Midnight Mass

minute her lips grazed my tip, I hissed, losing all control and thrusting up into her warm, wet mouth before she was completely ready.

I was too familiar with death from my days as a priest to succumb to the need for explanations and narratives about the deceased’s last days. Death has no narrative.
It just is.

Even if it had actually been four days, fourteen hours and thirty-seven minutes, but who was counting? I had gone without sex for three years once.

Marriage had spoiled me, apparently.

And the worst: You failed at being a priest. Now you’ll fail at being a husband.

And now I was hard.
So very hard.

Normally, Poppy would call me on it. She would turn in my arms and search my eyes and lasso the truth out of me. One of my favorite things about Poppy is that she forced me to open up and be honest about my own needs. After years of being a counselor and a resource for other people, it was gratifying to have someone do the same for me.

Once, I’d made the mistake of not trusting. When I found Poppy kissing her ex-boyfriend, I’d assumed the worst and left the scene without even trying to talk to her. She’d done it as a purposeful attempt to drive us apart, unable to bear the guilt of being the catalyst for my schism from the clergy. If I had trusted her, if I had stayed, we could have had another year together. Instead, I’d run away, believing that she was unfaithful, and we’d spent a year miserably apart.

er face was hungry and she bit her lip as her hand worked faster and faster, and I felt four days worth of deprivation coiling deep in my core.
“So good,” I said raggedly. “You jack me off so good, lamb.”
Her lips grazed my ear as she leaned closer. “Come for me, Father Bell.”
Jesus Christ.

Because she hardly ever called me that and it shouldn’t be hot, it shouldn’t make me come. But the moment she uttered those breathy words, I was a man possessed, thrusting up between our joined fingers until I came in huge, milky spurts, coming and coming, and spilling over our hands and jetting onto my chest and her arm and still it kept coming, and before I was even finished, she was pushing me flat on my back and licking me clean. My dick, my abs, my navel, my hand. Even the delicate spot behind my balls, her tongue was there, laving off every drop of my climax.

Her grip tightened as her eyes raked from my face down to my tensing stomach down to where she was jerking me off, and she used her other hand to trace the furrows of my abs, the line of dark hair that ran from my navel to my groin.