Page 60 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

He glides his cock’s velvety tip over my tongue, then along my upper lip to the other side. His eyes grow impossibly darker as he circles in the corner.

“This is my favorite part of you,” he rasps. “Rovina mia . . .”

My ruin.

When I remain still, his left hand fuses with my hair and wraps it around his knuckles. He draws my head back just enough that when he slides over my tongue again, I feel his fight for control in every shaky motion.

It’s exquisite torture.

I try to take more, but he holds me steady, fingers flexing in my hair.

“Take a breath,” he rasps. “Get used to me. I do not want you hurt.”

Except he doesn’t wait for me to breathe. He groans and pushes in and over my tongue, sliding that head against the roof of my mouth. He’s thick and heavy and so hard it’s obscene. I choke down a groan, swallowing him deeper.

“Dio . . .” Cisco’s breath hitches. “Easy. There is time.”

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

He’s going too slow. My panties are soaked, thighs shaking. I want him to grab me, force my head down, and use me. I want to be fucked, hard and messy, while the whole damn family waits upstairs for their holy man to finish his prayers.

But Cisco’s pace remains steady. Impossibly steady. He slides in my mouth, out, in, out.

“You want to break me,” he mumbles. “But you do not know how close I am already. You don’t want to see me lose control.”

I hum my disagreement, eyes burning with want.

“I will never run, Mercy.”

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Something in my chest cracks. Panic crashes up, threatening to drown me. I nearly reach for the wounds, or maybe my clit, but if he thinks I’m not in the right headspace for this game, he’ll stop.

His cock slips out of my mouth. The absence is agony.

“You do not like this,” he notes, frowning.

Shit.

“You’re too slow.” I look up at him, eyes full of challenge. “I want to choke on it.”

He laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sight I’ve seen. His eyes light up. He relaxes. It’s genuine.

“Of course you do,” he says. “Because you want to feel nothing. You want to drown in this.” He taps his cock on my lip, once, twice, and then drags it across my cheek. His voice grows softer, the humor fades, and then he taps my sternum with his finger. “So you don’t have to think about this.”

I flush hot. “So fucking what if I do?”

Instead of rage, he kneels until we are eye level and cups my face with warm, large hands. He holds me steady, and I have no choice but to look at him. Sweat beads on his forehead. His breathing is labored. He is struggling, and he wants me to see it.

“This is your lesson, Mercy. You will learn to hold. To wait. To trust that I will stay until the end.”

My eyes squeeze shut as the memories slam into me. Dad, saying he’ll be back in an hour. Mom, saying it’s my fault for making men weak. The ice cream stain. The cold walls of the institution. The years of loneliness and uncertainty, hidden behind my hyper sexuality.

“You bastard,” I croak. “I hate that you know now.”

“No, you don’t.”

I shake my head, bottom lip trembling.