Page 44 of Sinner (Priest 2)
“You heard me,” I say silkily. “I want to see you while you eat. I want to know the color of your bra, I want to see the shape of your little nipples as they pucker up, all cold and needing to be sucked warm again.”
She swallows again, and this time it has nothing to do with food. “Jesus,” she whispers, and I can’t tell if it’s a swear or if it’s a prayer. It doesn’t really matter either way; she’s tugging her shirt off as fast as she can, tossing it behind her.
I rumble in approval, leaning forward to get a better view. She’s wearing a pale lavender bra, a sweet color against her warm brown skin, and I can see the dark circles of her nipples under the thin fabric. I can see them ha
rdening, pulling up tight.
I can also see the faint shadows of her ribs laddering down her sides and a faded mandala-like doodle spiraling out from her hip.
A college student who sometimes forgets to eat.
A college student bored in bed while she studies and draws idly on her own skin.
In classic Zenny fashion, she is a mix of fearlessness and uncertainty, squaring her shoulders and hiding nothing from my hungry gaze while she bites nervously at her lower lip.
“Perfect,” I rasp, and I see how my praise affects her. Good. I plan on praising her lots over the coming month. “Now finish eating while I look at you.”
“I—what?”
“Finish eating. I know you went to the shelter after your classes today, and I’m going to guess that you haven’t put anything in your stomach since maybe some coffee you had this morning.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Maybe.”
“And how often is that the case? That you’re doing so much between school and the shelter that you miss your meals?”
One of her hands comes up to rub at her shoulder as she looks away. “Often,” she admits.
“That ends tonight,” I say sternly. “Eat.”
There’s a moment when I think it’s coming, the inevitable asshole, the moment she tells me to stop. She doesn’t need some white guy playing Daddy with her, she definitely doesn’t need someone treating her like she’s not capable of caring for herself. But Carolyn Bell was a social worker until her cancer diagnosis, one Bell brother was a priest, another Bell brother burns a candle at both ends like his wick will never run out. I’ve seen what happens to busy people, and I know it’s much, much easier to justify losing a night’s worth of sleep for the cause than it is to justify taking ten minutes to make a sandwich. The most selfless people, the most driven people, they need permission to take care of themselves, they need someone who will put them first, because they won’t do it for themselves.
The word asshole never leaves her lips. Her eyes flash with irritation, then they shimmer into some internal struggle that leaves her lower lip trapped between her teeth and her hand hovering over her fork.
After a short silence, she picks up the fork and takes a bite. And another. And another, until her plate is clear. I watch her the entire time, stretching out in my chair and thrilling in this new feeling that’s a potent mixture of desire and a caveman-like satisfaction at tending to someone’s needs. The combination of seeing her eat the food I provided and the promise of all that smooth skin slowly pebbling into goose bumps.
She pushes her plate back and sets down her fork, giving me a look that says well? And also giving a little shiver of anticipation, because she thinks that was it, that I had my bossy fun and now we’ll move on to the part where I fuck away her sort-of virginity.
I do really, really want to do that. But I have plans first. Because if she really were my girl, there’s a certain way these things would unfold and since I’ve officially committed to Project Doubt, I’m going to give this experiment everything in my considerable power. Seduction, affection, bossiness, fun—everything.
I stand up, not bothering to adjust the thick penis pushing against my slacks; I’ve been hard for so long tonight that I’ve stopped caring if it shows. Zenny’s eyes follow my body as I clear the table and set the dishes in the sink, and more than once, I see her gaze linger over the ridge of my erection.
I resist the urge to smirk, but only just, coming back after washing my hands and helping her out of her chair. Then I trace a finger down her belly, circling her navel until she shivers.
“I’m going to unbutton these jeans, Zenny,” I tell her. “I’m going to unzip them. Then I’m going to slide my fingers inside your panties and play with what I find there. Yes?”
“Yes,” she breathes, her stomach quivering under my fingertip, and I make good on my word, slowly working the metal jean button through the buttonhole until it pops free.
Zenny gives an answering exhale—shaky but determined. I keep my eyes on her face as I tug the short zipper down, keeping tabs on her expression, on her comfort. Some embarrassment is normal, nerves are to be expected—but there’s a razor-fine balance I need to maintain between giving her what she wants and pushing her too fast. A month just isn’t enough time to do this properly, to cultivate and tend to her blooming lusts. To awaken her body.
If I could ask for anything right now, it would be a year with her. A year of tutoring and teasing and bossing and savoring her.
Even a year wouldn’t be enough.
That thought pings through the rest of my musings, loud and resonant, and I’m not sure where to put it, so I ignore it for now. I need to focus on what’s important, which is the girl trembling all pretty and eager in front of me.
I run my fingertips along the scalloped line of her panties, which match the color and the filmy material of her bra. I know without asking that this is probably the most daring lingerie she owns, and despite how modest it actually is—there’s no straps or mesh or cut-outs or any of the usual trimmings that makes women’s underthings into confections of fun—it makes the entire effect more delicious somehow, more sinful. My sort-of virgin, my almost nun, trying to be naughty and instead looking more innocent than ever.
I look down to where my fingers toy with the top edge of her panties, then back up to her face.
