Midnight Mass (Priest #2)
Page 13
This is the most pre-meditated part of our night together—lube, baby wipes and a towel are tucked under the confessional bench—yet I find myself completely lost in the moment as you drag me to the small wooden stall.
You sit, still keeping hold of me, and then you spin me so that I’m facing away from you. My skirt is pulled down and my panties torn off (I’ve learned to buy cheap ones when I know I’ll be fucking you.) The garters and stockings stay.
“Take off your blouse.” The slight hoarseness in your voice betrays you. I feel your hands roughly plumping and squeezing my ass as I do what you ask. “Now kick off your heels.”
I obey and then I look back at you over my shoulder.
You’re sitting with your legs spread and your feet flat on the floor, your pants lowered just enough for your cock to be free. Your jaw is set, your eyes are dark, and your hands are rough on my skin as you continue to fondle my ass.
You own this confessional. You own me.
I see you reach over for the small white tube, clicking it open and lazily dribbling the cold, clear gel onto your cock. The first time we did this, we used anointing oil, too desperate for each other to wait to find something more suitable. (Or at least something less blasphemous.) The memory makes my core heat up all over again, everything below my navel tingling and humming and alive.
“You’re making me sin,” you reprimand as your hand begins to slowly pump your cock. Lube glistens over the dark, hot skin, and I see you curl your fist tighter. “You’re making me do something I shouldn’t do. You’re making me want it. That’s very, very bad of you.”
Can a man look regal as he strokes himself? I don’t know, but that’s how you look right now, with the muscles of your arms and shoulders bunching beneath your shirt and your powerful legs splayed out and your magnificent cock so prominent and proud.
“Am I in trouble?” I ask coyly, batting my eyelashes.
“So much trouble,” you mutter and then one of your hands wraps around my waist and yanks me back and down.
The moment your dick presses between my cheeks, I feel my nervousness from earlier melt away. This is what we do, this is who we are. I can’t lie and tell you that you being a priest didn’t make me want you at first. I can’t lie and tell you that the forbidden beginning to our relationship doesn’t still get me hot, get me off sometimes when I think about it.
But at the heart of us, at the bedrock of our love, there is only raw trust and deeply rooted hope. Yes, I fell for you because you were a priest. But I stayed in love with you because you were you, Tyler Bell, smart and jealous and spacey, and devoted and tortured.
All of this I feel as the wide crest of your crown slowly pushes past the first ring of muscle and then the second, all while you are pressing me down onto you, impaling my tight ass on your erection. I focus on breathing and opening, on relaxing for you, breathing in controlled, shuddering breaths until my ass cheeks are pressed into your groin and I’m as far down as I can go. You’ve bottomed out, and you allow yourself a muttered fuck, that’s tight.
We pause like this, you leaning your forehead against my back and me speared on your cock, facing away from you and looking out of the open door of the confessional and into the empty sanctuary.
“Ready, lamb?” you whisper in my ear.
I hate not being able to see you, but it forces me to pay attention to everything else even more: the rasp of your voice, the rough pads of your fingers as they caress my breasts, the thick erection filling me up so full that I can barely stand it.
And then there’s no telling where the role-play ends and we begin anymore, because your hands move to my waist, lifting me up and down, up and down, and it’s rough enough that my safe word floats to the surface of my mind. But for every deep thrust where you bury yourself to the balls, for every whispered slut and make me come, make me fucking come, there is a light kiss between my shoulder blades, a hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
I love it. And by the end of it, the emotional charge of our play-acting and the sweetness lingering underneath and the brutal ass-fucking have all contributed to my mind feeling blissed out, spaced out, my orgasm erupting out of nothing and rippling through nothing, and I’m a body of contradictions—tense and relaxed, shuddering but calm, present but also soaring far above it all.
As I come, you move my ass onto your dick so hard and fast that I almost scream, and then you grunt lamb, and finally, you pulse deep and long inside of me, marking me as yours as you release, your fingers digging into my waist.
Te amo, you croon into my hair as we both come down. Te amo.
I love you.
“I love you too,” I mumble, my body too come-drunk to operate properly.
You chuckle at the way I’m slumped back against you, and then you’re helping me up, helping me clean myself before you help me dress again.
We are both sheepish as teenagers when we emerge from the confessional and into the sanctuary. You even have an adorable blush high in your cheeks as you pluck unconsciously at your collar. We will drive back to our hotel and then wake up in a few hours to spend Christmas with your parents. But first…
“That was the best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten,” I tell you, leaning up on my tiptoes to kiss your mouth. “Now can I give you yours?”
“Of course,” you say, amused and happy, and I skip off to my purse where I pull out the small box. As I hand it to you, I think about this year. About what we’ve lost, but also what we’ve gained. My flagship studio exceeding all expectations. The book deal for your memoir, which already has huge buzz a few months before it hits the shelves. A new place in the city. A better understanding of each other.
You tug the ribbon of the box and then carefully open the wrapping paper by sliding a finger under the seams. And when you see what’s inside the narrow box, tears fill your eyes.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” I tell you. “I’m scared. But I know that no matter what happens, we will endure it together.”
“Oh my God, lamb,” you breathe in wonder. The box tumbles to the ground as you reach for my face. And before your mouth crashes into mine in the happiest, sweetest kiss I’ve ever had, I catch sight of your present upturned on the ground.
A white stick with a little blue cross in the window. The answer to a hundred thousand prayers. Prayers that seem to swirl and dance around me now as you rejoice with me.
“Amen,” I murmur to those prayers, my lips moving against yours as I speak the word out loud. “Amen.”
Author’s Note:
I wasn’t sure how to end this book. Romance wisdom seemed to dictate that there are two kinds of Happily Ever Afters: marriage and having children. If Book One ends with a marriage, then Book Two should end with a baby. It makes sense and also, who doesn’t love babies? More importantly, who doesn’t love reading about a romantic hero melting over his baby?
Part of me wanted to end it with a happy, healthy baby, but as someone who’s suffered through three miscarriages, I also resented the idea that Tyler and Poppy’s narrative would need to be “redeemed” with a healthy birth. I didn’t like that we so rarely have a place in romance for women who struggle with infertility, who may never have the Happily Ever After that our culture teaches us we need to have. Not to mention the women and couples who consciously choose to remain childless. Two people can have a fulfilling and deep life together no matter how many places they set at the dinner table.
So instead, I ended the story with a possibility. With a hope. I reserve the right (as the capricious author I am) to decide for sure what happens to Tyler and Poppy after this curtain closes, but for now, we end with the knowledge that whatever happens, Father Bell and his lamb will still live happily (and sexily) ever after.
If you would like to read more about miscarriage support, there are a few marvelous places to start:
Through The Heart
My Baby Angel
Miscarriage Association
Other books by Sierra Simone:
The Markham Hall Series:
The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
The Education of Ivy Leavold
The Punishment of Ivy Leavold
The Reclaiming of Ivy Leavold
The London Lovers Series:
The Seduction of Molly O’Flaherty
The Persuasion of Molly O’Flaherty
The Wedding of Molly O’Flaherty
There are so many people to acknowledge when it comes to Father Bell that it’s almost intimidating to even try. Laurelin, as always, my co-conspirator and my co-brooder. Kayti McGee and Melanie Harlow, CPs extraordinaire. Guys, maybe things won’t be spiders after all!
Geneva Lee and Tamara Mataya, founts of wisdom and laughter, and Linda and Sharon, the savviest women I know. Sarah, you are indispensable, never leave me, and same with you, Candi. You allow me to hide, and that’s the only reason I haven’t fled the country yet.
To Delancy for making my sentences shorter and my tenses correct, and Cait for making it all beautiful.
As always, to the Dirty Laundry girls and the Literary Gossip girls. Without you, there would be no Sierra. (And Ang Oh, I’ll never forget that dreamy night we spent sharing a trolley seat in Savannah.)
To all the other blogs that have been so kind to Sierra Simone—TRSOR, Natasha’s A Book Junkie, Shh Mom’s Reading, Maryse’s Book Blog, Schmexy Girl Book Blog, True Story Book Blog, Fiction Fangirls, Kinky Girl’s Book Obsession, and so many others that I know I’m forgetting. THANK YOU!
And finally to the lambs in Sierra Simone Books. There would definitely be no Sierra without you ladies.
Sierra Simone is a former librarian. She lives with her hot cop husband and family in Kansas City. You can stalk her on Tumblr and Pinterest, and you can also email her at thesierrasimone@gmail.com.
Table of Contents
Title
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Author's Note
Other Books by Sierra Simone
Acknowledgments
About the Author