Page 12 of Midnight Mass (Priest 1.50)
I glanced over at her, at her perfectly applied lipstick and sparkling eyes, and then said, “Unzip me.”
She licked those flawless crimson lips and complied, her hands pale in the fading light as she unbuckled herself and reached for me.
I leaned back, giving her better access to my zipper and also so I could get the view I wanted: those manicured hands on my jeans and then parting the fly and taking hold of me. There’s something incredibly hot about driving fast with a woman unzipping your pants, something powerful about having your foot heavy on the gas and your vehicle eating up the road and a beautiful face about to be buried in your lap.
She stroked me once or twice, but I didn’t need it, not with her lipstick and my restless jealousy and the engine thrumming around us as I pushed the truck faster and faster. And then she gave me one of her painfully gorgeous grins, leaning down to kiss my tip, her tongue darting out to tease me.
I should have let her take her time, I should have savored each and every one of her warm breaths as she pressed those lips everywhere, from my base to my crown, but when I looked down, I saw the red lipstick marks on my cock and I couldn’t hold on to my self-control, threading my hands through her hair and pushing her head down. Her lips parted and her mouth was so fucking warm, and there was suction and heat and the fluttering of that wicked tongue…
“Shit,” I swore as my dick hit the back of her throat. “Holy shit.”
She moaned in response, the vibration going straight to my balls, and I dug my fingers deeper in her hair as I pressed harder on the gas, thankful for the lack of traffic but also wishing that this was more public, more exposed.
“On your knees,” I said. “I want to touch your ass.”
She did as she was told, easing up onto her knees, never breaking in her attention to my dick, and I was able to move my hand from her hair to her ass cheeks, rucking up the skirt of her expensive dress to reveal her expensive underwear. I gave her a small spank and then squeezed. God, I loved the feel of her ass in my hand. It was so soft and firm and just so damn juicy, the kind of ass you could play with for hours and never get bored. And the way it segued into her firm, dancer’s thighs, the way it led to her warm, lace-covered folds…
I rubbed her over the damp lace, making her moan again. I spanked her once, twice, three times, alternating cheeks, and then wrapped my hand around her hair, yanking her face up to mine.
I kissed her with my eyes on the road, tasting myself on her tongue, smearing her lipstick around her mouth, and then shoving her back onto my dick, practically running the truck off the road when she put her mouth on me again.
“Fuck, Poppy,” I managed. “Just…fuck.”
This time, after I spanked her, I found the tight rim between her cheeks and began teasing it open, pressing inside and making her squirm. I hadn’t fucked her there in far too long; I made plans to fix that as soon as humanly possible. And shit, with the way her ass clamped around my finger, hot and greedy, it was hard not to justify pulling over and making as soon as humanly possible happen right this very minute.
She leaned farther down, so that the head of my dick was squeezed at the back of her mouth, and then she did that swallowing thing again.
“Jesus,” I muttered, my head dropping back against the headrest. She did it again, and I was so close, so fucking close, with the road hissing under my tires and my foot on the gas and her ass and hips curving into her tiny waist. With her red lipstick smeared around her lips as she sucked me, with her silky, tousled head moving in my lap, with the bass and drums of the music thumping through the car.
And then I felt it, a barbed tension in my balls, and then I was holding her head down as I shot into her mouth, over and over again, vaguely aware that I was chanting my name for her,
lamb
lamb
lamb.
And then I was aware of every pulse and throb of my orgasm in her mouth, and she swallowed it all, even milking me for more after it seemed I had no more left to give.
She cupped my balls playfully as she sat up, and I growled, “Come here,” and pulled her into another kiss, wishing that our trip was nothing but this—kissing and being sucked off as I drove, just loud music and smeared lipstick and damp lace.
Alas. Nothing is ever that simple.
After stopping at a gas station so I could wash my hands and Poppy could freshen up—which after three years of marriage I’d learned was a term for twenty minutes of unknowable fiddling and trifling in front of a mirror—we were back on the road and to her parents’ house before six o’clock.
The Danforths lived right on the coast, in the kind of hundred-year-old house that looked like it should have a name. It did have a name, in fact, Pickering Farm, although there was nothing farm-like about the stately white mansion with its gables and massive chimneys and many, many windows. It had a vast green lawn that sloped down to a rocky ledge and then to the sea, and it was surrounded by the kinds of gardens that managed to look both incredibly elegant and incredibly understated at the same time. The whole place exuded money and oozed class—the kind of money and class that didn’t need to proclaim itself because it was so established and comfortable.
Everything about it reminded me of my lamb. My elegant lamb, who froze in the car with her hand on the truck’s door handle.
“What is it?” I asked her, my brows furrowing together.
“Nothing,” she said nervously, her eyes lifted to the house in front of us. The Danforths had already decorated for Christmas, and Christmas trees sparkled from every window, accented by candles and wreaths and garlands wrapped both inside and outside the house.
I put my hand on the back of her neck. It was a possessive gesture, but it calmed her. Her breathing slowed and then she twisted herself so she could rub her face against my arm, like a cat would.
“I just don’t like coming back here,” she finally admitted. Her voice was small. “It feels like defeat. Like I’m still a part of their world.”
Poppy had abandoned that world the minute she’d walked across the Dartmouth graduation stage to receive her MBA, going on to wait tables and eventually dance for money, seeking a more authentic life than the gilded cage she’d grown up in.
