“Because,” he says, blowing cool air on my core. “I love watching you come apart for me, Shortcake.” His words are husky and low. Then, before I have time to respond, or think of anything more, his mouth lands on my slit, sucking my clit into his mouth, and I’m unraveling like a ball of string. My cries are loud and I’m thankful that Chels isn’t here because I’m sure the neighbors can hear me.
My eyes roll back as he dips two fingers inside me, pumping them in and out. Another orgasm so fierce hits me that I’m certain I’m about to pass out. He doesn’t relent. I’ve drenched his mouth, face, tongue, and I can’t stop chanting his name.
“That’s my sweetness,” he utters with reverence.
I’m still coming down from the high when he rises and I notice he’s already naked. He settles himself over me, between my thighs, and nudges my entrance. Easily, my slick heat accepts him and I wrap myself around him like I’m trying to climb into him. As if we’re about to become one person.
“Austin.” His name on my lips is pure pleasure as he moves with me. Our bodies are synced as always. His cock plunges into my depths and I claw at his back, pulling him deeper. “More, please,” I cry out as the crown of his dick hits that spot and I see stars.
“Yes, baby, come for me,” he growls, and I do.
I fly apart around him, pulsing and sucking him into my body. I’m needy. I want all of him. Always. Forever.
“I love you, Austin,” I whisper into his ear.
His eyes meet mine and they crinkle when he smiles. “And I love you, Lily.”
His Temptation
A Taboo Novella
Forgive me Father…
Reid
It’s been one of those days.
The collar is tight.
The church is stifling. The only thing I long for is time outdoors. Fresh air without the memory of her. She walked into the confessional again this morning. Her voice so gentle, sweet, wholesome. I recognized the tone at once; even though confession is anonymous, I knew it was her.
Sage King.
One of the most popular eighteen-year-old girls in this modest community. Trinity is one of those scenic harbor towns. When the rector asked if I wanted to move to Canada, I accepted. I’d needed to leave the US, and this was the ideal opportunity.
Eight months ago, I packed a suitcase and strode out of the small log cabin I called home and never looked back. When I turned twenty-five, I didn’t expect my life to take the direction it did, but now, at thirty, I’m married. Not to the woman I loved. To God.
Only, I’ve had a wandering mind. It goes places it shouldn’t. I’m sitting in my office, preparing a sermon for Sunday’s mass, and the only thing on my mind is that young woman.
Her long, dark hair, sleek, straight, and glossy. The color reminds me of gingerbread, the length perfect for wrapping around my fist. Her big, brown eyes innocent, although sinful. Her mouth. Fuck. I can’t think about her lips without my dick straining against the black slacks I wear every day.
Dropping the pen, I sit back, shutting my eyes, remembering the confession this morning.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“And what is it you need to confess, child?” My tone is gravelly. Her voice sends heat racing through every part of my body, and I have to adjust my thickening erection. It’s worse than I realized. The guilt eats away at me, but I’m a human being. Weak. Needy. I can’t stop my desire for her.
“I’ve . . . I mean . . .”
“It’s okay, child. You’re safe here.”
Is she? No. Because if she strode into this booth and dropped to her knees, I don’t think I’d be capable of saying no. There’s no way I’d be able to resist sinking into her mouth. Having those glossy, pastel-pink colored lips around my cock would be heaven itself.
“There’ve been things I’ve done. Things I shouldn’t do. My parents would disapprove of me if they knew.”
“We all do things we’re not proud of, little lamb. It’s how we repent that absolves us.” Her breathing hitches. The sound sends a jolt of pleasure to my balls. They hang heavy, wanting to empty into a willing vessel. Something tight. Hot. Wet.
Fuck. Scrubbing my palms over my face, I inhale a long breath.
“Father, I’ve touched myself.” Her words come out in a whoosh.
As wrong as it is, her voice has this effect on me, and my dick agrees. He's ready to burst through my slacks. I shouldn’t do this. But I find my hand on the bulge as she tells me her dirty tales. “There’s a man. He’s . . . older. I . . .”
“Go on,” I urge. My voice strained as I stroke myself through the material.
“I think about him, and I feel a tingle between my legs. It’s . . . I’m so ashamed, but I can’t stop. I mean . . .”
I know what you mean, I want to tell her. To confess my own dirty fantasies. My own filthy sins. But I can’t. I don’t. Instead, I rub the aching hard-on in my pants.
“My fingers get so wet,” she continues her torturous confession. “And I . . . I find release. I find ecstasy. How can it be wrong? It feels so right.” My body locks. Immediately the wet spot in the black material shows, and I stifle a groan.
“Ten Hail Marys’ child,” I bite out, shoving the door open, fleeing before she sees me.
Glancing at the page that has two lines of a sermon, I sigh, realizing I’m no better than the damn sinners I’m talking about. How do I tell people to pray, to confess and repent, to be honorable citizens when my mind is filled with dirty thoughts? I should be different. It’s why I entered the church, to dedicate my time and life to doing good.
I’m worse. I’m a hypocrite. Every Sunday I stand up before my congregation and preach about morals, values, respect, and I’m breaking every one of those rules. I should rip off the damn collar and burn it. Perhaps I’ll burst into flames.
A knock at the door drags me from my secret thoughts. “Come in,” I call to the visitor. Rising from my chair, I round the desk only to be halted in my tracks. The brunette who’s been haunting my mind, dreams, and fantasies stands on my threshold looking almost ethereal. I say almost because her body is far from it. It’s sinful. Curves fill out the black jeans she wears. Her top—a pastel-blue, flowery, satin material—fits loosely around what I can only imagine being pert breasts.
“I’m sorry if I’m interrupting you, Father. I . . .” Her voice drops to a mere whisper. She regards me with big eyes glistening with hope and anxiety. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“You’re not disturbing me, Sage. Come in.” I should go to her. Perhaps escort her into the office, but I can’t. My legs don’t work, and it appears my brain has also short-circuited.
When she closes the door, I can't help the heat coursing through my veins. She approaches me, and a faint fragrance of apples invade my senses. It reminds me of a happy day I’d spent in an orchard with the woman I was convinced I would marry. And instead of being annoyed with Sage for bringing back that memory, I’m glad because I want to associate that scent with her. The sweet, lingering fragrance.