She’s a grown woman. They’re only friends. You’re just being jealous.
And besides, you are the one in trouble right now.
All of that was hard to remember with Anton hugging her. I dragged my eyes away from the spot where his hand cupped her shoulder and met my wife’s gaze.
“Good evening, Poppy. Anton. Sorry I’m late.”
I knew, even before I finished talking, that I had not successfully scrubbed the jealousy from my words. I knew that my expression surely betrayed every conflicted emotion that I felt. All of this was confirmed when the two donors mumbled excuses, and left Poppy, Anton and me alone.
That was fine. Because now Anton looked supremely uncomfortable, dropping his arm from Poppy’s shoulders and clearing his throat. “Hello, Tyler.”
I studied him. He was a few years older than I was, with light brown hair and amber eyes, several inches shorter than me, and—I noticed this with terrible, selfish glee—he was a little soft in the stomach and thin in the arms, something that even his well-tailored tuxedo couldn’t hide.
He didn’t seem abashed or flustered, at least not in the way that someone who had done something wrong would seem abashed. His discomfort seemed to come from a place of supreme shyness. In fact, he was offering me a shy smile now, and I hated the fact that he looked so handsome while he did it.
“Anton, do you mind if I speak to Poppy for a few minutes?”
“Of course,” Anton said hurriedly, already moving away from us. “See you in a bit, Poppy.”
He left and the band finished their song, the loft drifting into a tide of quiet chatter. Poppy and I stared at each other for a minute, me hungry for her and her angry with me, and then finally she stepped forward, so close that her dress brushed against the fabric of my tuxedo trousers.
“I don’t want to talk here,” she said firmly. Her heart-shaped face was tilted up to mine, that sharp chin defiantly set, and I couldn’t help it, I reached up to touch her jaw.
There it was: a flutter of the eyelashes, a small intake of breath. She was as hungry for me as I was for her.
“You’re mad,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes. And I meant what I said—I don’t want to talk about this here.”
“What I want right now has nothing to do with talking.”
The moment I said it, I knew it was the wrong thing to say, but I didn’t fucking care. Everything felt like it was closing in on us—on me—and I couldn’t breathe for the stress and loneliness and anger rolling off my lamb in hot, metallic waves. I was furious and aroused and it didn’t matter that I was the one who had been late, that I was the one to let her down, I only knew that my chest felt like it would burst with all the conflicting feelings inside of it. I only knew what I needed. And right now, I needed her.
If she had been a different woman, she would have slapped me. As it was, I could see spots of color blossom high in her cheeks and the lines of her neck stiffen as the band struck up a new song.
“If you think,” she said in a dangerously low voice, “that this is going to end with me fucking you, you are severely mistaken.”
“Will you at least listen to me? I am sorry I’m late, but—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Whatever you have to say, it won’t help us right now.”
I pressed my lips together, not trusting myself to speak because the only words that came to mind were indignant ones. Defensive ones.
Poppy leaned closer, her chest pressing into my ribs. From any other vantage than my own, it looked like a gesture of marital affection, but they couldn’t see the flare of her nostrils or the diamond-hard eyes that now glared up at me. “You are so jealous of Anton, and you know what? You should be. You should be jealous, because at the end of the day, he’s the one who is consistently there for me. He’s the one I tell my thoughts and fears to, and he’s the one who knows—” she broke off, her eyes sliding away from mine.
I found her chin with my fingers and turned her face back to mine. “Knows what, Poppy? What could he possibly know about you that I don’t?” Still holding her chin, I brought my mouth to her ear. “I know the things you think about when you’re alone. I know every single fantasy you have in that pretty head of yours, and I know which words and which sights get you wet. I know what the inside of your pussy feels like and I know what the inside of your soul feels like. I know what books you fall asleep reading at night and I know which blanket is your favorite to use by the fireplace and which is your favorite to use in the recliner. I know how to make you come so hard that you forget who you are, and I know that you are so hungry for my orgasm that you’d drop to your knees right now and let me jerk off onto your face. Right here, right now, in front of all these people. Wouldn’t you?”
Her breathing was rapid now, her chest expanding and deflating against my own chest, and there wasn’t a part of her that wasn’t covered in goose bumps. I let go of her face and pulled away, satisfied that I’d made my point, and for a minute, I thought it had really worked. I thought I’d convinced her to let go of her anger.
I was wrong.
She stumbled back as if I’d pushed her—which I had, in a way. I’d pushed her with my words, and she looked so stung and so stimulated—all wide pupils and parted lips and flushed skin—and then the tears surfaced, large glassy tears in those hazel eyes, spilling over onto her cheeks. She turned away and pushed past the guests in the loft to go downstairs.
I watched her go, that red lace fluttering around her legs as she fled from me, and I knew I should stay put. People don’t run away unless they want space, and Poppy had plenty of reason to want space from me right now, given that I’d just made her cry in front of all these influential people. Guilt held me by the back of my neck, closing my throat and twisting my gut, and I just wanted to smash something—a window or a car door or even my own bones. Even more than that, I wanted to chase after her and apologize for being such a giant prick, for being the worst husband in the world.
But Feminist Ally Tyler was telling me to respect her space and her boundaries, to accept that the rest of this discussion had to happen on her terms, and that meant not running after her and bending her over the nearest table.
Fuck.
I hated doing the right thing.
Hated it.
I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, wondering what God would want me to do. There were no bible verses for how to let your partner walk away from you when you were both mad as fuck, especially when you were both horny as fuck on top of it all. There were no bible verses for having an erection in a tuxedo or for watching your wife disappear down an open flight of stairs while the slow, jazzy strains of “S’Wonderful” echoed against the high white walls and glass ceiling.
I guess I’m on my own again, even though I’m doing the right thing and it fucking sucks. Thanks a lot.
I should go home. Poppy would have to come back eventually, and we would talk then. Except, I’d probably have to work on my dissertation all day tomorrow…and the day after that and the day after that, not even counting the classes that I would have to teach, and of course not counting the fact that Poppy would have to work herself…
Shit, I missed Missouri. I missed my entire world being focused on one building—St. Margaret’s—and I missed Poppy working from home and on her own schedule. How were we supposed to fix this when we had no time together?
It didn’t matter. I should go.
I started moving through the guests, towards the back staircase, when I noticed a familiar form descending down the large front stairs to the main studio, in the same trajectory Poppy had taken.
Anton was going alone, and while part of me reasoned that he probably just wanted to check on his friend whom he’d seen visibly upset as she ran away from her own party, another part of me churned back into full-blown rage. Fuck boundaries, fuck doing the right thing. He didn’t get to go after my wife. That was my prerogative, my privilege, my job.
I changed d
irections and followed him, my dress shoes loud on the steps as I descended into the studio. I couldn’t see Anton or Poppy, so I drifted around the corner into the long hallway that led to the smaller studio rooms, all with their large mirrors and long barres.
Empty studio after empty studio, and then, in the very last one, I saw Poppy. She was alone (thank God), hugging herself and looking out of the window, her back to the door and me. In the mingled light from the moon and the streetlights, I could see her shoulders shake as she cried softly to herself. A lone tendril of hair had escaped from her updo, hanging in an elegant curl against her neck.
I stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind me.
She turned her head, looking back over her shoulder. She didn’t speak.
“Tell me to leave, and I’ll leave,” I said, taking another step closer. “Tell me not to touch you, and I won’t.”
A tear spilled over her cheek, gliding down to her jaw. But she remained silent.
“Say red or whisper it or mouth it even—and I’ll go, no questions asked. I’ll get a hotel room so that you can come home without me there.”
Still nothing from her. I’d halved the distance between us and I kept coming closer, determined to give her a choice. To let her know that she could say no to me at any point, and that I would leave if she did.
I finally got close enough to touch my lamb, but I didn’t yet. I was so fucking hard for her, and my hands practically vibrated with the need to seize her, but I didn’t.
She was still looking at me over her shoulder. Tear tracks glistened on her face, and that stray lock of hair on her neck hung so gracefully against her skin…I wanted to tug on it. I wanted to bite that neck and suck hard on the delicate skin there.
“Just say red or leave or go, at any time. And I will stop.” I met her eyes. “Do you understand?”
Without blinking, she inclined her head the barest amount.
Not good enough, I thought.
“Say ‘yes, Father Bell, I understand,’” I commanded.
It was either the demand that she call me by that name or the tone of voice that did it. The breath left her body in one ragged exhale, and she finally turned to face me, lifting her tear-streaked face to mine. For a moment, I thought maybe she wouldn’t respond, or maybe she would tell me to leave, or maybe she’d resort to physically pushing me away.
She didn’t do any of these things.
“Yes, Father Bell,” she whispered instead. “I understand.”
“My little lamb,” I murmured, finally able to give in and touch her. I slid one hand around her neck, finding that stray tendril in back and curling it idly around one finger as I spoke. “The things I want to do to you…”
Her lush red lips parted. “If you do those things to me, you’ll have to fight for them.”
“Is that what you really want?” I asked, moving her silky hair between my fingertips. “Or is this your way of asking me to leave?”
“No,” she said firmly. “I want you to fight me for it. I want to fuck you, and I want it to be rough. I just also wanted you to know that I’m so furious with you right now, and it makes me want to leave scratches all over your body.”
I almost groaned at that. Every word she spoke made my cock throb painfully, and I was torn between jumping feet first into this hatefuck or dropping to my knees and begging her to put my dick out of its misery.
She cleared up that dilemma for me when she palmed my erection through my tuxedo pants, squeezing hard. “I want you to hurt when you come for me,” she hissed.
“And I want to fucking tear you apart,” I growled.
Her eyes flashed. “I’d like to see you try.”
My hand was wrapped around her throat in an instant, pushing her back into the cold glass of the mirror. My other hand found her wrist and moved it above her head, but before I could properly pin it against the glass, she slapped me across the face—hard—the crack resounding through the small studio like a gunshot.
I staggered back—more surprised than hurt, and harder than ever—and she slipped from my grasp, ducking under my arm and bolting for the door. With the lacy skirt of her dress bunched in one hand and her gold heels shining in the moonlight, she looked like a princess out of a fairytale. This wasn’t a fairytale, though, and even if it were, I certainly wasn’t playing the role of prince tonight.
I caught up to her in a few long strides, grabbing her arm and spinning her around to face me. Her foot shot out, connecting with my shin, the bright flash of pain loosening my grip enough that she could try to pull away—try being the operative word. I reached for her waist and wrapped an arm around it, pulling her tight against me and pressing my erection into her stomach.
“You feel that?”
She squirmed against me, trying to wriggle free.
“That’s for you, lamb,” I told her, pinning her tighter against me, making her feel every inch of my hardness through our clothes. “It’s all for you.”
And then I kissed her, my mouth crashing against hers, and she moaned into my mouth, forgetting herself and opening her lips to me, letting my tongue flicker against hers. Everything about her was so soft right now—her mouth, her stomach against my steel-hard cock, the upper arm I still held tight in my grip.
So soft—
Four lines of pain, blazing and sharp, razored down my neck. I felt anger and lust and that uniquely visceral thrill that came from feeling as if I’d paid a penance, as if I’d endured a just punishment; I pulled back to see Poppy’s eyes wide and feral in the light, her hand still raised.
Our gazes met. Blood welled hot out of one of the scratches, spilling over and down into my tuxedo shirt.
And then she tried to run again.
I managed to hold on to her enough that she only made it a step or two, and then the momentum took us both. We fell into a tangled pile of lace and legs and arms, and I struggled to regain a hold on her, but she was too fast, up on her hands and knees trying to crawl away, and I crawled after her, stretching out to wrap a strong hand around her ankle.
She shrieked in protest as I hauled her back to me, climbing over her and trapping her body under mine. “Let’s see what I’ve caught,” I rasped in her ear, pinning both her wrists with one hand and then using my other hand to lift the skirt of her dress.
She kicked her legs and tried to twist away, but my position on top of her made escape impossible. Somewhere, in the back of my lust-addled mind, a messenger from my conscience revived. Make sure she’s still okay, it demanded. Check to see if she needs to stop. After all, we’d had rough sex before, but never in anger. Never like this. This was uncharted territory.
My fingers paused at the edge of her silk panties. My hand shook with the effort of stopping; hell, my whole body shook with the effort of stopping. But I did it. One faint point in Good Guy Tyler’s favor.
“Do you want me to stop, lamb?” I forced myself to ask. “I can stop.”
Her mouth twisted into a victorious smile. “Why, are you afraid of losing?”
“I won’t lose,” I growled.
“Then shut the hell up and fuck me!” she panted. “I already told you I wanted it this way, what more do you need?”
Good Guy Tyler would probably need lots more things. But Good Guy Tyler wasn’t here right now.
Father Bell was here instead. And church was in session.
Still holding her wrists to the floor, I started rubbing her clit over the silk of her panties, relishing the way her eyes fluttered shut when I found just the right pressure, just the right tempo, and she stopped tried to wriggle free, instead bucking her hips up to meet my hand. Even the outside of her panties were damp, which made me think of our heated moment in the loft, which made me think of Anton and the fact that I wasn’t sure if he was still down here searching for Poppy or not. In a moment of renewed anger, I fisted one side of her underwear and tore them off her hips, shredding the delicate embroidered fabric and leaving her sweet cunt bare for me.
And then I spanked it.
She let out a little squeak, squirming away from me, and I spanked it again, just to hear her make that noise again. I got to my knees and straddled her waist, leaving her pussy wet and exposed behind me. With the hand not holding her wrists, I fumbled with my button and zipper, my dick springing free, dark and veined and so hard it ached.
“Open those red lips for me,” I said.
“Make me.”
I moved up her body and angled myself forward, the flared crown of my cock nudging against her lips, which were pressed firmly closed. “You want me to make you?” I threatened.
She raised an eyebrow in challenge.
Quick as a flash, I let go of her wrists and reached into the bodice of her dress, where I found an erect nipple and twisted. She cried out in mingled pain and pleasure, parting those lips, and I thrust my hips down at the same instant, shoving myself inside her mouth.
I let out a string of swear words the moment my dick was inside, pushing against her tongue. Fuck and shit and Jesus, that feels so good. I started moving in and out, and then I let go of her wrists to brace myself more heavily on the floor, my other hand tangling deep in her hair.
I shouldn’t have let go.
She flipped onto one side, unsettling my balance and also removing her delicious mouth from my dick, and then she scrambled out from underneath me. I tried to hold onto her hair and then she was struggling with me, and I wasn’t sure how she managed it, but there was another slap and then a shove so hard that I tumbled backwards, my head knocking against the wood floor. Adrenaline pounded through me, the urge to fight and to fuck, and then she was crawling up my body like a tigress, her face wild and sexy as hell with her slightly blurred lipstick and stray hair falling from her up-do.
She straddled me, pressing her bare pussy against my bare cock, and it was a twisted version of the first time we’d ever fooled around together, her rubbing herself against me while I grabbed her hips to move her harder and faster. But this time I wore a tux, not a priest’s collar, and we were in Poppy’s dance studio, not a church. And this time she swatted my hands away impatiently, moving her hand up to squeeze around my throat.
Midnight Mass (Priest #2) Page 7