Page 31 of Midnight Mass (Priest 1.50)
“Okay,” she whispered. The first words she’d spoken to me since the funeral.
I used one finger to slowly lift her veil past her lips, past her nose, past her eyes. And then I leaned in and brushed my lips against hers.
Electricity, hot and tingling, spread from my mouth to the rest of my body, and she parted her lips, a small helpless noise escaping her as she leaned into my chest. I kept holding her veil up with one hand and then I slid the other behind her back, pulling her closer. But I didn’t open my own lips, I didn’t probe her tongue with mine. I simply kept our lips pressed together, sharing skin and sharing breath, until I pulled away and lowered her veil.
Her breathing was ragged, and I knew her body craved more, but I wasn’t willing to exploit that. It was her heart and mind I was after, and I was too worn out and depressed to settle for anything less.
I reached up to her hair and slid out the delicate combs that held up her veil. And then I gently tugged her black blazer from her shoulders, drawing a shuddering inhale from her when my palms brushed against her stiffening nipples. I ignored the sigh (and the nipples) and focused on untucking her silk blouse, moving to the back to work on the small pearl buttons at the neck, and then I helped her out of it, followed by her skirt. Her stockings and garter belt were next, and goose bumps followed my fingers wherever they went, but I never touched her where I didn’t need to. My hands and eyes stayed focused on the clothing, even when I unhooked her bra and tugged her silk thong down to her feet.
She stood completely naked before me, jaw set with the effort of controlling her breathing, and I left her for a moment, to get her bag. Setting it on the table next to me, I dug through it until I found what I was looking for: her makeup kit. I used the wipes and gently, methodically cleaned her face. I wiped off the kohl eyeliner and mascara, the bronzer she used because she was self-conscious about being so pale, the crimson lipstick. When I was done, I ran a thumb over those naked lips, sweet and full and parted ever so slightly by her teeth.
She blinked up at me, her face fresh and clean. “I thought when you said red that meant…”
I shook my head. “Not tonight.”
“Tyler.”
I pulled her silk robe out of her bag and slid it onto her, belting the sash securely. Once that was finished, I met her eyes and decided to be honest. She had to know why I couldn’t fuck her safely tonight. “If I let myself go right now, it won’t be pretty. I’ll use that sash to gag you and two of my belts to fasten your ankles to those table legs over there. Then I’ll lean you over that table and fuck you so hard you cry.”
She swallowed, her pupils wide.
I ducked my head so she was forced to meet my eyes. “Is that what you want right now? Is that what you want tonight to be? All of my hurt and my grief directed at you?”
She grabbed my hand and dragged it under her robe. “I’m so wet for you,” she pleaded. “Please.”
My dick jolted but I stayed the course. I picked her up and carried her to bed, tucking her under the covers while I toed off my shoes and shrugged off my coat and tie. I left the dress shirt and slacks on, however, wanting more barriers between Poppy and me. I didn’t trust myself not to exploit her arousal otherwise, even though I knew that fucking her would only complicate things more.
I crawled into bed next to her. “Remember to say red,” I reminded her. And then I pulled her into me, so that our bodies lay flush together, my body curled around hers.
“This is hardly red-worthy,” she said after a moment.
“You spent the last week avoiding me, lamb. I think letting me take care of you and then spending the night in my arms is a lot more difficult than being fucked.”
And I was right. Because at some point in the night, a few hours after we’d fallen asleep, I woke up to the sound of her soft crying. She’d turned, so that her face was pressed against my shirt, and I cradled her there, running my hands through her hair and across her back while her tears spilled on my chest. I didn’t ask her what was wrong, I didn’t ask her anything, I just held her and stroked her until her crying grew quieter and quieter and she eventually drifted back into sleep.
I didn’t go back to sleep, though. I stayed wide awake, wishing I knew what she’d been thinking about, what had made her cry, what had caused her sudden shift in temperament last week.
Maybe I’d never know. Maybe this was how I lived now, on the outskirts of her emotions, too close to leave but too far away to help.
I held her tighter at that thought. No. I wouldn’t be on the periphery. I had to know whether she wanted me back inside…or if she wanted me gone altogether.
We had lunch with my parents, and then we were flying back home. She was just as quiet as she’d been yesterday, although she sought out my touch more—holding my hand while we waited to board and leaning against me on the plane. When we got home, I did the same thing I did in Kansas City. I helped her undress. I helped wash her—in the shower this time—and then I held her in bed. I knew that the shower had aroused her since she kept rubbing her thighs together as we snuggled in bed. But I also knew that letting me tend to her required more trust than letting me fuck her. And so I persevered. Even though we were both aware of my massive erection and her pained sighs.
It worked though, because the next day, a Tuesday, she asked if we could talk that night after she got home from work.
“Of course, lamb,” I said. And then she came over of her own free will and kissed my cheek.
It was a start.
I went to my final teaching sessions of the semester, proctoring their finals and making wild overestimations of when I’d have their tests graded. After that, I hit the gym and then the shower, and went home to make Poppy dinner.
I didn’t cook—I’ve never been interested in anything more complicated than grilled cheese—but I found a recipe online for bisque and did my best. Add in some wine and lightly burned dinner rolls, and it was a respectable meal, and I was rather proud of myself. When Poppy came home a few minutes later, I was just pulling my bisque splattered T-shirt over my head.
“Is it naked dinner?” she asked.
It was the most lighthearted thing I’d heard her say in almost two weeks.
“It can be if you want.”
