starts kissing me again. First a few random pecks in the area of my rib cage, then a more determined track down the median line of my belly. When he probes my navel with the point of his tongue, I let out a squeak and tumble even closer to that orgasm.
I have both hands buried in his hair now, and it’s an effort not to pull it, especially when he scoots farther down the bed and slides his hands beneath my bottom to lift me up. I feel so voluptuous and uninhibited. I’m vulnerable to him, yet glorious too. He nuzzles me, rubbing his nose and his mouth against the delta of soft hair covering my pussy. Not diving in yet, he just plays around, bussing and teasing in a way that’s as affectionate as it is sexy and raw.
Still holding me up with one flat hand beneath my bottom, he shakes free a moment, then reaches forward, grabs a pillow and stuffs it beneath me for better access.
I feel ruder and more like a sex goddess than ever.
Then he goes in, thumbs teasing apart the mat of my pubic hair, and then parting my sex lips to expose my clit. As he blows lightly on it, I grab for his hair again.
Without a moment’s pause, he extends his tongue and gives me long, insolent savoring lick.
I howl, bucking up from my supporting pillow and crushing myself against his mouth with all the strength in my body and some I never even had before.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he chants against my flesh, and then with a noise like a growl he gives me a merciless, stringent tongue-lashing.
I come immediately, high and hard, but that doesn’t stop him from assailing me, pressing me to greater heights. Somehow, he manages to hook his arm and hand around my thigh in devilish cleverness so he can create tension against the flat of my belly and increase the intensity of the contact.
Orgasms explode in my loins and in my head like a syncopated chain of beautiful fireworks. I shout and moan and curse and babble. I don’t care if the entire avenue hears me, or even if someone calls the police. My only reality is the sublime pleasure of Patrick’s mouth. His tongue is warm and flexible, plaguing me in a dozen different strokes and speeds, flattening to press, curling to a point to dab and jab and tantalize. As he slides it down to the entrance to my vagina, his clever thumb slips onto my clitoris to take its place.
And all the time his bright hair gleams in the low light, an older gold somehow this afternoon, more natural and weathered than the dazzling gilt of yesterday.
Even as I lurch joyfully into another orgasm, the mysterious changes sink into my subconscious, ready to be taken out in cooler moments and pondered upon.
I come again, and still he tantalizes and teases and compels me to yet more pleasure. I grab at him and I swear I must be hurting him the way I gouge his scalp and tug at that beautiful hair of his. But eventually, as exquisite as the sensations are, I know I’m being greedy.
“Enough. I think I’m going to pass out. It’s your turn.”
He stills his tongue upon me, and for five long seconds, he just stays there, mouth against my sex. Then he gives me one last gentle, cherishing kiss and withdraws. Through bleary eyes, I watch him sit up, still between my stretched out legs. His lips are gleaming from me, and his eyes are strange and stormy. They flash dark with sudden anger, and then his whole body stiffens as if a titanic battle for control is going on within it. Then he loosens again, and his face is sadder somehow than cross.
What have I said? What have I done or not done? Hauling myself up, pushing with my elbows, I too sit up and tuck my knees beside me. The golden glow of moments ago is fizzing away like a pill in a glass. Patrick looks torn, as if distraught but trying to hide it. I don’t know what to do except reach out and touch him, hoping that contact and pleasure can give him solace, just as the way he pleasures me is a cure for all my ills.
He still feels rigid with tension, and for the first time, he looks away from me as if he can’t face me. He’s never done that before. His gaze has always been open and either gentle or challenging.
What the hell is the matter with him?
I grab a fold of the fine worsted cloth of his waistcoat, and try to pull him towards me. When he won’t come, I move to him, putting my arms around him, cupping his warm cheek with my palm, attempting to turn his face to mine for a kiss.
Horrible doubts grind like rusty wheels in my innards. What is it? The dreadful engine of speculation coughs into life. What if he has some perverse quirk for wringing pleasure out of unsuspecting older women? What if it’s a power trip of some kind? Get a woman under his control, and then bamboozle her with orgasms just because he can, yet with no actual desire whatsoever to fuck her? It doesn’t seem anything like Patrick at all, and yet I don’t know him. I don’t know him at all. He could be a sadistic manipulative bastard for all I know.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to fuck me? Is there something wrong with me?”
Shit, how stupid and pettish and needy that sounds? God, how
He moves after me across the bed and takes my hand.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Miranda. Nothing at all. You’re perfect to me.” He drags my hand to his lips, the movement jerky and desperate, not a bit like his usual smooth elegance. The kisses he bestows on it are messy, jerky, badly aimed. He’s totally sincere. “The fault is with me. I…I can’t fuck you. I wish I could explain. I want to. I really want to. But I can’t.”
I don’t speak the words, but he looks up sharply. He’s definitely heard them. His face is still a picture of perplexed confusion, but there’s also a tiny hint of almost savage amusement too. Then he releases my hands, tucks my robe around me, cinching the sash, and takes me in his arms again. His hold is light, and his hands stroke my back. It’s the embrace of comfort and companionship, not sex.
Grateful just for that, I lay my head against his shoulder. The scent of his body, his skin and hair, is like field of spicy summer flowers with a hint of the Orient. I wind my arms around him and we stay like that for several minutes, until natural feminine curiosity gets the better of me. I’m probably probing at some deep, deep wound, but I just can’t help myself.
“What’s the matter, Patrick? Is it some health thing? I mean, well, if you can’t
Amazingly, he laughs, and it’s a soft, wry, worldly chuckle.
“Oh, my sweet Miranda, it’s not that.” He rubs my hair, presses a kiss into it. “I do want you. I want you too much, believe me.” Before I can stop him, he grasps my hand, conducts it to his crotch and presses my palm against him. “But I just can’t have you.”
Beneath the fine grey cloth of his trousers, he’s hard as iron. Hot, even through the fabric, and so big I gasp out loud. He’s ready, able and even willing, I sense. There’s just some obstacle, some dictate that prevents him fucking me. But whatever the hell is it?
My mind whirls, racing around like a pony looking for the salt lick of an answer. Even as I wrack my brain, I can’t seem to take my hand away from Patrick’s penis. It’s like a source of life and hope and power, throbbing against my touch.
“Good grief, are you a priest? Are you on a sabbatical or a holiday or something?”
It’s the only explanation. He’s a man of the cloth, celibate, yet still human and still a man whose body and emotions work like any other man’s. His hormones and his subconscious still have the drives, even though he’s pledged to a sex-free life.
“Not a priest. No. But you might say it’s in that general sort of area.” He takes my hand from him, gives it another little kiss then scoots away across the bed. Slipping to his feet, he stands beside it, looking down on me. His expression is one of resignation, as if he has to face telling me a difficult truth.
“What do you mean in that general sort of area?” I’m shaking. I don’t know what to expect. Is
