigger for you?”
“No.No.” I shake my head for added emphasis. “Maybe when I was younger, I had a problem with people touching me without telegraphing it. Or without my permission. But I’m better at that thanks to counseling when I was eighteen and old enough to get it without my parents’ consent or knowledge. Still, sex hasn’t ever been a necessity for me. That urgent need to have it? I’ve never experienced that. Until now.” My palms dampen, and my belly churns at what I just admitted. Thank God for the shadows in the car. I don’t think I could’ve had this conversation with him in a well-lit room. “You make me understand desire. And I—” my gaze dips to his chin, unable to look into his eyes as I whisper the rest of my confession “—want more of it. I want to replace my apathy with everything you make me feel when you kiss me, touch me.”
The silence that throbs between us has its own heartbeat, its own texture. Because I can’tnotsee what his thoughts are, I lift my eyes. The heated lust in his almost knocks me back against the steering wheel.
Without releasing me from his visual tug-of-war, he slowly slides a hand around to the front of my throat. He lightly cuffs me, and another whimper slips free, the light but possessive hold stirring the flames already licking at me. Who knew I would love this? Love the weight of his palm and fingers circling my throat, threatening to tighten and tighten... God, do I have a darker side that I never knew existed?
I squirm on his lap, and he glances down to my thighs, bared by the rise of my dress to accommodate me sitting on him. The material bunches around my hips, and only the very bottom of my dress hides my sex from him. If he lifts the material, he’ll have a front-row seat to my scrap of black panties and how wet I am.
And I don’t care.
Part of me—the part he’s awakened with every look, touch, kiss—wants him to see.
Because though I know nothing good can come from this, I’m not moving. Not until he puts his mouth on me again. And anything else he has a mind to put on my body. Or in.
“I can’t decide if you’re really honest or just naïve enough to admit something like that to me while your pussy is sitting on top of my dick.”
His blunt mouth is going to be the death of me, one way or another. And I can’t lie. I’m feenin’ for all of those ways.
“Are you looking for an answer?” I ask.
He cocks his head and studies me for a long, tension-filled moment then slowly shakes his head. “Not really. Not when whatever it is won’t matter one way or the other. The only answer I need from you is yes or no about whether you’re gonna let me pull this nut out of you.”
Over the thunderous pounding of my heart, I nod.
“Unhunh, ma. Speak that shit.”
“Yes,” I say, surprising myself at how firm it sounds, when inside, I’m trembling like a storm-tossed leaf. I pause, holding my breath for a second, then blurt, “Pull this nut out of me.”
The surprise that flares in his gray eyes mirrors my own shock at my boldness. And though a tiny voice screams,Who are you right now?I continue to meet his stare.
He chuckles, and the low, dark sound trips over my skin like both a caress and a warning. “Say less.”
His mouth takes mine, and where it was gentle, tender earlier, now it’s fierce and so erotic that a full-body shudder works through me. It’s as if he’s held back until now, and he’s decided to fully unleash on me. My lips tingle under the onslaught, and I can barely keep up with the plunge and suck of his tongue. After a moment, I tilt my head back, surrendering, and the hand at my throat slips to my chin. I let him angle my head any way he pleases. Let him take whatever he wants. Give him whatever he demands.
When his other hand skims up the side of my ribs to cover my breast, I jolt against the lash of pleasure. The groan that slips out of my lips into his mouth is one that borders on pained. That groan transforms into a whimper as he massages my flesh over my dress, plucking at the nipple unashamedly making itself known. The material is no defense against his determined, brazen fingers, and neither am I.
