Page 79 of Sinner (Priest 2)
I can’t explain it because I don’t understand it. I don’t understand myself, even.
I only understand that I love her.
“Sean,” she moans, and her head is flung back again, but this time not in pain, definitely not in pain. “I’m going to come again, oh God, oh my God—”
With a cry, she buckles and seizes around me, going so tight and so delicious, and the difference in this orgasm from her first is stunning, momentous, like it’s eating her alive and she can’t get enough of it. Her cries echo through the room, and she writhes and twists under my body, even as I keep her pinned in place with my hands and my hips. Impaled on my dick, she squirms and whimpers her way through it, finishing at last with an almighty shudder, and the sensation is so carnal, so vulgar, to have another person use you so baldly for their pleasure—and then for that person to be a gorgeous virgin who currently looks stunned, as if she never knew something could feel so good, as good as your cock inside her—
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mumble, because I’m coming, I’m going to come while I’m in her pussy, and I can’t, I promised her I wouldn’t, and I slide out of her cunt just in time. We both watch in crude, animalistic interest as my cock juts glistening and heavy between us, and then with several vicious throbs, fills the condom.
“Oh my God,” she breathes, “Sean, oh my God,” and then her hands are all over me as I finish grunting and pulsing my way through it, the condom finally full and my body drained.
“Shit,” I say again, but it’s probably the most reverently that word has ever been uttered.
Then my demanding newly-not-virgin sits up and says, “I want to do it again.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I’m amused at her eagerness, but I’m an unmoving wall of aftercare, which earns me a charming little tantrum.
“I’ll fuck you every time you ask me,” I promise. “But I need to make sure you’re doing okay first.”
“I’m okay,” she pouts. “Now come over here and do it again.”
I’m over at the bathroom door; I’ve just finished with the condom, and also with a ten-second staring session in the mirror where I stared at the face of a man who’s in love.
I’ve never been in love before.
It’s gutting and disorienting and dizzying—and joyful. Like a roller coaster careening wildly around corners, like a car punching into top gear as the highway streaks away underneath you. Like standing in a prairie summer storm—the blowing rain soaking your skin, lightning sawing across the sky, the wind a part of a song that you knew a long time ago but have since forgotten.
It’s too soon, but I love her.
She’s Elijah’s little sister and much too young for me, and she only wants me for sex, but I love her.
And she’s going to leave me for her God, but I love her.
I go back to the bed, and I undress her, I undress myself. I make us shower, flicking water at her from the spray while she stands just outside pulling on her shower cap and wrinkling her cute little nose at me. I spend a long time washing and soaping and massaging her, petting her and spoiling her and telling her how much I want her, how grateful I am, how perfect she is.
I don’t say that I love her. Not because I doubt it, not because it’s new, but because I honestly think it might spook her given her reaction to my there are no other women I care about like this comment the other day. I don’t want to scare her away, not when I’ve just gotten her, and also—is it even fair for me to tell her this? She didn’t explicitly say and we can’t fall in love when we were negotiating our arrangement, but I’d felt it in the air nonetheless, hanging like a heavy fog.
I don’t think she wants that from me.
And it might even be cruel to burden her with it in the looming face of her vows.
So I stay silent about that part, and after we’re toweled off, I spend another long time rubbing her with lotion and she rubs me with her lotion so that I smell like roses and I don’t even care. I want to smell like her always, I want to carry roses with me wherever I go. And I use the lotion as an excuse to check the bite marks on her breasts, to gently test her clit for soreness. I’m hard, and I’d love nothing more than to burrow inside her soft heat once again, but I refuse to hurt her. I couldn’t stand it if I hurt her.
But gradually she convinces me that she’s not sore, not hurting, and we go again, completely naked this time. She wants to try being on top, and she pierces herself on my offered-up cock in a slow, anguished slide. She’s shaking as she sinks home, and I murmur reassuring words to her, run gentling hands over her flanks and hips. I tell her how hot she is like this, perched above me like a goddess, how sweet her tits look, how hard it makes me to see her pussy stretched around my base, as if I barely fit. I do barely fit, and the thought is inflamingly coarse, sinfully vulgar.
So of course I share that with her too.
She rides herself to a whimpering, shaking orgasm—one I endure marginally more stoically than the last time—and when she’s finished, I make to pull off the condom.
“No,” she insists, dismounting me as if I were her steed, her stallion.
(God, that thought shouldn’t be as erotic as it is, but fuck me, I can’t help it.)
She puts her hand on my wrist. “Come in the condom again,” she says, her eyes gleaming in the dark. “I like to watch it.”
“Your wish is my command,” I whisper, and as she kneels next to me, my little anthropologist once more, I wrap my hand around my Zenny-wet cock and jerk off.
