The dress—a v-necked affair belted at the waist and skirted with a layer of fine, gauzy tulle—is a cloud around my hips, and it blocks my view of your hand reaching down to free your cock. Then your arm is sliding past my waist to my legs and I’m being half lifted, half shoved into the wall.
I feel the wide head of your cock notching into my folds, and you don’t give me a moment to catch my breath, you simply pierce me without preamble, and I’m trying so hard not to moan, but it’s so delicious, you in your tux and my wedding dress hiked up like a teenager’s dress in a prom hotel and your hand so firm and insistent against my mouth as you pound into me with rough, uncaring strokes.
“All those people out there,” you breathe, “they have no idea you’re so close to them, getting fucked so hard. Fucked in your wedding dress, like a little whore who can’t help herself.”
My heart is pounding like a bird in a cage—fast and fluttery—and my inner thighs are tensing against the abrasive fabric of your tuxedo pants. I’ve long since stopped trying to figure out why I like it so much when you call me these names, especially since outside of the bedroom you are so unfailingly respectful and adoring. Maybe it’s the naughty-priest-vibe that your new academic career hasn’t been able to strip away from you, or maybe it’s that you’re such a good person and it’s thrilling to see you lose control and act more like a sinner than a saint. Whatever it is, it drives me crazy, and you know it, and you whisper all sorts of awful things in my ear, take it and dirty fucking girl and come for me, you better fucking come for me .
I do, my moans swallowed by your hand, as you continue to pump into me, each thrust pinning me harder against the wall, and each thrust drawing my climax further and further out, and then you look up and meet my eyes. You’re so close, and I think of all the times we’ve screwed, of all the times I’ve woken to your mouth flickering hot and wet between my legs, all the times where it felt like we’d fucked each other right out of the real, ordinary world and into someplace new and shimmering and magical. I feel like that now, actually, as I search your gaze, and watch you bite your lip as you fight to hold it back.
“ Si vis amari, ama ,” you tell me. If you wish to be loved, love.
Words we’d exchanged what feels like a million years ago.
It was your love that had brought us back together, your unflagging love that lasted through my deception and my seclusion. I’d thought I was making the right sacrifices for you to be with God, but I’d been wrong the whole time. Now we are both with God and we are together, giving up our individual lives today to fuse into one eternal soul.
No greater love than this… I think dreamily as you lose all control now, your hand moving from my mouth to my other leg so you can hold me up and open as you chase your release, your dark head nestled into my neck, kissing and biting.
“Te amo,” you’re saying in my ear. Latin for I love you. “Te amo, te amo, te amo.”
Fuck, I love you too, and then you’re coming so hard, your whole body is shuddering and your hands digging into my stockinged thighs, and your climax sends another orgasm chasing through me. Together we pulse, like a shared heartbeat, like the powerful waves of a single ocean, until we come down together with a sigh.
Somewhere in the church, an organ starts to play something pretty and light, walking-in-and-finding-a-seat music. My bridesmaids and mother are probably panicking.
You set me down and use the silk handkerchief in your tuxedo pocket to clean the traces of you from my legs. Then you fold it back up and replace it in your pocket—from the outside, perfectly clean and tidy, but we both know what’s hidden inside. “Just a little reminder,” you tell me with a dimpled smile, patting the pocket.
“A trophy, you mean.”
You don’t refute this, still grinning your adorable Irish grin as you help me rearrange my dress and straighten the cathedral-length veil.
You look down at your palm, stained with my lipstick, and your lips part and your eyes darken. I swear I can see you get hard again. “You might want to check on your makeup,” you say, and your eyes linger around my mouth. I have to push you away though, because if you kiss me again, I won’t be able to say no, and then we’ll be late for our own wedding.
“What should we tell them we were doing?”
You are now all zipped up and rearranged too, looking totally composed save for the possessive glint in your eyes. “It’s a chapel. We’ll say that we were praying.”
“Think they’ll believe us?”
Irish grin again. “Well, I was a priest once, you know.”
I think about this as the rest of the day unfolds, as my lipstick is freshened and then my father walks me down the aisle, and as I see you blinking back tears when Dad places my hand in yours. As we take communion, both of us remembering a very different kind of communion shared between us. And then as you kiss me, deep and long and searchingly, a kiss that make my cunt wet and nipples hard, even in the house of God.
You were a priest once.
I still mourn that sometimes, but I realize now that what we have together is just as holy, just as profound. Someday, we will start a family. We will be creating life together, which is perhaps the most God-like thing any human can do, and I wonder, as we dance together under the gentle May sky, if we will have a son.
Maybe he’ll become a priest too.
Priest is a bit of a special book for me. It’s my first contemporary romance, my first standalone, and definitely my first time writing about a holy man! I couldn’t have done it without the incredible support of my readers and my favorite bloggers—chiefly the Dirty Laundry and Literary Gossip crew. You girls are so patient with me juggling multiple personalities while also being a hermit crab. I love you.
Priest would also not be here without my early readers and critique partners, Laurelin Paige (my sometimes bedmate and always soulmate), Melanie Harlow (Father Bell’s biggest fan), and Kayti McGee (who kept me encouraged with her dimpled enthusiasm.)
It would also not be here without the bleeping fantastic editing of Tamara Mataya and the sage advice of Geneva Lee, not to mention the ladies who Order me around.