Page 29 of Priest (Priest 1)
“But you can make yourself come any time you want. You came here tonight because you want something else. What is it?”
She hesitated then answered. “I want you to make me come.”
“But you know it’s wrong to ask.”
“But I knew it was wrong to ask…or to want.”
I let out a breath. It was wrong. All of it, so very wrong.
And Jesus help me, for some reason that made it all the sweeter.
“Lick,” I said, indicating my cock. My hands were still by my thighs; I didn’t bother holding myself for her. Instead, I sat back and watched as she ran her tongue from my base to my tip in one long motion. My fingers dug into the chair, hissing as she did it again. I’d forgotten how good this was too, how smooth and slick and soft a woman’s tongue could be, how perfect it felt tracing lines along the sensitive underside of my dick, tracing delicate circles around the crown.
Obedient lamb, she didn’t do any more than lick, her hand still between her legs, her eyes pinned to mine in the dim light.
“Suck now,” I told her. A quick flash of a smile—a smile that screamed Ivy League and financial analysis and a taste for good champagne—and then her head was nothing but a bobbing mass of dark waves between my legs.
I really did groan now. Was there any sight I’d missed more than this? A head moving eagerly between my thighs? But then I thought of that Monday in the church, her bent over the piano and her cunt the only thing in my vision. Her sitting on me, grinding her clit against my shaft.
There were a lot of sights I’d missed.
My hips and legs were practically vibrating with the suppressed need to thrust into her mouth, and I indulged myself just a little, threading my hands through her hair and holding her down over my cock, pushing up with my hips until I hit the back of her throat, shuddering as I slid back out, lips and teeth and tongue and palate, all of it stroking me, stoking me to further flame. I’d never been harder than this before, I was sure of it, and when I pulled her lips off my cock, I could see every vein, could feel the painfully swollen crest as it flared out then back in to my tip.
That’s when I knew I had to feel her cunt. If it was going to be the last time, if this was it, then I had to. I mean, I was already committing a mortal sin by letting her suck me off. Would it be so much worse if I had her rub her pussy against me again?
Or if I slid just partway inside? That still wasn’t really sex, not really really, and I would pull it right back out. I just wanted to feel it once. Only once.
Shit, I sounded like a teenager. I also didn’t care at that moment, with the hardest dick in the world and with the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen still kneeling in front of me, mouth parted, cunt wriggling in undisguised want.
“Take your bottoms off and get on the counter,” I ordered. She stood, took off her shorts, and walked to the kitchen (where thankfully all the blinds were drawn) and hopped onto the counter.
I approached her slowly, my blood at a low, dangerous boil, because I knew that I was walking oh-so-close to the edge, to the point of no return, but I wanted to, I wanted to fling myself into the unknown if the unknown was Poppy. It was hard to give a shit about anything else.
I smelled her as I stepped up to the counter, a mix of her arousal and clean soap and just a hint of lavender. I spread her legs as far apart as the counter would allow, reaching behind her and scooching her right up to the edge, so that when I pressed myself against her, my cock nestled against her folds.
She licked her red lips as she met my eyes. Licked her lips, as if she were a predator about to devour me, but that was not how this worked, not at all, and suddenly I was obsessed with smearing that red lipstick, still perfect at three in the morning, as if she’d reapplied it before she’d come over. Yes, when I was done with her, that carefully applied color would be everywhere, and she would feel marked, taken.
I leaned forward and kissed her for the first time.
Her lips were as soft as I expected—softer even—but they were firm in a way th
at I had not expected, not immediately yielding to me. Had I not lived the life I’d lived before the robe, I wouldn’t have understood her reluctance. But I had, and I did.
“You want me to fight for it, lamb?” I murmured against her lips.
She nodded breathlessly.
“You want me to steal it from you?”
Another nod.
“Force it from you?”
A shuddering exhale. And then finally another nod. My little lamb wanted it rough, and what do you know, I wanted to give it to her that way.
My lips became an inexorable force, an act of nature—an act of God—and I gripped the back of her head as hard as I dared, pressing her face to mine. I ground my hips into her, rubbing myself against her, and used my free hand to claim her breast—pressing it into her chest, grabbing it so fiercely that I knew she could feel every fingertip as a bright point of discomfort. Slowly, oh so slowly, her mouth opened up to me, and the first time our tongues slid together in a tangle of silk and promise, I nearly lost it right then and there.
Her mouth was greedy, but mine was greedier, and we fought each other, who would devour whom the fastest, who could take what they wanted first, who could take the most, and before long, she was a writhing form of smooth muscle and soft curves, her hips jerking against mine and her hands fisting my hair and scratching my back.
