Page 16 of Midnight Mass (Priest 1.50)
The thought sent a bolt of fear through me. An electric current of panic and agitation. What if leaving the priesthood had damned me in this life as well as the next? What if I never found another calling, another vocation, and I was doomed to live my life in this perpetual state of restlessness, searching for an answer that I would never find?
“That’s too bad,” the anonymous wife said. She was giving me one of those why don’t you come help me with my tennis swing smiles that all these wives seemed to give me when I was here. “You have so much to give the world.”
Then came the men, now completely drunk, offering me jobs and referrals, and then the hired waiters cleared dessert off the table and it was time for cards. I frowned at my wine glass while my plate was taken away, my stomach churning, fucking miserable with myself and my future and this Gatsby house and my life.
“Tyler,” Poppy said quietly, touching my arm. I looked around; we were the only ones left at the table. In my brooding, I hadn’t noticed everyone adjourning to the next room.
We stood, and I took the opportunity to quickly adjust my lingering erection. I followed Poppy as she walked around the table, her dress hugging the slender dip of her waist and flouncing over her pert ass, the hem hitting the middle of those toned and creamy thighs…
I took her arm and yanked her into the corridor, pulling her into the small room off the foyer that served as the coatroom, closing the door behind us. The only light in here was a weak golden glow from the Christmas trees in the foyer, seeping in from under the door.
“What are you—”
I put a hand over her mouth as I spun her around so that she faced away from me. I was upset and I was angry with that stupid question from the dining room, the question that forced me to confront yet another part of my life I was failing at, and Poppy was so beautiful and soft and mine, and I was still so fucking hard for her.
I nudged her feet apart as I flipped her skirt over her ass. I didn’t care that this was her parents’ house or that anybody could walk in here to get their coat or purse. I only cared about the sharp intake of breath she gave as I pulled her silk underwear down her legs and stuffed them in my pocket.
“Say red if you have to, lamb. Otherwise, keep that pretty mouth shut.”
She shuddered at my words, at my hand checking to see if her cunt was ready for me, at my other hand flat on her back and pressing her forward. She braced her hands against the wall and looked back over her shoulder, kohl-rimmed eyes smoldering at me.
Fuck, she was hot.
I unbuckled my belt with one hand and then unzipped my pants, loving the way she unconsciously arched herself closer when she heard the purr of my zipper.
I stepped even closer to her, grabbing my cock and lining it up with her entrance. I paused though, right before I shoved inside, wondering if this was an immoral thing to do. To use the woman I loved as a salve for yet another of my spiritual dilemmas. To use her body and those willing hazel eyes for a few minutes of respite from my guilt and anxiety.
But then she took the decision away from me, pressing her ass into my hips and impaling herself on my shaft.
My lips parted as my erection slid home, and I swore I could feel every single millimeter of her cunt as it swallowed my dick, every fucking one. For a minute, I just stood there, absorbing the feeling. She felt so wet and so tight, so good, and in the faint light I could see the outline of her bent over, the heart shape of her ass pressed into my groin.
I grabbed her hip with one hand and her upper arm with the other, bringing her upright and closer to me, and even with her heels on, I had to bend my knees for my petite lamb. But I knew the second I found the perfect angle, because she let out a low, breathy moan, and then I began to thrust in earnest, deep, curved thrusts that made her hands reach back to dig into my thighs.
Silence was of the essence, but I couldn’t help but to fuck her hard. The kind of hard where the slap of our skin and the wetness of our fucking and the smack of my balls against her cunt made distinct noises that not even these repressed New Englanders could fail to identify.
I didn’t care. Because for a few minutes, life was perfect again. My lamb and I, alone, fused as one. No family, no ex-boyfriends, no looming future. No dissertations and no Anton. Just us, and the jagged sighs of my wife as I found her clit—still sensitive from the dining room finger-fucking—and teased it. It didn’t take long, thirty seconds maybe, and then her stomach muscles clenched and her pussy squeezed around me.
She shoved her fist into her mouth to keep from crying out, and then everything released, powerful contractions that milked my own orgasm from me. I leaned over her back and bit her shoulder as I pumped my cum into her, deep inside her sweet body.
I felt the climax everywhere—the muscles of my thighs and abs, my spine, my toes. Every part of me released into her and she welcomed me, all of me, the messy heat of my insatiable lust and the unbearable weight of my guilt and the uncertainty ahead of us. Somehow she took it, and for the first time in weeks, my mind felt quiet. My heart felt at peace.
I pulled out, wiping us both dry with her panties. They went back into my pocket, and I helped her straighten her dress while she buckled my belt.
In the dim gold light, I could barely see her face tilted up to mine, those blinking eyes, those entrancing lips. “Is everything okay?” she asked. “You seemed…preoccupied.”
“Is that your way of asking why I dragged you into a coat closet to fuck you?”
Her throaty, queenly laugh. “Yes.”
“I’m fine now,” I said honestly. “You healed me.”
“With my magical vagina?” she asked skeptically.
“With your magical vagina,” I confirmed. “And just by being you.” I cupped her face with one hand, wondering if she could see my eyes as clearly as I could see hers in the dusky light. “Sometimes I don’t think you know how much I love you.”
She turned her face into my hand, and I brought my other hand up to trace her jaw. She really has no idea, I realized. How just by being her, royal, sexy Poppy, she made me a better man. She made me feel at peace. She made me more like myself. I worried that she only saw herself through certain lenses—the lens of her family, maybe, or her own lens, which was harsh and overly critical and unyieldingly demanding.
She never really appreciated how smart she was, or how talented. She never seemed to realize exactly how gorgeous she was and how much I craved her. To fuck, certainly, but also simply to stare at. Staring at her made me happy. I couldn’t think of a simpler way to describe it than that. She was so beautiful to me that all I had to do was watch her, and life made sense again.
