Page 14 of Midnight Mass (Priest 1.50)
A tourist in a life I could never hope to have for myself.
I accepted the glass Sterling offered, taking another warm sip before I answered. “I suppose. The Danforths have always been very nice to me.”
“They like you.” Sterling sat, automatically unbuttoning his jacket as he did. “Hell, I like you.”
“I like you, too. Even though I think you’re an asshole.”
He choked on his whiskey laughing and I had to smile. It fucking pained me to admit it, but he was a hard bastard not to like. Which reminded me of how much I had detested him when we’d first met. He’d tried to blackmail me, he’d tried to steal Poppy away from me, he’d been despicable in every way…he tested my ability to forgive and think God-like, compassionate thoughts about my fellow humans.
And yet, here we were four years later, sharing whiskey and football facts. And even though I did feel that low-level jealousy every now and again, it was mostly absent from our interactions now. Somehow, I’d mastered my envy of him, and more than that, I’d come to terms with my envy of his place in Poppy’s world. I would never be him, I would never be Tom or Gatsby, I’d always be Nick. I would always look out of place inside my in-law’s house, just as Sterling looked perfectly at home here.
And that was okay.
“Sterling?” came a musical voice from the door. It was Penelope, his wife, looking a little desperate. I didn’t blame her, given that Poppy had once considered Penelope to be her mortal enemy. It was probably difficult to find common ground with a history like that, and Sterling and I had basically abandoned the rest of the house in order to get drunk and talk about the NFL.
Sterling grumbled something unintelligible but still pushed to his feet to go to his wife. I, however, sat in the library and chewed over this new realization, this epiphany over something that had happened so gradually I hadn’t even noticed it.
But if I truly wasn’t jealous of Sterling any longer, how come Anton Rees made me so fucking furious? If I’d found the way to shut off that instinctive, terrible part of myself with one man who’d been interested in my lamb, why couldn’t I do it with another?
Thanksgiving dinner at Pickering Farm was a massive affair. More than thirty guests sat in the window-lined dining room while piano music drifted in from somewhere in the house.
Poppy seemed listless the entire meal, pushing food around her plate and not eating, even refusing dessert and wine. She made half-hearted conversation with her parents’ friends and attempted a smile or two, but otherwise she continued to look tired and out of sorts. I circled my hand around the middle of her back, pressing into the sensitive spot between her shoulder blades, enjoying the feeling of her body melting into my touch.
Penelope, I thought. It must have been those two hours Sterling and I hid in the library talking guy stuff, and I’d left her (essentially) alone with a woman she abhorred.
Guilt chafed at me. What had I been thinking, leaving her alone like that? So I could be with Sterling of all people? And now she was probably socially exhausted and emotionally drained¸ and I hadn’t done anything to
help her.
I leaned in close, my lips grazing the shell of her ear as I spoke. “Are you okay, lamb?”
She looked down at the table, as if she were avoiding eye contact with me. But then I realized it was probably Penelope and Sterling she didn’t want to look at right now. “Just tired,” she said quietly.
“Do you want to go lay down?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine, really.” But she wasn’t fine; a lone tear escaped out of the corner of her eye, trailing down her cheek as a single, clear droplet. I caught it with my thumb and pressed the thumb automatically to my mouth. It wasn’t conscious or intentional, but the way Poppy’s eyes followed my movement with avid interest—the first spark of life I’d seen all night—sent a rush of blood to my groin.
I knew what I wanted to do. I still had to get her back for this morning, after all, and her family was sitting at the other end of the table…
I reached under the long tablecloth and found one smooth thigh, crossed over the other, and I slowly pushed those thighs apart, all while keeping my eyes trained on Poppy’s. She resisted at first, but the moment I mouthed lamb at her, her legs parted.
Maybe I didn’t know what was wrong with her. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to help her even if I did. But I could do this, right here and right now, reminding her of all the things we’d promised each other and God in that church three years ago. That we loved each other. That we belonged to one another. That our love would be eternal and all-consuming, patient and kind and would not boast or envy…
Okay, so I still had work to do with the envy part. But everything else, I could demonstrate to her in the way that we communicated best: with our bodies.
Keeping my upper body still and my expression neutral, I slid my hand higher, past the pleated skirt of her Saint Laurent dress and to her warm center. She took in a deep breath, her eyes flashing, and I paused, giving her a quirked smile with a raised eyebrow.
Do you want me to stop? I asked her with that eyebrow.
In response, she spread her legs farther apart.
At the other end of the table, a vibrant conversation about an upcoming tennis match had broken out, and at our end, the non-family guests were engrossed in some foreign-property-acquisition-gone-wrong tale.
Nobody was watching us.
I ran a middle finger over the damp silk covering her cunt, knowing without needing to look that she wore a pair of panties I’d bought for her just last month, for the express reason that I liked the way the fabric felt against my fingertips. And—yes—there was the little bow at the top and the lace trim around her legs…and all of my slow, gentle exploring was taking its toll on her. She squirmed in her chair, trying to subtly rock her pelvis against my hand, spreading her legs far enough apart that I could easily skate my fingers underneath the fabric at the crotch, which I did next.
She sucked in a breath through her teeth, which no one seemed to notice, and I casually used my left hand to take a sip of wine while my right hand eased her panties off to the side and started stroking the soft skin underneath. She was wet, wet enough that there was no resistance as I circled her entrance with my middle finger. Wet enough that I could easily slide my finger up to her clit, making everything slippery and slick and effortless. The pad of my finger rubbed over her swollen bud while my thumb traced soothing circles on the bare waxed skin of her mound.
