My Weakness Page 21

  I remove my hands from her hair and grip the edge of the desk, letting her take charge of my pleasure, for a little while.

  I peer at the clock. The hands suddenly seem intimidating with every tick. We’re running out of time.

  “Think you can make me come in six minutes?” I ask, nudging her with my tip again.

  Her eyes burn with a challenge as she flicks out her tongue and licks me, making me shiver. “I’m only going to need three.”

  I’ve never done this before, she said when I pulled her in here.

  What a fucking lie.

  My blood hums.

  “Do it in two and I just might return the favor.”

  A wicked, determined smile stretches across her moist lips. We’ll see how good she really is.

  Using both hands, she holds my cock and teasingly mouths the swollen head. A heavy breath falls through my parted lips and the desk creaks as I push my body harder against it. For five torturous seconds, she teases my over engorged tip until I can’t take it anymore. Grunting, I forcefully flick my hips. Instead of being greeted by soft, warm flesh, I receive a purposeful scrape of her teeth.

  “Fuck!” I hiss. “Watch your teeth.”

  She pulls back enough for her lips to brush the tip once more. “Don’t force your cock down my throat and my teeth won’t be a problem.”

  We stare at each other. If she wasn’t holding my cock so tightly in her hands, I’d slap her with it.

  “I like it deeper.”

  With a sigh, she flutters her smooth, silky tongue along the underside of my shaft before fisting the root with one hand and sucking me rhythmically into the back of her throat. I inhale sharply, my stomach muscles clenching painfully.

  Fucking hell.

  “That’s it,” I encourage her, rocking my hips into her mouth. “Suck it just like that.”

  Natalie moans, sending toe curling vibrations over every inch of sensitive flesh. One of my hands find her head again and I rake it through her hair, gripping tightly as she bobs up and down in perfect, cum-drawing strokes.

  She can lie all she wants, but the girl has phenomenal oral skills. Cock sucking little whore. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

  I smile.

  The world needs people who love giving blow jobs and, holy fuck me, does she love it. She devours my cock with vigorous enthusiasm—as if I taste like Heaven. Surely it’s a close second. I mean, I put a lot of work into it. The entire area is manscaped to perfection, not a single dark hair curling out of place. I’m circumcised, washed, and all one color. There is no fifty shades of peen going on down there. The Garden of Eden doesn’t have shit on my cock and no naughty, tight bodied babe is going to be kicked out for sucking on the forbidden fruit, either.

  Natalie’s mouth slides over my cock. She grips and jerks my shaft in one hand while cupping my heavy balls with the other. She works me over proficiently, sucking me closer to the edge every time her wet, warm mouth draws me deep into the back of her throat. I thrust harder into her mouth when she traces her tongue along the protruding veins that line the underside of my cock.

  Unable to keep up with the way I fuck her mouth, she drops her hands to my thighs and I push it, pressing the very tip of me further into her tight throat. She doesn’t gag.

  “You never do this, huh?” I tease, groaning when she gives me access to her throat again.

  I push deeper and she still doesn’t gag.

  “I bet this is all you do.”

  Natalie moans deep in her throat, sending vibrations up my shaft and into my balls. I glance at the clock. I wish I could draw this out. I wish I could push myself to the edge over and over again, only to reign it back in at the last second, but I’m running out of time.

  A tight, pressure builds up in my cock and barrels towards the tip. I grit my teeth, willing it back down for a few more seconds—just a few more swirls of her tongue. I shiver as she sucks me to the back of her throat.

  Game over.

  I thrust my hips against her face with animalistic vigor. My fingers tighten in her hair, my toes curl in my shoes. I push hard, desperately willing my release to hit me so this beautiful fucking torture subsides and spills down her throat. She gags and my mouth parts as her slick throat tightens around my head. It’s all I need. Fire consumes me. It taunts me, promising me all of the orgasms I want when I’m dragged down to Hell.

  So I give in.

  I stamp my express ticket to the Underworld for the one hundredth time. Groaning, I shoot my load straight down her throat and without protest, without a gag, she swallows it all and licks my cock clean. I have my cock back in my pants before she has the chance to stand up and fix her hair.

  She glances at the clock.

  “Looks like we ran out of time…” She pouts. “Reschedule?”

  “Love to,” I say, blowing out an exhale. “But I have few more important things to do first.”

  Natalie scoffs, her face pinching into a scowl. Uh-oh. The last thing I need is an emotional broad screaming my sins to everyone in the church. I step forward and reach out to her.

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  She swats me away and turns around. “You’re a fucking asshole!”

  “Natash—” Oh, fuck.

  She whips around, her once cute and friendly face now contorted into a furious glare.

  “Natalie.” I quickly state, my hands outstretched in front of me. “I meant to say Natalie.”

  “Ugh!” She snaps, throwing her hands. “You are such a fucking prick!”

  With a final huff, she storms from the office.

  Well…shit.

  I watch the door for a small eternity, but she doesn’t come back. Why would she?

  A smile manifests. Does she think that is fucking news to me? She’s not the first girl to call me a prick—or an asshole—and I’d bet my entire life savings that she won’t be the last.

  I zip myself up and sit against the desk. The urge to have a cigarette creeps over my brain and nags at my lungs. Tomorrow marks my second month smoke free, but most days it feels like I quit only yesterday. I slip my hand into the pocket of my slacks and pull out a chewed lollipop stick from this morning. I slide it between my lips and grind it between my teeth. When the craving to burn my lungs subsides, I stroll towards the open door, not too eager to get back to everyone else.

  I’ve never been comfortable with farewells. What’s the appropriate etiquette anyway? A hug? A handshake? A nod of the head? People switch it up so often it’s hard to keep track.

  I peer through the slit in the door and watch the litter of people as they leave the church. My father stands by the entrance, shaking hands and offering hugs to anyone who wants one. My brows draw in of their own accord and I can’t straighten them. Even from here the adoration they have for him can be seen. Hell, it can be smelled, that’s how thick they lay it on. I wonder if they’d still admire him if they knew how much he hates his own son. He often preaches about forgiveness, but where’s my fucking forgiveness? It’s not like I could have prevented what happened. I was only eleven and I lost something that day, too. I’ve spent every day since then trying to make it up to him. I don’t give a shit about church or praying. I do it for him and still I see resentment in his eyes—not that he’d ever admit it. Here, at the church, is the only place I see him smile…and it’s the only reason I show up on Sundays.

  For years I’ve lived with an emptiness in my heart. What started off as a small, black hole all those years ago has consumed every inch of my being. It eats at me. I’m rotting from the inside out and I don’t have the capacity to care anymore. I used to fight it, for my father's sake, but now I want it to devour me until he is happy. Until he feels I’ve got what I deserve…and I know I deserve eternal darkness.

  On the inside, I’m a demon consumed by petty temptations and devoured by grief, but in the presence of everyone else, I’m the son I was always supposed to be—the one who’s first in line at the pearly gates.<
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  Chapter Three

  I run the slippery tip of my lip gloss tube over my bottom lip then trace it with my tongue. A tangy chemical they claim to be apple tickles my taste buds and I scrunch my face.

  A week.

  It has been a week since I saw the Father’s son, Caleb.

  I shiver.

  Six grueling, painful days have passed and, finally, the seventh day is here. Sunday. It’s my new favorite day of the week and not for the reasons it should be. If my parents knew the foremost holy day of obligation has been tainted by my sinful thoughts, I’d be locked in my room for the rest of my life.

  I disgrace my religion by showing up to Sunday Mass only to lust over a boy who doesn’t know I exist, and the guilt it stirs doesn’t go unfelt. I was going to fake sick to get out of today, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I need to see him again. I thought about him so much that by Wednesday, his face became obscured in my mind and I haven’t been able to pleasure myself adequately since then. I need to refresh the memory. From the exact shade of his hair to the darkness in his eyes.

  I have to memorize it.

  “Really, Cassia? Lip gloss to Sunday Mass?”

  I snap my attention from my clenched lap to the rearview mirror where Dad’s large, brown eyes flick between me and the road. I frown, confused.

  “It’s just lip gloss…”

  His fingers tighten around the steering wheel and I swallow the frustration that pricks at me. So I messed up once. Big deal. I’ve only had sex with one person. It’s not like I go around whoring myself out to every guy that bats an eyelid in my direction. Doesn’t he recall what it’s like to be young? The raging hormones, the urge to explore yourself and the opposite sex?

  Science tells us it’s normal so why doesn’t religion? Why would God give me the ability to feel these things, but forbid me from acting on them? God wants his children to be happy, right? Well, riding Caleb’s face until I see stars would make me very happy.

  “It’s unnecessary. Unless you’re trying to impress a boy?”

  I roll my eyes and groan, earning a look of warning from Mom. “Maybe I’m trying to impress a girl.”

  Mom gasps and turns her attention out the window. A homosexual comment. Oh, the horror! This is where she checks out. Once I go toe to toe with Dad she no longer has an opinion. Hell, she no longer exists, leaving me to defend myself.

  I flinch as Dad laughs, swiping a frustrated hand over his forehead. His laugh isn’t the kind of laugh that means he found what I said funny. He didn’t. It’s the kind of laugh that instills fear in my chest and makes me wonder how far off he is from pulling over and dumping me on the side of the road.

  “Are you that far gone, Cassia? You spit these dark, venomous words and challenge your parents constantly. This is not how we raised you!”

  Dropping my stare from his, I slip my lip gloss into the pocket of my light blue summer dress and grip the small, black Bible on my lap. Fighting him is pointless. At the end of the day, I live in his house and I am his daughter. Like it’s said: you must honor your father and your mother. I roll my eyes again. It’s a good law God has placed, but he never had parents, did he? He never had someone hanging over his head telling him what to do and what not to do. No one scolded him for making the earth round or for giving women breasts, and I bet no one harassed him for wearing lip-gloss when he wanted to, either.

  Silence falls in the car and I keep my head down, feeling every sliver of shame he wants me to feel. It hurts. It hurts knowing I’m not the daughter they so desperately want me to be. I blink back tears that threaten to spill over the rims of my eyes. What’s wrong with me? Why am I wired so differently? Why do I feel these things when it’s clearly wrong and dirty? How do I stop the feelings from manifesting? I run my finger along the golden edge of my Bible, patiently waiting for the answer to magically appear. Like always…It doesn’t.

  I’m pulled from my thoughts when the sound of the indicator clicks throughout the car. I lift my eyes. Up ahead, the beautiful Caen Limestone Church looms. It truly is gorgeous, nothing like the modern church we attended in Bismarck. While picturesque and majestic, it also has a sense of Transylvanian darkness about it. The stained glass windows that queue along the walls of the structure, and the rusty, metal spikes that line the roof make me want to explore every inch of the mysterious building.

  Less than a mile ahead, the smooth tar road changes to loose gravel and Dad cautiously approaches the sea of cars in the parking lot ahead. If wearing lip gloss pissed Dad off, I’d hate to see what a loose pebble hitting the paint on his new SUV would do.

  Eventually, we roll to a stop and Mom wastes no time leaping out of the car and into the fresh air. I don’t blame her. The car reeks of disappointment and disgust. For the same reason, I open my door and slip out into the bright morning sun. The warm breeze blows my hair into my face and strands stick to my lips, but I don’t swipe it away. Instead, I let it hide my face. I don’t feel pretty like I did when we left the house this morning. Now I feel…worthless. I feel like a cheap whore and it’s courtesy of my own father.

  Fantastic.

  I squeeze my Bible in my hand, pressing it firmly against my side. I don’t normally bring my Bible to Sunday Mass. There’s no need for it, but when I picked it up this morning, Dad smiled and I figured bringing it along would make him happy. God knows it couldn’t have pissed him off any more than he already was. I also figured it’d take me longer to sweat through the leather cover as opposed to the thin program sheet they give you when you walk in.

  I trail behind Mom and Dad as they make their way toward the stone steps. In the gap between my parents I see Father Andrews standing at the top offering handshakes and welcoming everyone into his church. I can’t tell if my stomach floats or takes a dive when I don’t see Caleb. Either way, it feels sucky.

  I turn my gaze down to the tiny, gray stones under my feet.

  “Oh, look.” Mom says to Dad. “There’s Father Andrew’s son, Caleb.”

  What?! My heart leaps into my throat as I misplace my foot and stumble into my parents. The only thing saving me from face planting the pebbles at my feet is Dad’s jacket. I clench it in my hands for a split second before I manage to correct my footing and straighten my posture. They glance over their shoulders at me.

  “Sorry.” I say, smoothing my clammy palm down the front of my dress. “I slipped on a rock.”

  “Pay attention to your footing, Cassia.” Mom chastises. “I don’t want you to injure yourself before church.”

  Sure. I’ll just wait until after the service to break my ankle.

  “How does Father Andrews have a son anyway?” I ask. “I thought priests were like nuns. You know, celibate and all.”

  Dad’s eyes meet mine and the first thing I notice is his eyebrow and the way it’s cocked in suspicion. I shrug.

  “It’s decided case by case.” He states, exhaling. “From what I hear, Father Andrews was married first and then he converted soon after his daughter was born. His wife and daughter died eleven years ago and though he was married, he cannot remarry now that she has passed on. There are a lot of technicalities you wouldn’t understand.”

  Why? Because I’m only nineteen? I roll my eyes again. I know things about sex and relationships he couldn’t even fathom. Alas, no matter how hard I try, I’ll forever be seen as a little girl instead of a woman.

  We climb the stairway one by one and underneath my feet, the stone steps feel like they’re liquefying, making it increasingly hard to stay level. Every cell in my body knows that with every foot I plant on the hard ground is another one closer to him.

  I stare at the rocks, desperately trying to work up the courage to lift my gaze before we make it to the top. They feel uneven against the soles of my flats.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Claire.” Father Andrews greets them.

  My heart beats fast. Shit. I’m not ready! I’ve run out of time. They exchange pleasantries—pleasantries that don’t last as lon
g as I’d have liked.

  “You’ve met my son Caleb?” He says, uncertainty lightening his tone at the end.

  “We’re yet to meet.” My father replies. “Hi, Caleb.”

  “Mr. Claire.”

  I resist the urge to drop my head back and use the Lord’s name in vain. No one, and I mean no one, should have a voice like that. It reminds me of gravelly pieces of honeycomb drowned in melted milk chocolate…which isn’t messed up. Like, at all.

  “Please, call me Marcus.”

  No! I know what comes next and I’m not ready, dammit!

  “This is my wife, Linda, and my daughter…” Dad steps to the side, exposing me to Caleb and Father Andrews. “Cassia.”

  Holy f—mother of green eyes. I clench my Bible, but it can’t help me now. Father Andrews extends a casual hand to me and I like it. I like that he’s a lot more easy-going than the Father at our old church. Stepping forward, I slip my hand into his.

  “It’s nice to finally meet on a personal level, Cassia.”

  I smile. “It is.”

  I drag my gaze to Caleb and my breath halts in my throat. He’s within reach and I can’t fucking breathe. Through parted lips I inhale and it’s shaky, sounding like a magnitude nine earthquake in my ears.

  Dad plants his hand on my shoulder and I’m thankful for it. It lessens the chance of me fainting and rolling backward down the steps.

  As Dad engages Father Andrew again, Caleb’s eyes flicker over Dad’s protective hand and I see Hell flaring in the deep depths of his glorious green eyes. Then they lock with mine and I’m speechless. Can my parents feel it too? The way his hard body radiates such an arresting impression of powerful sexuality? It’s like he’s an industrial magnet and I’m a tiny piece of scrap metal.

  “Hi, Cassia.”

  Dead. I am dead! I’ve imagined my name falling from his lips more times than any psychiatrist would consider healthy, but it doesn’t compare to the real thing. Nothing ever compares to the real thing.

  “Hello.” I say, my voice quieter than I would have liked.