“What?”
“Who do you want to stretch out this tight pussy so I can fuck it like I want?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you who I want to do it,” he says, skimming his nose over mine. “Heath. He’s in the chapel right now. I want you to go there, and I want you to show him how sorry you are by fucking him until he can’t stay mad at you. And then I want you to come back when he’s fucked you nice and loose, and I want you to fuck me raw with your cunt still full of his cum.”
“Angel,” I scold, but my attempt at sounding scandalized is weakened by the fact that I’ve just drenched his fingers in arousal at the naughty picture he painted.
“I got you wet for him,” he whispers, nipping at my lower lip. “Now go show him how good you are.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, searching his jade green eyes. “If I’m your girlfriend…”
“If you’re my girlfriend, and this pussy is mine like you said, I get to share it with whoever I want,” he says, curling his fingers inside me and hitting a spot that makes my head spin and my toes curl. He strokes it languorously, watching my face with haughty amusement. “And I want to share it with him. I want it to be his too.”
“Okay,” I gasp out, ready to say anything to make him give me the relief I need so badly.
“Good little lamb,” he says, giving me one more quick kiss before withdrawing his fingers, leaving me sore and aching and so frustrated I want to scream. “Now go and do exactly what I said, and I’ll be waiting here to finish that when you get back.”
“Promise?” I ask, fixing my clothes.
“Only for my girlfriend,” he says, giving me the cutest grin as he snags my hand and pulls me back for one more kiss. Then he releases me, slaps my bottom, and tells me to go.
I cross campus quickly, fuming but also nervous about facing Heath. I should have gone to see him every day, but I didn’t go the first day, and then each day it got harder, until it felt impossible. Now I step into the quiet church. A girl is just leaving, and a flash of something ugly crashes into me.
Was she with Heath?
Or Father Salvatore?
I stomp past her, through the atrium, and into the sanctuary. The holiness of the place settles me, the way it always does. The quiet cavernousness of it conveys a solemnity that stays even when the organ plays and the choir raises its voice. Tonight, though, nothing interrupts the silence except the sound of the door settling closed behind me.
Heath is sitting in the second pew, where I sat last time, under the watchful eye of Jesus. I swallow hard, my belly full of butterflies as I start down the center aisle. I stop at the end of the pew where he sits, but he doesn’t lift his head.
“Heath?” I say, my voice coming out nervous and unsure, as if I don’t know it’s him.
“Mercy,” he says, still not looking up.
I swallow my nerves. “How did you know it was me?”
“No one else wears those stupid shoes,” he says. “You sounded like a horse galloping down the aisle.”
“Oh.” I stand there, my toes curling inside my shoes, like a child waiting to be told her punishment. But I’m done waiting.
I start to unbutton my blouse. I’m tugging it out of my skirt to get the last buttons when Heath finally looks up, his mouth open as if he’s about to snap at me. When he sees my shirt flutter open, though, he closes it. His eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”
“I’m apologizing.”
I peel open my shirt and let it fall down my back to pool on the floor behind me.
Heath doesn’t speak, but he swallows hard enough for me to see his Adam’s apple bob.
Reaching back, I undo my bra, sliding it off one arm and then letting it fall with my shirt. Then I reach up under my skirt and drag down my underwear, damp from Angel’s attentions. I step out of them, along with my shoes, then walk towards him, my heavy breasts exposed, wearing only my skirt.
He sucks in a breath, then nods to my skirt. “That too.”
I swallow hard, but I obey, drawing it down my fevered thighs and dropping it to the floor. Then I slide onto Heath’s lap and wrap my arms around his neck. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I press my lips to his pierced ones. He lets me kiss him, and it feels like some miracle. His hands find my sides, tentative at first, his palms rough and calloused. They move up my sides, around my back, down my arms. While he explores me, I undo the buttons of his shirt, wanting to touch him too. It’s a fantasy I don’t allow myself, that I never have. I’ve always stopped it, even when I yearned to finish it in my mind.
And after everything he’s done, even though he’s the one who got me into this, he’s the one who held himself back, the one who hasn’t claimed me. I undo his belt, tug his shirt open, run my hands over his firm muscles, his tattoos, his piercings. When I tug at his nipple piercing, he growls into my mouth, so I do it again.
