The Mafia's Damnation
“I’ll make you beg and cry out my name, Father Hale. You won’t even be able to face the altar without remembering how you came apart on my tongue.”
Vincente terrifying voice admitted curling around the crucifix at my throat as his rough, unforgiving fingers, pinned my wrists above my head against the cold stone.
His thigh shoved between mine, spreading me open, and the heavy press of his cock ground against the thin barrier of my underclothes. My own answered before I could stop it, swelling shamefully through the fabric that clung like a second, traitorous skin.
“Feel that?” he whispered, rolling slow, merciless circles that tore a broken sound from my throat. “That’s your body confessing louder than any prayer.”
I tried to twist away, but the movement only dragged my hips harder against him.
“Please,” I gasped, the word cracking open like a wound. “Vicente —God—”
“God’s not here,” he growled, teeth grazing the shell of my ear. “Only me.”
His hands slipped under me working on me. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, but the moan spilled out anyway, raw and ragged.
“Say it,” he demanded, thumb circling the slick head until my vision blurred. “Beg me to stop. Or beg me not to.”
A sob tore free as my body arched, chasing the pressure I hated myself for craving. “Please—Vicente—”
He swallowed the broken plea with his mouth, teeth and tongue and the faint copper of my own blood. When he pulled back, his eyes glittered like black glass.
“Oh.” He smiled, “You want me to continue?”
And my last hope to get him stop chattered.