Midnight Mass (Priest #2)

by Sierra Simone

  I stilled.

  Everything was so wet where she was sitting on me, so fucking wet and warm, and then without warning, she was tucking her skirt in one elbow and then gripping my root and then moving up and oh my fucking God oh my fucking God oh my fucking God.

  So tight. So wet. So fucking warm.

  Her pussy enveloped me in one rough movement, and her hold on my throat tightened as she started fucking me harder than she’d ever fucked me before, taking me to the hilt and then bucking against me, the sweet pink berry of her clit rubbing against the muscle above my cock.

  She moved violently, ferociously, punishing me for all of my sins—and fuck, if this was the punishment I deserved, then I would sin again and again and again. She wrapped her other hand around the lapel of my tux jacket, using the lapel and my throat for leverage, and she was like a woman possessed on top of me, riding me as hard as I’d wanted to ride her.

  “Oh my God,” I groaned, closing my eyes, barely able to breathe past her hand around my neck. I couldn’t watch her any more, that needy clit or those red lips or that elegant hand holding my lapel in a death grip. It was all too much, I was far too worked up, and I could feel a biting, gnawing hurricane gathering at the base of my spine.

  “Don’t you dare come,” she half-ordered, half-pleaded. “Don’t you fucking dare. Not yet.”

  I opened my eyes, and this time when I reached for her hips, she let me. I helped her move faster and harder, and it was only a few seconds more before her breathing grew ragged and her hips moved jerkily, a blush staining her chest and cheeks. And then she cried out, slumping forward onto me—her hand still fast around my throat—her pussy quivering in tight, squeezing flutters.

  “Oh God,” she was moaning, her face buried in my tuxedo jacket. “Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck.”

  And that is when I noticed that I hadn’t closed the door to the studio properly, leaving a small crack visible to the hallway. A shadow hovered in that hallway, a figure standing just to the side of the door. It only took one glance to confirm; Anton had finally found us. And he was watching.

  Let’s give him a show, a terrible version of myself thought. Why don’t you show him what it’s like when you get to take what’s yours to take?

  I flipped us over, Poppy’s orgasm-weak hands sliding off of me as I started driving into her. I had one arm around her waist and the other holding my weight, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t deep enough or hard enough or fast enough. I wanted Anton to see how rough my lamb let me give it to her, I wanted him to be able to feel the force of my fucking her through the floor, through the walls. I wanted the whole studio to shake with it.

  I pulled out and stood up, my dick like a thick, dark knife jutting out from my tux, and then I reached down and hauled her to her feet. She was unsteady and dazed, still panting and flushed from her climax, and she didn’t protest as I walked around and tugged on the zipper to her dress.

  Unzipped, the dress gaped in back, the straps threatening to slide off her shoulders, and I helped them along their way, stripping her completely naked, save for her strapless bra and heels. Poppy had once stripped for me in a club, and had stripped for me privately many times since, but those times, she’d been in complete control of her body and her sex. Those times, she’d held all the power, all the control.

  Not this time.

  This time, there was an undercurrent of darkness, of all the most misogynistic and prideful impulses a man can have for a woman. I wanted her to feel naked, vulnerable and humiliated, and I wanted Anton to witness it. I wanted him to see every inch of her sweet, perfect body and know that it all belonged to me, to use or degrade however I wanted. It was beyond sinful, it was borderline evil, and even the dim recognition of how terrible it was only served to inflame me more.

  “Take off your bra,” I demanded hoarsely, still behind her and looking down at her chest from over her shoulder.

  Shaking, she obeyed me, reaching behind her back and then letting the small black bra fall loose. I let out a short, heavy breath at the sight of her breasts—sweet and full and ripe and pink at the tips. I stepped closer, grinding my erection against her ass while my hands found her tits, palming them with rough, hard movements. Around us, the mirrors reflected every angle of our bodies ad infinitum, a never-ending tunnel of my tuxedo and her ivory skin and my hands so cruelly pulling and squeezing.

  “Look,” I whispered in her ear, hoping Anton was looking too. “Look in the mirrors. Can you see yourself?”

  She nodded against me, her eyes on the mirror directly across from us, where she watched one of my hands drift down to her stomach and then lower and lower, until my middle finger began stroking her clit. She squirmed.

  “I want you to watch me fuck you. I want you to see what I see when I fuck you, what other people would see if they were watching us.” Since we are being watched, I almost added but didn’t. This was between me and Anton, this struggle for possession. Poppy didn’t need to know.

  I pointed to the closest wall, where a two-tiered barre was installed against the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She knew without me elaborating what I wanted, and she walked over to the barre, letting her hands settle onto the wood as she took a deep breath.

  She watched me approach in the mirror, and when I got close enough, I gave her ass a firm smack. “Foot up on the barre, lamb. I want to see that cunt.”

  She lifted her foot, the gold heel tumbling off and falling to the floor, and then she extended her leg, resting her ankle on the barre. So now she stood on one heel, both hands braced on the barre, and with one leg stretched out to the side. All completely naked.

  I rubbed the head of my cock at her wet entrance, digging my fingers into her hips as I angled my body and slowly pushed into her pussy. “Watch it, lamb. Watch.” I reached up and found her face, forcing her to look at the mirror to her side, where the reflection perfectly framed my dick thrusting up into her.

  She shuddered at the sight. “Tyler,” she said breathlessly. “I’m going to—oh God.”

  “Not yet,” I said, leaning back a little so I could enjoy my own view better. “Isn’t that what you said to me earlier? Well, I’m saying it to you now. Not yet. Not until I’m pumping you full of my cum.”

  “Jesus,” she mumbled, her head falling forward. “I don’t think I can wait.”

  I was still watching my glistening dick pull out of and then push into that tight, pink pussy, that pussy that was so deliciously open in this position. With her leg up on the barre, I could hit her deep inside, and with the mirror in front of her, I could see every fleeting smile, every silent gasp, and it made me almost crazed to see how good she was feeling when I was being so very, very bad to her.

  “You like it when I use you like this?” I asked her. “When I strip you and humiliate you?”

  “Yes,” was all she could manage. Her tits bounced and the muscles in her thighs were bunched with the strain of this position, and that jagged heat was at the base of my spine, and then deep in my pelvis, and then exploding inside me and through me, with all the heat and shearing force of a hydrogen bomb.

  I should find her clit and rub it hard, I should make sure she comes again, but holy fuck, it felt so good and I needed this so bad, needed to fill her up with me, needed to release, needed to fuck her blind. And so I pounded into her as my climax shredded through my body, pounded her so hard that she fell forward, her face pressed into the glass of the mirror, and then she was screaming my name, screaming God’s name, as her channel contracted around me. Her support leg gave out and so in the end it was only my hands gripping into her hips that kept her upright as I drained my balls into her, not easing up until I knew every last drop was inside of her, until every pulse and throb of my dick had finally, finally stilled.

  I stayed there just a second more, not moving, just feeling the heat of my climax inside of her, just staring at her flushed, sated face—which was still pressed against the mirror—and simply savoring every toned, taut line
of her body. It was with the utmost reluctance that I pulled out, severing our connection and dispelling whatever magic and fury had taken hold of us in here.

  I hoped Anton had seen every second of it, but when I glanced at the door, he was gone. I gently set Poppy back onto her feet, helping her find the lost heel, and then when we both straightened and our eyes met, it crashed into me, sharp and explosive.

  The guilt.

  The shame.

  The knowledge of what I had just done—from being late to the gala, to my gnawing jealousy, to my using my lamb like a whore, just to prove a point to another man. And to prove something to her and also to myself, and fuck.

  I’d fucked up.

  I wasn’t looking in the mirror right now, but if I was, I wouldn’t recognize the man standing there.

  He wasn’t a priest.

  He wasn’t a good man, and he certainly wasn’t a good husband. And when I looked into Poppy’s newly tearful hazel eyes, I knew that nothing was okay.

  I was immediately consumed by the need to confess. To fall to my knees and spill every terrible, selfish urge and thought, to purge it all in front of her and for her, because I could see this wound in her eyes, a wound that I’d just worsened, and I had to fix it. I had to atone.

  “Poppy—”

  She shook her head. “Give me a moment, Tyler.”

  I fell silent.

  She took a deep breath. She was still completely naked, but it no longer mattered, because a distance was slowly settling in her eyes, along with a cold, elegant posture and a composed press of her lips—she wore an invisible armor that did far more to separate us than clothes ever could.

  I tried again, desperate to keep this chasm from opening wider. “I’m so sorry, lamb. I thought you wanted it—”

  “Give me a fucking minute!” Her voice started out quiet and collected, but then quickly escalated into a quavering yell, which reverberated against the studio floors and walls and also inside of my chest. She glanced away, breathing out and breathing in again. Then she turned back to me. “I did want it,” she said, calmer now. “And I wanted it like that. Rough and hard. Please trust me when I tell you what I want, and please trust me to tell you to stop if I need it. I’m frankly tired of having to give you explicit permission every single time we do something kinkier than kiss. I like being fucked that way, and tonight was no exception.”

  “But you don’t know what I was thinking when I was fucking you—”

  She let out a long breath, her jaw setting. “I knew exactly what you were thinking. I saw Anton too.”

  Oh shit.

  “Poppy…” She didn’t interrupt me, but I still stopped, because what could I say?

  “The thing is, I didn’t mind it. I thought it was kind of sexy, actually. You fucking me while he watched. And you want to know why?”

  Please don’t say it’s because you find him attractive. Please don’t say it’s because you want him.

  “He’s gay, Tyler. He was watching because he finds you impossibly sexy, and watching you fuck me is the closest he’ll ever come to fucking you himself, so I imagine it made his night. It’s hot to me because I love it when anybody—man or woman—notices how sexy my Father Bell is.”

  My mouth was dry and my mind whirled with this new information. “I don’t understand,” I said, blinking a little. “Anton’s gay?”

  “Gay,” Poppy confirmed. “And has had a massive crush on you since he met you a couple years ago. He asked me not to tell you, because it’s obviously embarrassing for him, and I am violating that request now because I am so sick of you being jealous over nothing.”

  “I just…I didn’t know…” I felt like such an idiot, wasting so much time being jealous and angry. Over nothing.

  Poppy bent down to get her bra and dress off the floor, and her movements were jerky and stilted, and I realized that Anton was not the issue here, at least not for her.

  “What is it?” I asked, hoping against hope that she would tell me and not storm out.

  She straightened up, fastening her bra and not looking at me. “This usually works,” she said, and her voice sounded choked. “We fight and we screw and then everything is fine. I thought it would work tonight—I thought this is what I needed to feel better. To have you use me, to have you make me come. But it’s not better right now.”

  “Because of the gala?”

  “Because of everything. When we met, you were a priest and so you were putting everyone first, never thinking about yourself or what you needed. And I was so proud to be the woman who could coax selfishness out of you, who could coax you to take what you wanted.”

  I knew immediately what she was saying. “I never meant to put myself first tonight, Poppy. It was Professor Morales and her baby, and please, lamb—”

  She was shaking her head, her hands trembling as she put her dress back on, barely able to manage the zipper but stepping away when I tried to help. “It’s not just tonight, Tyler. It’s been this entire year, and I can’t any more. I asked you for one thing—for one time. I asked you for tonight, because even though you’ve been a ghost all this year, I thought maybe if you came tonight and saw everything I’ve worked so hard for, that it would make up for it all. But now I think it wouldn’t have, no matter what you did or didn’t do.”

  I reached for her and I didn’t let her wriggle away this time, keeping her shoulders tight in my hands and searching her face. “Tell me how to fix this,” I pleaded. “I know I’ve fucked up and I keep fucking up, but things can get better. They will get better—my dissertation defense is this week and then all this craziness will be over.”

  “You really think it will make a difference?” she snapped. “You think you’ll be able to magically throw yourself back into being a husband?”

  I was almost speechless. “Of course, Poppy. This is just a season!”

  “Don’t give me that ‘season’ bullshit. You know what I think? I think that you will always be chasing after the next thing, the next vocation, the next escape. First a priest…then a scholar…don’t you see that you’re doing everything you can to hide from being just Tyler Bell, a person and not a title?”

  “That’s not fair,” I protested, sputtering. “I don’t use jobs to hide from anything!”

  “I need you to be a part of my life, and I’m not sure that you’re capable of that anymore,” she continued, not listening to me. “I’m beginning to think that you just want to be alone.”

  “Jesus Christ, Poppy. No. A thousand times no, that is not what I want! I want you!”

  “Then why won’t you stand by my side when I need you?” Tears streamed down her face. “Why do I have to eat alone, go to sleep alone, put up Christmas trees alone? This was supposed to be the beginning of our new chapter, this was supposed to be our next big moment—”

  I was confused. “What? This gala?”

  “Fuck the gala!” she cried. “Of course you have no idea what I’m talking about because you haven’t been anywhere around me when I’ve needed you. It’s like you don’t love me—”

  “Goddammit, Poppy, I left my church for you!”

  The words, angry and bitter, resounded in the enclosed room, echoing and drowning out every other noise. I hadn’t meant to say it, but it had burst out of me all the same, and once I said it, I knew that the damage had been done. To her and to me, because the party line—the thing we told curious acquaintances and friends—had always been that I’d left the church for me and for no other reason.

  And it was more than the party line, it was the truth. Except now I wondered if maybe it wasn’t the whole truth, and if this was just the first time I’d admitted it to myself.

  And in Poppy’s eyes, I could tell that I had just confirmed every unspoken fear she’d ever had about us.

  She took a step backward into the dark. “I need some time to think,” she said emotionlessly. “Please don’t be home when I go back there tonight.”

  No, I wanted to say. I want to fix th
is. I couldn’t imagine spending the night—all night—apart from her right now. I couldn’t imagine letting this wound fester and become infected with resentment and unexplained truths.

  God helped me in that moment, the slightest note of clarity in the midst of my pain and confusion. A tiny drop of peace, of you can do this, if only for her sake.

  “How long do you want me to stay away?” I asked and then I realized I was crying too.

  Poppy’s tears mirrored my own, but her voice was still flat and without affect when she said, “I don’t know. Maybe a week. Maybe more.”

  My chest cracked open and my heart fell out.

  “A week?” I whispered disbelievingly.

  “I’ll call or text when I’m ready to talk.” And without anything more, without an I love you or even a goodbye, she walked out.

  I went home and packed a bag. Realistically I knew that she would stay longer at the gala, and that even if she didn’t, she wouldn’t come inside while my truck was in the driveway, but I still hoped that she’d walk in while I was here. That she’d run in, having changed her mind, and then she’d let me apologize. She’d let me fall to my knees and confess, and then after I confessed, she would let me atone. I’d whip myself for her. I’d walk across broken glass and hot coals for her, climb up on a cross for her…although my intentions were still less than Christlike.

  Anger shadowed my guilt, anger and blame, and I knew that my desire to atone came not just from guilt, but from a desire to hurt her by hurting myself.

  Not Christlike at all.

  In the end, it didn’t matter. Poppy never came home. I packed my bag, looked around the townhouse, and then left for the closest hotel, which was a cheap, anonymous place with a squeaky bed and a framed picture of a spoon.

  I knew she said she’d call me when she was ready, so out of respect for her boundaries, I didn’t call.

  But I wrote.