Page 75 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

“Please.”

The tone of my voice snaps something inside him. He grabs the bottle he removed from his trousers, unscrews the cap, and drizzles it over his shaft.

“You’re not taking a break?” I ask. “Wait, what is that?”

“Olive oil.” He slicks himself up, stark eyes locked on me. “From downstairs.”

I open my mouth to tease him, but he’s still in a mood and grumbling orders. “Stay on your back. I need to look at your face when I take your ass.”

He’s worried he’s too much for me. That’s what this is.

“Babe,” I say gently. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours now.”

“Then get comfortable, piccola,” he snarls through his teeth. “This will hurt.”

Such ego.

I scoff. It’s like he doesn’t know me at all, but he will. That’s the whole point of me wanting this night to last. I need him to handle all of me, so I shuffle back to the pillows and collapse. Cisco climbs onto the mattress and moves on his knees until he’s between my parted legs. His gaze drops and goes nuclear. Black pupils blow out the brown iris. Oh yes, I like him this close.

“I’ve had anal plenty of times,” I remind him. “It won’t hurt.”

“You’ve not had it like this,” he counters, and pumps his fist over the glistening cock.

I don’t know why he’s jealous of my toys. None of them match his sheer length and girth. They’re close, but not the same. On second thought . . .

“Um. Maybe you could be right,” I admit, lifting my fingers to make a pinching gesture. “Just a little bit.”

“We will make it fit.” He says, more to himself than me, but he leans in and yanks the plug free.

I gasp, back bowing off the bed, fingers clawing the sheets. Just like that, the thing I’ve endured for the past hour and a half is gone. I almost cry with relief yet whimper at the loss. He’s there in a heartbeat, slipping an oiled fingertip around my rim.

“Cristo, look at you, Mercy,” he breathes out, mesmerized as his finger slowly enters me.

The oily glide is a blessing compared to the numbing vibrations.

I must make a whimpering sound because he looks up and asks, “Is good?”

“Very good.” I bite my lip, cheeks flushing with heat. “Don’t stop.”

His breathing shallows. He pumps once, twice, and then he’s out, reaching for the oil again. He pours more over my rim, then slowly works in two thick fingers. I suck in a sharp breath at the superb stretch.

“Hurts?”

“A little,” I pant. Smile. “But it’s still good.”

“Forgive me, piccola.” His voice shakes, and he kisses my inner thigh—right over my cilice wound. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s fine. Keep going.”

With a sigh, he continues to prep me with a tender, almost hesitant touch. He massages, plunging deeper, rotating and flexing his fingers until I can’t take it anymore.

“Just take me now,” I demand.

Nostrils flaring, he tosses my legs over his shoulders, shuffles in close. His face is a mask of concentration as he presses the blunt tip of his cock to my anus.

But he doesn’t push in. He’s looking at where his hands wrap my thighs just below his face. A bead of sweat breaks and rolls down from his temple.

“I can’t . . .” he gasps out.