The Drazen World: LUST (Kindle Worlds Novella) (3 page)

Chapter Four

Monica's place is packed. I knew it would be crowded—a hundred people is a lot for a two-bedroom house on the outskirts of town here, tiny as it is—but it's worse than I imagined. I'm pretty sure there are more people than we planned for, too. A few people turn up from the bars where we've played, patrons and servers alike.

"We always loved her music," a pair of girls I've never seen before tell me with a sigh, and I realize that maybe, Gabby wasn't so far off from achieving her dreams as we thought. She never reached national fame, she never got a record recorded and played over the radio the way she dreamed about, or performed concerts in huge, packed venues. But she touched a lot of people in L.A. with her music. Local people, bartenders and waitresses, but also aspiring actors and musicians and screenwriters in their own right.

Gabby was one of the stars of L.A., our own little secret that we never got to share with the wider world. Maybe, in the end, that makes her all the more cherished.

Then I catch sight of Vinny, our insufferable fucking asshole of a manager, and any attempt at feeling better about all of this collapses around me. Who am I fucking kidding? That man stood in the way of her, stomped on her dreams. Sent her away so Monica could audition for her big break solo, not that I blame Mon for taking the audition, but it was the last straw, the push that sent my sister tumbling over the edge.

And I wasn't there to catch her. I let her fall into that dark ocean, so numbed up on alcohol and pills that the seawater filled her lungs in a heartbeat. She never had a chance, my Gabby. And that's down to me, in the end.

She never achieved her dreams because I let her down. She's
dead
because I let her down.

Who the fuck do I think I am, trying to find peace here? Today, of all days?

I storm through the crowd, suddenly claustrophobic, unable to breathe. My body is all pent-up, vibrating energy, anger white-hot in my veins. But much as I hate Vinny, much as I hate any of the other fake producers or schmoozing talent managers weaving through the thick crowd here, grazing on the free food like the scavengers they are, the person I really hate is me.

And I can't exactly punch myself in the face, now can I?

I muscle my way into the backyard, ignoring a few gasps of protest as I elbow some asshole blocking the door out of my way. I don't give a fuck right now. Just try and stop me.

I'm halfway across the yard, fists balled at my sides, when I hear a gasp. Crying? I slow my pace a little. The yard isn't as crowded as the house—maybe the asshole blocking the door is stemming off the crowd a little bit. There's a couple people dotted here and there, mostly smoking, both cigarettes and some stank-ass weed, from the scent of it.
Well, whatever works for them
, I think, half debating asking for a hit myself. But weed has never really been my drug of choice. Just makes me pass out, and while that's tempting right now, it doesn't seem fair of me to fall asleep and miss all this fucking knife-sharp pain that I deserve to suffer.

There's another gasp. Coming from around the back of the yard, against a cinderblock wall that half-hid the house from view. In front of the wall was a little row of bushes Gabby planted a couple years ago, I remember with a pang. I wander toward them, ready to ask whoever it is if they need anything, a handkerchief or a drink or maybe a hit of those people on the other side of the yard's weed. There's a little bench behind the bushes, I remember, a quiet corner that Gabby wanted for herself, which was why she planted the bushes in the first place, to give her the illusion of privacy in a world that couldn't stop following her everywhere she went.

She always complained about that, after her first attempt. How Monica and I never left her alone, never let her breathe.

Then a deep voice interrupts my approach.

“No talking.”

I freeze in my tracks, still half-hidden from the bench by the line of bushes. I recognize that voice, though I only met him for a few minutes earlier, when Monica insisted on introducing the two of us, despite my reservations (and, okay, the fact that I’d called him an asshole to her face earlier in the day).

Jonathan.

Which must mean Monica is with him.

I should back away now. Leave them be, to whatever the fuck they’re doing. But some uncontrollable urge possesses me. Curiosity, maybe, or maybe something darker. I take half a step closer, until I can see between the drying leaves of the fauna between us.

Monica is sitting straight on the bench, Jonathan wrapped around her like he’s taking control.

He is, actually. I watch him pinch her breast through her sweater, and her head falls back on her neck, lips parting in another faint gasp. That explains the sound that led me here.

In spite of myself, in spite of the fact that I’m not into Monica at all, not like that, I can feel my cock beginning to twitch again, stiffening. I’m not really thinking about them, as I watch them on the bench. I’m thinking about Father Kendrick, about his warm, strong hands, and the salty flavor of his finger on my tongue.

I’m thinking about him as I watch Jonathan put his finger in Monica’s mouth.

“Make this wet.”

She sucks on his finger the way I want to suck Father Kendrick’s cock. Hard, wet, sloppy, like she’d give this man whatever he wanted.

“Your legs are crossed. Spread them,” he orders, after making her look at him.

I watch her obey his every command, unzipping her pants when ordered, touching herself at his command. The weight of my own need hangs heavy between my legs, painful at this point. I’m so fucking hard that I’m going to need to sneak off to a private corner of my own, preferably one where I can close my eyes and picture the Father on his knees in front of me as I wrap my fist around myself.

But then a hot, warm body presses up against mine. I don’t even need to turn around. I can fucking
smell
him, that infuriating, addictive scent, sandalwood and salt and still a hint of frankincense and myrrh still clinging to him from mass.

I didn’t know he was coming to the wake. But of course he would. Why wouldn’t he? He’d been at the mass.

“Father Kendrick.” I tilt my head toward him, but before I can meet his eyes, he rests his hand on my jaw and turns my face forward again, making sure I’m watching the scene before us. Monica has her hands down her jeans now, her face turned to Jonathan, eyes half-closed, lost in pleasure at his order.

“Paul,” he corrects. A tiny smirk works its way onto my mouth at that.

“Paul,” I repeat.

His hand drips down my jawline. His fingers are rough against my stubble, a match striking a matchbox. Flames ignite inside me. Fucking hell, I’ve never been this hard in my life. I can already feel a drip of pre-cum against the fabric of my boxers. If it were possible to come without touching my dick, I think I would have just at the feel of his hand as it wraps around my neck, inching down my body slowly.

He is in control, and he knows it. His hand glides over my chest, digging into my muscles, tracing my pecks, pinching at the hard little buds of my nipples through the thin fabric of my shirt. I expect him to stop there, tear my shirt off, trace his hands over my abs, maybe, but he doesn’t.

That hand keeps sliding, down my chest, pressing into every ridge of my abs. His body folds over and behind mine, and I can feel the hard dig of his cock against my ass cheek. Fuck.
Just fucking feel the size of him
. He must be at least 9 or 10 inches long, and
thick
. I’ve never been with a man that large before.

Or one this commanding.

His hand reaches the hem of my jeans, and he leans in, his lip brushing my ear, his stubble scraping the side of my cheek. “Undo them,” he says.

I’ve been thinking about this all day. Fuck, for the last two days and nights, really. Ever since I met him in that pew. Ever since his skin first touched mine.

I turn my head, lips groping for his, but he pulls away and grips my balls through the crotch of my jeans in response. Not too hard, not enough to really hurt, but enough to send a shockwave of sensation through my body. Enough to warn me.

“Don’t move unless I tell you to,” he says, and his voice has gone low and dark with danger now.

God it’s fucking hot.

I wet my lips, my eyes already half-shut with pleasure. His fingers still grip my balls, the pressure straddling that delectable border between pleasure and pain, desire and ache. “Yes, Father,” I reply, and my own voice comes out throaty, like I’m so choked with lust I can hardly speak.

Which is true.

So, still facing front, not looking at him, I reach down and undo the zipper of my jeans, spreading them apart for him.

“Kneel,” he hisses, and I swear my cock jumps at the sound of his voice, the extra flow of blood hits it so hard.

I drop to my knees without hesitation. Whatever he wants from me, whatever he wants to do to me, he can have it. I’ll give it all to him.

He kneels behind me, and I don’t even care that my knees are digging into the flower beds of the yard, or that anyone could wander down from the house and find us here like this. I don’t give a fuck. I’ve lost the ability to think about anything but this man and his hands and his mouth and his voice and his scent.

His one hand shoves my boxers down, my cock springing free, so hard it rises nearly vertical, pointed up at my chest right now. His other hand rises to my mouth again.

“Lick,” he commands.

I trail the flat of my tongue up his palm until I reach his fingertips, and then I suck his index and middle fingers into my mouth, swallowing them all the way down to the base of his digits. I wrap my tongue around his fingers, coat them in my saliva, and the whole time that now-familiar taste of him rushes back in, fills my senses. This is his body, given up for me. Or is it vice versa, mine for his?

Either way, it’s a deal with the devil I’m willing to make.

He pulls his fingers from my mouth, holds his palm flat before me again, but I already know what he wants. I lick his thumb next, from the fat bulb at the bottom to the hard little callous at the end, then dip my tongue into the crevice between his thumb and his forefinger. I lick and suck until he’s drenched, and I’d have kept going except he pulls his hand away without warning, drops it to slide wetly down the faint V of muscles leading to my groin.

I grit my teeth, let a faint groan escape through them, and he tuts a little behind me.

“No sound,” he orders. “Not this time.”

With difficulty, I clamp my mouth shut, lips pressed hard together to remind myself. I have a feeling this is an order I’ll be hard-pressed to keep.

Then his hand folds around the base of my cock, thumb above me, fingers below, pushing at my taint, and I stop worrying. Spots dart across the corners of my vision, that’s how little blood is left keeping me upright. He wraps that hand around me slowly, so damn fucking slowly that my hips buck of their own volition, trying to shove forward into him, instinctual.

“I said don’t move,” he repeats, and his other hand dips between my legs to cup my balls, warm rough fingers a warning against my sensitive skin.

It takes every ounce of self-control I possess to hold myself there, balanced on my knees, unmoving, hips not thrusting, no sound coming from my throat, as he begins to slide his hand up my length. At the tip of my cock, he brushes his thumb across me to collect the bead of pre-cum moisture from my tip. He smears this all over the head of my dick, then rubs his palm down my head as he pulls his hand back down my length.

He does it slow at first, torturously slow. A faint whimper of frustration escapes without my permission, before I wrestle my voice box back under control. I wait, expecting punishment, retribution, but he is forgiving this time.

Suddenly, his hand tightens around me and starts to move in earnest. He pumps up and down my length, grabbing my hips with his other arm and pulling my body against his, so our narrow hips dig into each other’s and his cock presses hard against the soft flesh of my ass. He drives his hand up and down my length mercilessly, his rhythm increasing with every shove, until the dots at the edges of my vision take over entirely, and there’s only a white-hot haze, with him at the other end of it.

I’m at the brink faster than I care to admit, no amount of clenching and gritting my teeth and willing myself to hold on, to make this sensation last as long as possible can stop me getting there. Just when I decide to let go, to let the orgasm take control, his hand drops my cock entirely.

I can’t help it this time—I gasp aloud, half-protest and half-desperation. He can’t leave me like this. I need to come. I’m dying from it, my cock so thick and heavy between my legs that I won’t be able to stand if I don’t finish here and now.

“Do you want to come, my son?” His voice is a purr, a self-satisfied smirk, right behind my ear. Then his lips press the soft spot just beneath my earlobe, and I shudder, my whole body shaking with need.

“Yes, Father. Please.”

“You’ll need to ask.”

I grind my molars together. “I said please, Father.”

“Please what?”

I swallow hard, struggling to think through the haze of want. “Please let me come.”