Page 66 of Sinner (Priest 2)
“Shhh, it’s okay,” I murmur. “I paid off the manager on duty.”
“You what—”
But then I’m skate-crowding her behind the walls and walls of rental skates, into a dark nook that’s hidden from view. I brace my hands on either side of her shoulders and pin her against the wall with my gaze. “Now, let me show you something a man can do better than a teenage boy.”
Even in the dim, weirdly-shadowed light, I can see her pupils go big, and even over the music, I can hear her breathing change. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I lean in, trace the line of her jaw with my nose. As always, she smells delicate and floral, like roses on the wind. “You see, if I were a teenage boy, I’d be so excited to have a girl as gorgeous as you back here that I wouldn’t be able to be patient. I’d be shoving my hand up your shirt and mauling at your tits. But I’m no boy, Zenny, and I know how to take my time.”
She shudders as I move my face in the graceful curve between her neck and shoulder and I breathe her in.
“I know that girls need special little kisses,” I murmur, kissing her neck softly. “Special little touches.” And then my hand drops to the outside of her thigh, and I run my fingers up the seam of her jeans until I find a belt loop. I hook my fingers in the loop and gently tug her hips forward. Our bodies are almost pressed together now, and she’s arching to me, trying to get closer, seeking out pressure and friction.
I don’t let her yet, returning my attention to her mouth. To those perpetually pouty lips, which I brush my own lips over until she opens for me. Until I can slide my tongue against hers in a soft, warm dance. God, that tongue of hers, with its tentative flickers and hesitant flutters. I can’t stop the growl in my throat as she bravely reaches up to my neck and pulls me tighter against her, deepening the kiss.
And the thought of her inexperienced tongue making those same little flickers and flutters on the head of my cock drives me near mad, sending a rush of need so violent through my blood that my hand fists itself around her belt loop and I growl into her mouth.
My noises make her pant and break away just enough to speak. “What else do girls need?” she asks breathlessly. “Show me what a boy couldn’t.”
My other hand trails swirls over the collar of her T-shirt, make teasing tracks over the cups of her bra, giving her enough sensation to titillate, but nowhere near enough to satisfy. “You mean you want a man to please you? You want me to put my hand down your panties and make this awful, little ache go away?”
She nods eagerly, her eyes big and her lips parted and her hips squirming. “I need your help,” she whispers. “No boy my age knows how to make me feel better.”
The game is morphing a little, edging onto a dangerously pitched slope, and then Zenny goes ahead and hurls us over the edge. “If I were still a teenager,” she says, her eyes finding mine, and fuck they are so dark and hungry there’s no way I’ll be able to say no to anything she wants. “And you were still a man…”
“It would be wrong,” I manage to say, although any judge able to look at my thoughts right now would send me straight to jail.
“Seventeen,” she says. “Almost to eighteen.”
“Unethical.”
Her hips finally make contact with mine, grinding against my erection. “So close to legal.”
My cock surges, and I’m shamefully hard. “Jesus Christ.”
“Four years ago,” she persists. “I’d be almost eighteen.”
“I’d be thirty-two, Zenny.”
“And what if that’s when you saw me again? What would you do?”
“I’d—” Fuck. I can’t think straight.
“If you saw me, and I told you I needed help? That my body felt all strange, and I knew only you could make it all better?”
“Zenny,” I say, I plead. She’s done that thing again where she’s flipped the control, stolen it away and left me dazed and staggering, even though I’m supposed to be the expert and she the virgin.
She takes the hand still plucking at her bra cup and guides it down to her jeans button. “Just pretend,” she murmurs. “It’s just make-believe. I know you wouldn’t, but now I am an adult and we can pretend that you would.”
“I—”
“What if I showed you where it hurt?” she asks, now guiding my hand to cup her pussy. It’s hot to the touch, even through the denim. She presses my hand against her harder, rubs against it. “If I begged and begged and begged? If I said, just this one time, just this once, teach me how to make my pussy feel better?”
Teach me how to make my pussy feel better. Jesus, I can’t resist that shit. I let out a wounded, hitched breath and she knows she has me. A triumphant smile plays over her mouth.
My hand drifts up to the button of her fly and works it open with practiced ease. We’re both looking down at it now, at the view of my hand framed by our roller skates and jeans, and her old T-shirt and my too-expensive watch, and it feels very, very easy to pretend right now. And then when I’ve worked her jeans open and slid my fingers down her panties and I’ve felt how fucking wet she is, all the pretending goes out the window.
“Baby,” I whisper, wrapping one arm around her waist to hold her steady as I tickle over her slick folds. “My little nun is so wet for me.”
