Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
She doesn’t say anything right away, but her mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I—” She stops. “Was that supposed to happen?”
I let the car roll to a stop at the next red, the idle thrum matching my own. “Which part?” I ask, lazy as a wolf with a bone.
She stares me down. “The part where you bend me over the pastor’s chair, or the part where he gets down on his knees and, and—” her voice gets thin, “and licks your semen out of me.”
Now I laugh. Not loud, but real. I glance over, take in the way her hands are balled into fists in her lap. She looks so composed, so museum-perfect, but I know the nerves are stretched near snapping.
“Honestly?” I say. “No idea. This is new territory, even for me.”
She looks away, then back. “You said you’ve done things like this before.”
I nod, drifting the car through the light. “Sure, I’ve had threesomes. But always with other women. Two women, to be exact, or even three. Never another man.” I drum my fingers on the wheel, the sound dull and percussive. “Never watched another man touch what’s mine.”
Stella sucks in a breath, and I watch her tongue flick out to wet her plush pout—reflexive, nervous, and slutty as hell. She wants me to say it: that I hated it. That it was degrading, or disgusting, or a test of masculinity.
But the truth is, I didn’t. Not at all because it was fucking hot.
“I liked watching you,” I say. “I liked watching him on his knees, cleaning your sloppy pussy. Liked the way you looked at me the whole time, like you loved having his tongue on your pussy but wasn’t sure what to do about it.” I shoot her a look, and she flushes even deeper.
She tugs at the seatbelt, a nervous tic, but doesn’t let go. “You’re not mad?”
I shrug, rolling my shoulders under the tailored cut of my shirt. “Why would I be mad?” The question hangs, a challenge.
She stares out the window, then back at me. “I don’t know. It just seems wrong.”
“What does?” I prompt.
She sputters, exasperated. “All of it! This—” her hands slice through the air, “—this is not what people do when they go to therapy. I thought it was going to be, you know, talking. Some empathy. Maybe a few deep-breathing exercises. Instead I end up getting fucked by my step-uncle in front of a priest while he gives us notes.”
Her voice is sharp, but there’s an undercurrent. She’s not angry, not really. More like destabilized, or worse—turned on by the way her own boundaries are melting.
I take my time. Shift lanes, accelerate past a Volvo, then merge onto the ramp. “First, he’s not a priest, he’s a pastor. Second, do you want to stop?”
She doesn’t answer, and the silence says enough.
I look over. Her cheeks are burning, her jaw set stubborn. She’s pressing her knees together like she’s trying to fuse her bones.
“You could have said no,” I say, slow. “You can always say no, Stella. You know that. We’re pushing boundaries, but if you’re uncomfortable, one word and it’ll end.”
She meets my eyes, and for a second, I see a flicker of something wild. “You’d listen?”
“In a heartbeat,” I say. “But that’s not what you want.” I keep my gaze on the road, but I can feel her looking at me. I can almost see the way her pupils go big, the way her chest tightens under the dress.
She laughs, brittle and bright. “You sound so sure.”
“I am sure.” I let the car coast, hands easy on the wheel. “You like being watched. You like being ruined. You want to see how far this can go.”
She goes quiet again, and the car fills with the wet, animal tension of a hunting blind. I let the silence ride.
After a minute, she says, “Do you think he’ll tell anyone?”
“O’Toole?” I grin. “Not a chance. Men like him build their entire existence on secrets. He’ll take it to the grave, unless you want him to confess it first.”
Stella looks away, stares out at the blurred city lights. “Honestly, everything about that man has taken me by surprise. I didn’t expect the pastor to look like a male model. And he seemed into it too.”
I can’t help but agree. “He was hard as a fucking rock. Didn’t even try to hide it.” I glance over, and she’s biting her lower lip now, the same way she did when I first opened her up last night. “Do you want him? His dick in your pussy, I mean? Is that something that sounds good to you?”
Her head snaps around again. “What? No! I mean—” she flounders, “he’s attractive, but I don’t want—” She cuts off, sees the look I’m giving her, and blushes. “Maybe a little.”