Page 48 of Priest (Priest 1)
I didn’t know what to say to that. I was grateful and confused and still hurt all at the same time.
So I said the only thing that came to mind. “How long has it been since your last confession?”
An exhale. “So this is how this conversation will go?”
I didn’t care how this conversation happened as long as it happened, as long as I got to keep talking to her. “If you want it to.”
“You know what? I do.”
Poppy
Premarital sex is a sin, right? And I’m sure having sex with a priest is a sin. And probably altar-fucking isn’t anywhere in the Papal Encyclicals, but I’m guessing it’s a sin too. So I’ll confess those. I’ll confess about how delirious I felt on that altar, having you between my legs. Finally coaxing you into letting go. We were more human than ever—more animal than ever—but somehow I still felt so close to God, like my entire soul was awake and alert and dancing. I looked up at the crucifix, at Christ hanging from the cross, and I thought, this is what it’s like to be torn apart for love. This is what it means to be reborn. I stared at it over your shoulder, and you were piercing me, and Christ had been pierced too, and it all seemed like one secret and shimmering mystery—profound and acroamatic. I feel like we did something unfathomably ancient, stumbled onto some secret ceremony that fused us together—but how can I relish that feeling, how can I celebrate it, when it comes with such a high cost?
I told you I feel guilty, and that’s true, but it’s wrapped up in so much else that I can’t tease apart the guilt from the joy and the want. Every moment I think I’ve come to a decision—that I am going to tell you that we must abide by your vows and choices, or that I’m going to tell you that we must figure out a way, any way, that we can still see each other—I change my mind.
Worry is a sin, even I know that, yet I am more than just a lily of the field. I’m a lily that’s been plucked from the ground and laid at your feet. When it comes to you, I’m rootless and helpless and at your mercy for sunshine and water. And I’m not even supposed to be yours. How can I not worry?
Last night, I wanted to respond to your message so badly, but I didn’t know what I could say, how to distill my thoughts into two or three cohesive sentences. I wanted to come over to your house and talk, but I knew if I did, then I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from touching you and fucking you, and I didn’t want to make things any more complicated than they already were.
But then I kept looking at your text, wondering exactly how you were thinking about me, and I wondered if you were thinking about the way I felt when you were inside. About the way I moved underneath you. I wondered if you were remembering your kitchen and both of us looking down as you pushed into me.
So here’s my final confession. I knelt on my bedroom floor like I was going to pray, but instead of praying, I spread my legs and fucked myself with my fingers, pretending it was you.
And when I climaxed, I hoped to God that you would be able to hear me calling your name.
People might judge me for the way my breathing sped up. For the way I palmed myself through my slacks. But the image of Poppy on her knees, eyes closed and mind filled with me, all while her fingers played with that beautiful cunt, was too much to resist.
“Poppy,” I said, unbuckling my belt. “Tell me more.”
I knew she could hear the belt. I knew she could hear the zipper. Her breath shuddered in and then shuddered out.
“I used one hand to touch my breasts,” she whispered. “And the other to work my clit. I wanted your dick so much, Tyler, it was all I could think about. How it stretches me. How you make it hit that perfect spot every time.”
Still leaning back, I freed my cock from my boxer briefs and gripped it, moving my hand slowly up and down.
“What were you thinking about when you came?” I asked. God, I wanted it to be dirty. I wanted it to be so fucking dirty.
Poppy didn’t disappoint. “I thought about you taking my ass while you fingered me. About you pulling out to come on my back.”
Shit. I was hard before, but now—now I was practically concrete. Who was I kidding with this? I needed to fuck her again and I was going to do it right here in the church in the middle of the day.
“My office,” I said through gritted teeth. “Now.”
She scooted out of the booth and I followed, tucking myself back in but not bothering to zip up. As soon as we were in the office, I shut and locked the door and rounded on her at the same time she rounded on me.
We came together like two storm clouds—a crash of separate beings that immediately become one entity. We were hands and lips and teeth, we were nips and kisses and moans, and I guided her backwards, meaning to put her over my desk, but our legs tangled and we fell to the floor, my arms a cage around her.
“Are you okay?” I asked, worried.
“Yes,” she said impatiently, grabbing my collar to yank me back down to her lips. Her kisses drove me into a frenzy, the softness of her mouth echoing the silken heat below her skirt.
“I have to fuck you,” I managed between kisses. It was a statement of fact. A warning. I slipped a hand down and found that once again, she was without underwear.
“Filthy,” I said. “Fucking filthy.”
She twisted under my touch, tilting her hips up to grant my fingers better access, and I kissed her neck as I jabbed two fingers inside her cunt. She was so wet already, and my rough treatment of her only seemed to arouse her more, because her hands fisted in my shirt and she panted as I continued my assault, awful words coming out
of my mouth, cocktease and slut and you want it, you know you want it.
