Page 19 of Sinner (Priest 2)
“But I do want you to touch me,” Zenny says, crowding me against the stove. “I know you’re selfish and sinful, and that’s why you’re the perfect person to give me this. You’ll give it to me and then leave, and you won’t be offended that I’ll never ask you for another kiss again. In fact, if anyone should understand wanting to do something for the simple, momentary pleasure of it, I’d think it would be you.”
“But—”
“Just once,” she coaxes, her eyes so big and pleading. “I promised myself I’d get this one last thing before I was invested as a novice. One last kiss.”
“But—”
“And who better than you, my brother’s best friend? I know you’ll keep me safe.” Her eyelashes flutter and she puts her hand flat on the middle of my chest.
And then slides it down my stomach.
“Zenny,” I grunt. “Shit.”
My dick is practically drilling a hole through my pants, and it’s like I can feel every single whorl of her fingertips through all the layers of my clothes as her hand moves down, down, down—
“Please,” she murmurs prettily, and how did she suddenly get all the power here? How did she end up taking control and how did I end up trapped and feebly protesting?
And then she says, “Sean,” in this way like she’s said it to herself before. Like she’s murmured it into her pillow, like she’s doodled it in notebooks, like she’s imagined what it would be like to breathe my own name back into my lips.
“Sean,” she says again and the heel of her palm hits my belt and it’s over, it’s done, my control is snapped like a cord.
I groan.
And yank her into a searing, burning kiss.
Chapter Six
The moment her lips touch mine, I’m lost. To myself, to her, to any memory of what is right or true or necessary.
Ecstasy. That’s what it’s called when saints experience spiritual euphoria, and I’m no saint, that’s for fucking sure, but this…this is ecstasy. The small whimper she makes when I slide my hand to the small of her back and jerk our bodies close together. The hesitant flicker of her tongue against my lips. The clean, sweet taste of her, the rose smell of her skin, the satin submission of her soft mouth under mine.
The trusting way her hands lace and hang around my neck.
And the tiny noise she lets out as I make her mouth fully mine—her tongue, her teeth, her lips—I hold nothing back. I turn so she’s the one backed against the stove, and I cage her in everywhere—my arms, my feet on either side of her feet—and I give in to every dirty urge pounding through me. I press my cock against her, my hands find her ass under the cheap fabric of her jumper, and I bite her lower lip until she moans. I keep it trapped between my teeth as I pick her up and deposit her on the counter next to the stove, and she parts her legs for me to step between as if we’ve done this a thousand times before.
The moment our bodies touch again, the moment the wide ridge of my erection brushes against the place between her legs, she lets out a gasp so sweetly surprised, so endearingly amazed, that I have to fist my hands in the skirt of her jumper to avoid doing something truly filthy, like playing with the edge of her panties. Like sliding my fingers under the elastic and finding out for myself if she’s shaved smooth or fuzzed with hair, if she’s wet and slick, if her clit is big and needy for rubs and kisses.
And then she grabs the lapels of my suit jacket and rocks her hips against me, seeking out the pleasurable friction again. And again. And again.
“Zenny,” I mumble against her lips, some valiant part of me recognizing that this is far, far beyond the kiss she asked for, and also recognizing that I’m going to come all over the inside of my Hugo Boss suit pants if she keeps it up. Even through the clothes, I can feel her heat, her shameless rolls hinting at where she goes soft and wet between her legs.
Fuck, I want to see it. I want to see her pussy. It’s suddenly all I can think about, all I can want or crave, just one glimpse, just a peek.
“I want to see your cunt,” I say hoarsely, lifting my head.
“My…cunt?” She says the word like she’s never said it out loud before.
“Yeah.” My voice is so ragged right now, so desperate, and fuck, I’ve never felt this frantic before. Like I’ll actually combust if I don’t get this one thing, this one small sight of her secret place.
She lets out a shaky breath, her hand dropping from my lapel to her skirt, which she slowly rucks up to her waist as I devour her lips once more, as I bury my face in her neck and kiss every sliver of skin exposed above her collar. I bite at her ear, at her jaw, my hand finding hers as it pulls her skirt up, so that I’m helping her do it, that we’re doing it together, this forbidden act, this forbidden revelation.
Her forbidden body.
That word, forbidden, spikes through my mind, bringing with it equal spikes of lust and fear. Because yes, it’s fucking hot that I shouldn’t be kissing her, I shouldn’t be begging to see her most secret place, my hand shouldn’t be covering hers as it slides up her thigh—but it’s also bad. Bad even for Sean Bell.
Bad, bad, bad.
Elijah’s disappointed face flashes through my thoughts, and I break our embrace, stumbling back a step. Zenny freezes, her mouth still wet and open from our kiss and her hand full of skirt fabric, hovering at the middle of her thigh. The long expanse of silky, dark leg gleams in the sunlight, and before she drops her skirt, I see a flash of snow-white cotton between her legs.
