Free Priest by Sierra Simone

now.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “I…I can’t.”
    “You can,” she said, stepping forward. She pressed a palm to my erection, and I looked down to see her unbuckling my belt.
    “I can’t,” I repeated, still watching as she drew out my cock. The moment her fingers brushed over my bare skin, I wanted to die, because I hadn’t exaggerated how good that felt in my memories and my fantasies, no, I had not.
    “You are a good priest, Father Bell,” she said, her hand moving down to explore lower, cupping me. “But you’re also a good man. And doesn’t a good man deserve a little indulgence every now and then?”
    She gripped me tighter, started to stroke in earnest now. I watched her hand moving up and down my shaft like a man hypnotized. “We won’t have sex,” she promised. “No sex, and then it’s not really breaking any rules, right?”
    “You’re equivocating now,” I said raggedly, closing my eyes against the sight of her pumping my dick.
    “Then how about another confession,” she said, dragging her fingernails from my pelvis to my navel, making my abs tighten. “After the first day I talked to you, I looked you up online. I couldn’t stop thinking about your voice, like I could still hear it in a way, echoing in my mind. And then I saw your picture on the website and you looked…well, you know how you look. That was the first time I got off thinking about you.”
    “You’ve touched yourself thinking about me?” The last remaining shred of my self-control frayed, threatening to snap.
    “More than once,” she admitted, still running her fingers over my abs underneath my shirt. “Because seeing your body that first time we met while running…and then your face the last time we talked. God, your face, it was so damn dark, like you wanted to gobble me up right there…I had to fuck myself three times before I could focus on anything else.”
    There it went, any self-discipline that remained, and all that was left was a male—not Tyler, not Father Bell—but something more primal and more demanding.
    “Show me,” I ordered.
    “What?”
    “Lie down on this floor, spread your legs and show me what it looks like when you fuck yourself thinking of me.”
    Her mouth parted and her cheeks reddened and then she was laying on the carpet, her hand on her cunt. I stood over her, fisting my cock, giving in to it all, giving in to everything, as long as it ended in her covered in my climax.
    “Why didn’t you wear underwear today?” I asked, watching her trace circles around her clitoris.
    “The last time, when we talked, I got so hot talking to you. I thought if it happened again today, it would be easier if I didn’t wear panties. To…take care of it. And it was easier.”
    I knelt down between her legs and then took her slender wrists in my hand. I stretched out over her, pinning her wrists to the floor above her head, my dick brushing against her pussy and her bunched-up skirt. “Are you telling me,” I asked, “that you were masturbating in the booth next to me?”
    She nodded fearfully. “You make me so wet,” she said. “I can’t stand it.”
    It took everything I had not to shove into her right there and then. Every time I rocked my hips, my dick slid against her folds, and they were so warm . So wet .
    I dropped my head, burying my face in her neck. She smelled like clean skin and the barest hint of a lavender perfume—something that probably cost more than what I made in a month. For some reason, this excess, this possible decadence, fueled my need to tear her apart. I bit her neck, her collarbone, scored her shoulders with my teeth, all while I ground my cock against her clit and palmed her breast, driving her to a second orgasm as if I were punishing her with pleasure. Punishing her for showing up here and knocking my carefully constructed life over as if it were a house of cards.
    She squirmed underneath me, panting and gasping, her hands flexing uselessly against the