Page 101 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
“Please, Poe,” he whispers. “Please.”
I press a hand to the side of his face. “Will it help . . . whatever this is?”
/> He closes his eyes. “Yes.”
“Will you tell me what it is?”
His voice is honest when he answers. “I don’t know.”
He opens his eyes again, and I can’t bear to see them like this, near-violet and hazy with a torment I don’t understand. “Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
Relief shivers through him, clearing his eyes, parting his lips. “Thank you,” he breathes.
I rise up on my knees, still arching into his touch as he continues to finger me while I find the waistband of his shorts and the tight boxer briefs he wears underneath them. Within seconds, his cock is exposed—straight and thick, roped with two twisting veins and surrounded by trim golden hair. I look around us one last time—see no one and nothing but heather and rocks and sheep—press my soft place against Becket and push down.
He holds my panties to the side as I screw myself slowly onto him, his other hand wrapped around his root to assist me, and soon he’s all the way inside. This position has him so deep, it sends delicious pressure everywhere, and I have to squirm and squirm to endure it.
“So good,” he murmurs, staring up at me. His eyes are open like an early morning sky now. “You feel so good.”
“Becket, I need—” He’s only just got inside me and I’m so close, but I need more, I need dirtier. Hurtier. Even being outside—even riding a priest with my bare knees on the ground and the wind whipping around us—isn’t quite enough.
I have an idea. I find his hand and I wrap it around my throat. “Hold me tight,” I tell him. “Keep me how you want me.”
Becket’s hand isn’t as tight as Auden’s would be, but it still works, it still makes me feel like I’m being forced. Like I’m being made. My body reacts instantly, flooding me with even more heat and urgency, everything between my legs going so tight I can barely breathe.
“God,” Becket says, his pupils dilating as he watches me shiver in response. It doesn’t sound like a curse when he says it, it sounds like a prayer, like worship, and I love it, I love him and his heart that beats for ecstasy and ecstasy alone.
Becket keeps his hand on my throat, his thumb pressed gently to my windpipe as I begin moving in earnest, circling and grinding, chasing the sweet sparkle of my clit against the base of his cock. The wind flutters through his hair and his dark blond eyelashes, pulls his shirt tight against the firm curves of his muscles. He’s at odds with the landscape around us, with the world of rough moors and wild empty meadows. His jaw is too perfectly chiseled, his cheekbones and nose too refined. His hand around my throat is a hand for smoothing robes and pouring wine, for red-inked pages and prayer beads cool to the touch.
He is too cultivated, too civilized. Except then I think of his eyes glowing in the farmhouse, and a voice inside me whispers, not so civilized after all.
The uneasiness that comes with the thought should invade my arousal, it should cool me down. More evidence that I was born pervy though: because in this moment, the fear doesn’t invade me at all, it pervades me, it twists through me and fills me up, it turns everything dangerous and uncertain. And danger and uncertainty get me off like nothing else.
For a moment, I’m poised at the edge, my movements growing jerky and urgent, and then as I stare into his eyes—which even now move from blue to a deep, unearthly indigo—I come with a low and broken whimper. Eight days of denial, eight days of longing, all of it cresting and roaring through me like a merciless wave, yanking me out to sea.
My body surges and tightens around Becket’s erection, and I writhe through the contractions, squirm and pant and moan, not caring what I sound like or how loud I am, not even noticing—there is nothing but the wind and the jolting, agonized pleasure below my navel. Nothing but sex and the rock digging into my bare knees. Nothing but the hand around my throat and the memory of Auden’s voice and Becket’s otherworldly eyes.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes. That’s it. Keep going. Keep going.”
The climax rolls on and then I feel Becket’s muscles quivering against me, I see his eyes flutter closed. “Fuck,” he mumbles. “Oh fuck. I—”
He doesn’t have to tell me he’s coming, because his cock announces that for him. Swelling and jerking heavily inside me, filling me with his seed. The long throbs are mirrored in the grip on my throat—tightening, loosening, tightening again—his eyes opening so he can watch my face as he pumps me full. It’s erotic as hell, and I think I could come again, I think I could find another peak, if only he keeps holding my throat, if only I keep moving—
A dog runs behind me, barking happily, and Becket freezes. Voices come from just on the other side of the ridge, which means they won’t be able to see us yet, but in just a few seconds . . .
Ever the gentleman, Becket helps me to my feet before he tucks his still-twitching erection away, and I mumble a hurried thanks as I smooth my skirt down.
But I look up, and with a sinking sensation in my stomach, I realize it’s too late.
The hikers, a man and a woman, have crested the hill just in time to see me crawl off Becket’s lap, just in time to see him adjust his shorts. There can be no mistaking that we were fooling around—at best. And it wouldn’t be difficult to guess what we were doing at worst.
“Uh, hello,” I say weakly, giving a limp wave. My panties are still pulled to the side, and there’s no way to adjust them—or worry about my flushed cheeks or disheveled hair. Warm seed threatens to run out of me and I clench my thighs together to keep it from running down my legs.
Becket stands up, and turns, and even in profile, I can see the shock that ripples through him and pales his skin. It’s the same shock that ripples through the couple as they recognize him.
“Father Hess?” the woman asks tentatively, looking back and forth between us. And shit—now I recognize her too. She’s in the choir at St. Petroc’s. Her husband helps tend the cemetery there.
They go to Becket’s church.
