Sinner (Priest, #2)

by Sierra Simone

she says, a tiny smile pulling a...

“O...

“O...

And she walks over to the door and I walk with her, telling myself that tomorrow I’ll find a way to let her down gently, that I’ll find a way to say no to this unthinkable scheme of hers. There’s no way she’s going to come to dinner tomorrow and I’ll say yes. I tell myself that and th...

I stand at the window for a moment, then mutter a quick fuck it and unbelt myself, giving in to the need to tug on my cock again. The flesh is straining and aching and a dark, angry red, and I brace a hand against the window and smell the air as I start yanking on myself. I smell the faint hint of rose. I smell Zenny. There’s nothing but the wild need to come jolting through my body as I imagine Zenny’s hungry, innocent kisses and the tight curves of her body and the inviting arch of her throat. Nothing but untrammeled lust coursing through my veins as I imagine the flash of her white panties, like some kind of sick “best friend’s little sister” fantasy brought to life. I imagine how her pussy would taste against my lips, how she’d smell, how she’d shiver when I circled my tongue around the dark rosebud between her cheeks after I suckled on her clit. I’m nothing but a beast, a man possessed with the need to fuck.

I was actually kind of relieved when you didn’t pick up the phone because it’s easier to talk into the void, as it were, than to talk directly to you, especially when your voice does that thing. You know the thing? Where it goes low and rough and the tiniest bit hoarse, almost like you’re already in bed. Do you do that on purpose?

ladies like it when you cook for them.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m worth twenty million dollars! I’ve snapped companies in half like kindling over my knee, and yet I can’t even be cool for one dinner? For long enough to make a fucking pot pie? But when I open the door and Zenny catches sight of the flour dusting my Hugo Boss suit pants and the steaming wreckage that is my kitchen, she laughs so hard she has to slump against the doorframe, and that laugh makes it all worth it. Her laughter is light, happy, still the tiniest bit girlish, and her smile is like a shot of sunshine right to the heart. I start laughing too.

“What happened?”

she finally manages to ask, her eyes roving over me again. Except this time they linger not on the dusty smears of flour, but on the tapered lines of my waist. On the places where my sleeves are rolled into crisp, straight rolls, showing off the forearms I pay an ungodly trainer’s fee for. Watching her drink in my body is headier than any eight-...

“I’m coo...

I say with dignity, closing the doo...

“And it’s going ve...

“I can see...

she says, and when I turn, she lifts her eyes to my face very quickly as she blushes. She was just checking out my ass. The knowledge sends hot blood south, and my fingers are burning with the need to touch her, hold her, yank her into a kiss. I walk toward the ...

“So are you going to do it?”

she asks. I pause the motions of the rolling pin, looking up at her. She’s in jeans and a worn St. Teresa’s Academy T-shirt; no headband or scarf today, just curls everywhere. She looks like a college student. She looks young. And the expression on her face—hopeful and nervous and filled with shy attraction—it’s not doing anything to help either my conscience or my stiffening cock.

“Do you mean, am I going to have sex wit...

And once I say it, I hear it—the voice thing she mentioned in her message. My words have gone all ...

“Am I going to fuck you like you ...

Her tongue peeps out to lick her lower lip, pink and wet, and...

“...

she whi...

“That’s what ...

And here we come to it, the thing, the reason she’s here tonight and the reason I couldn’t sleep after Family Dinner and the reason I spent today punishing myself in the gym and later in the office. I don’t know what a good man would do in my shoes. I can only guess at what an unafraid one might do. I walk around the island to her, taking the back of her chair and turning it so that she’s f...

“...

I breathe against ...

“...

she repeats in a trembling voice, as if she doesn’t quite believe me. She pulls back the tin...

“Really?...

“Yes. For the next month, my bod...

“Oh, ...

she murmurs, throwing her arms around my neck. Her lips are against my cheek now, impossibly soft, impossibly tempting, and my cock surges against my pants, reminding me that I’m only a half step away from being able to grind against her inner thigh. Against the ...

“Thank...

she says, kissing ...

“Thank you, tha...

And then she turns her head and finds my mouth with her own, and my world catches fire and burns into a shrinking nothing; her mouth is all that’s left, her yielding lips, her searching tongue, her sweet taste. It’s so very, very cliché, but kissing Zenny makes me feel younger, reminds me of the incendiary kisses one gets as a teenager, when every touch, every lick and caress is so fucking charged with excitement. As an adult, kissing can fade into something perfunctory, the prologue, the necessary foreplay to get a woman wet and squirming for what I really want—but as a teenager, I lived to kiss. Lived to make out. Even came in my pants once making out in a movie theater with a girl named Giana Saviano. I’d forgotten how fucking incredible just kissing is. God. I want to scoop her up and carry her to my room and kiss her there forever. With her body nestled against mine and my arms around her and our legs tangling. Just kiss and kiss and kiss⁠— My cock is not getting the just kissing memo, though, nudging against my pants and aching with the need for attention, and if I keep kissing her, I’m worried I’ll push us too far too fast, that I’ll spread her out on top of all this flou...

“What i...

she asks, her nervousness creep...

“Do you not want to…you know, is kissing not on the menu of...

“It’s on the...

I g...

“Everything’s on the fuck...

She visibly relaxes. I touch her lower lip with my thumb, then move to trace that sl...

“This mouth. I want to eat it and fuck it and worship...

I let my hand slide down, brushing my fingertips over the pebbled stiffness of her nipples. She’s wearing some kind of flimsy bra that ...

“In fact, that’s how I feel about...

Her lips are parted now and she’s not looking at me; she’s looking at my fingers teasing idly at her nipples through her T-shirt, as if she’s never imagined such a thing, as if she’s never known the sight ...

“...

I say, dropping my hand and nearly losing my load at the sound of her...