Page 4 of Midnight Mass (Priest 1.50)
Thank you, I told God as Poppy’s body began trembling over mine. Thank you so much.
Is it weird to pray during sex? Maybe it is, but sometimes it happens. I’ve tried to accept that it’s who I am—a man who loves God, and who loves fucking, that I can be dirty and holy all in the same moment.
Poppy’s head fell back as her second orgasm took her, and I bit at her exposed throat and breasts as she panted and shuddered and clawed at my back. This time I let her feel every wave and every flutter while I was inside of her, stretching her and filling her.
And when she finally, finally, stilled, warm and limp and sated, I eased her off and onto the bed.
This next part was for her.
I took her hand and wrapped it around my cock, which was now so hard that it hurt, dark and rigid in the moonlight. It stood straight up from my groin, the flared cap swollen and darker than the rest, and beaded with pre-cum.
The minute her fingers closed over me, I lost the ability to think or to breathe. It was only deep emotional memory that forced me to stay still, sitting on the edge of the bed, my feet flat on the floor and one hand braced behind me. I used my other hand to cradle hers, guiding her strokes, feeling the Poppy-wet skin of my erection sliding with her hand.
I had to stay still so she could see it. Becau
se as responsive and needy as my lamb was, there was one thing in the world that turned her on more than anything else, and it was the sight of me coming. The actual act of it—my sounds, my expressions, and most of all, my dick pulsing in her hand or cunt or mouth or wherever, and then spilling its seed.
When she traveled, that was what she wanted to see when we Skyped. When I commanded her to touch herself, that was the mental image that pushed her over the edge. And the few times of the year that I let her take control and make me her slave—that was where her games always led.
I didn’t like to disappoint my lamb. Especially when I’d disappointed her in other ways.
Her grip tightened as her eyes raked from my face down to my tensing stomach down to where she was jerking me off, and she used her other hand to trace the furrows of my abs, the line of dark hair that ran from my navel to my groin.
Her face was hungry and she bit her lip as her hand worked faster and faster, and I felt four days worth of deprivation coiling deep in my core.
“So good,” I said raggedly. “You jack me off so good, lamb.”
Her lips grazed my ear as she leaned closer. “Come for me, Father Bell.”
Jesus Christ.
My balls seized, my stomach clenched—every muscle in my abdomen flexing—as I uncontrollably fucked her fist—and my fist around hers—tighter and harder and faster until I was cursing—
Fuck
Fuck
Fuck
—Because she hardly ever called me that and it shouldn’t be hot, it shouldn’t make me come. But the moment she uttered those breathy words, I was a man possessed, thrusting up between our joined fingers until I came in huge, milky spurts, coming and coming, and spilling over our hands and jetting onto my chest and her arm and still it kept coming, and before I was even finished, she was pushing me flat on my back and licking me clean. My dick, my abs, my navel, my hand. Even the delicate spot behind my balls, her tongue was there, laving off every drop of my climax.
And by the time she was done, I was fucking hard again.
“Hands and knees,” I ordered her, voice hoarse.
She scrambled to obey.
An hour later, we stepped out of the shower, mostly sated and bleary-eyed with the need for sleep. She wandered into our closet for a fresh pair of panties while I fell into bed, mind blissfully free of tomorrow and my imminent advisory meeting.
Poppy’s phone buzzed on her end table. A short buzz—a text.
It was four in the morning. Who the fuck would text at this hour?
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz buzz buzz.
