Page 2 of Midnight Mass (Priest 1.50)
She’d tried to wait up for me, like she always did. And I’d failed her.
Like I always did.
I’d shrugged off my laptop bag and sank onto the bed, not even trying to quash the self-recriminating bitterness that squeezed my heart and repeated all the things I already knew.
You don’t deserve her.
You’ll never deserve her.
And the worst: You failed at being a priest. Now you’ll fail at being a husband.
It didn’t matter that the dissertation was almost done. It didn’t matter that I’d blocked off all of Thanksgiving break to be with her, and that by Christmas, I would have unlimited time and attention to shower upon her.
What mattered was that she waited up for me, night after night, like a princess in a tower. And unlike the fairytale princes, I never rode to her rescue.
And so now here I was curled against her, with a throbbing erection and a guilty heart, and how could I wake her up to fuck her this late when she’d waited all night, alone, for me? What kind of selfish jackass would I be if I did that?
With a mental groan, I rolled onto my back, my dick screaming obscenities at me as it left the warm, firm cradle of her ass. It was more instinct than intention when my hand found my cock, though I couldn’t say the same for my other hand, which gently palmed her ass again.
I should go to the shower, I thought. But somehow that felt more shameful than simply jacking off here, and honestly, I wanted her more than I wanted my release. I wanted to be close to her, feeling her, and if I couldn’t have that, then I would rather wait until morning.
Except…shit. She’d have to work early tomorrow, since she’d be taking the rest of the week off. And she’d probably work late too, and I had a five o’clock meeting with my dissertation advisor, which meant I’d be taken by The Revision Frenzy afterwards.
This might be the most I got until it was time to drive to Rhode Island. And if she was waking up early, it would be doubly shitty of me to rouse her now just to satisfy my needs.
I pumped my cock a few times, glancing down and then allowing myself another silent groan as I dropped my head back and let go of myself.
Just sleep it off, Tyler. You’re a big boy, you can go without an orgasm for a day.
Even if it had actually been four days, fourteen hours and thirty-seven minutes, but who was counting? I had gone without sex for three years once.
Marriage had spoiled me, apparently.
I was naked and even the feeling of the sheet against me was too much, so I pulled the sheet down, laid back and tried to let the cool air in the room do the necessary w
ork and put my body—especially certain parts of it—to sleep.
And that’s when Poppy decided to wake up.
I felt her stretch beside me, her legs extending out as she slowly turned onto her back. Through the sheet, I could see the supple muscles of her dancer’s thighs, the slope of her waist and hips. Under her sheer lace tank top, her nipples hardened as the sheet slipped down to her stomach.
My grand plan to sleep off my erection was not off to a great start, not with the world’s sexiest woman stretching and squirming sleepily next to me.
Her hazel eyes fluttered open, the moon’s rays painting them a pale green and amber.
“Tyler?” she murmured, voice sleep-thick and huskier than normal.
“Lamb,” I whispered. She has to be up in about two hours; I should tell her to go back to sleep.
I should I should I should.
She blinked and yawned, her lips a sweet shell pink without their trademark red lipstick. Her lips stayed slightly parted after she yawned; her lips were almost always parted because her two front teeth were slightly too big, and the effect was that her mouth always looked open and ready.
And then her eyes were a little clearer, her expression more alert. She propped her head up on her hand, moving closer to me.
“What time did you get home?”
“About an hour ago.”
