Teach Me (2 page)

I
can’t place it, and
I’m good at accents.
It makes me want to stay and tease it out of him.

“I’m
not sure if I should be relieved or disappointed,”
I reply, smiling even though I know he can’t
see me in the shadows of the booth. “This
lovely abode isn’t
yours?” I glance
through a crack in the booth door. On the worn and torn sofa, which
sits directly opposite me, a girl in a schoolgirl miniskirt undoes
the stark white collar of a guy in full priest garb. Okay, it’s
cheesy, but I’ve got
to hand it to them, now that my initial shock and embarrassment has
started to wane—the
party guests really went all-out with their outfits.

“Alas,
no.” He still sounds
like he’s laughing.
“This,
ah . . . 
abode
belongs to a pair of my very good friends. Who decided it would be
hilarious to lure me over with the promise of, and I quote, a ‘quiet
start of term dinner.’ ”

I
snort. “Oh, so you
were an unwitting participant as well? I wish I’d
known the dress code was going to be so . . . specific.”

“Let
me guess: a friend of yours played dupe the unwitting American?”

So
he’s
listening to my accent too. For some reason that makes my breath
hitch, even as the rest of me flares at the accusation. “I
am not
unwitting
.”

“Shh,
I’m
still guessing. You’re
studying abroad, your friends texted you an invite to a fancy dress
bash or something similarly obscure, and then they all pulled
innocent faces when you arrived. Happens every semester. Just be glad
they didn’t invite
you to a formal dinner and tell you it was tarts and vicars
party—I’ve
seen that happen too.”

Something
about his easy manner, the fact that he’s
so sure he’s right
(never mind that he is) makes me want to prove him wrong. What’s
the harm? I’ll never
see him again.

“Actually,”
I say, enunciating the word so sharply I almost sound British myself.
“I
live in London. I’m
just up for the weekend to visit a friend who works here. She sent me
the wrong address.”

There’s
a pause from the adjoining booth. “So
you decided to stick around this party solo? You’re
braver than I’d be.”
He sounds impressed, which makes me bolder.

“There
were free drinks. Why not?”
Never mind that I apparently couldn’t
even handle 1.5 of those drinks. If I’m
making up a whole new persona, I might as well run with it. I lower
my voice, inject a little sultry sting. “Besides,
it’s been a
long time since I’ve
had a chance to flirt with a vicar.”

I
expect him to laugh again. I’m
starting to like his laugh, a sharp, surprised exhale of air like
he’s not used to the
sound, but he enjoys it when it bursts free.

Instead
of that laugh, I hear a rustle from the adjoining booth. When he
speaks again, he’s
closer and quieter. His shadow leans right up against the wooden
curlicue divider. “Is
that so, my child?”
His tone has turned playful, but there’s
something else under it. Something that sounds an awful lot like
desire. “It has, I
admit, been a very long time since I’ve
been flirted with.”

My
pulse leaps through my veins.
What’s
the harm?
it says.
You
can’t
even see his face. You could be anyone. Say anything.

“That
is a shame,” I
murmur, inching closer to the thin barrier between us myself. “Are
you sure you remember how it’s
done?”

“I
think I can figure it out.”
He presses his hand to the wooden scrollwork. I lift mine, press it
to my side. My skin thrills where it brushes his; I can feel his warm
palm between pieces of the rough wood. Whoever built this booth used
cheap material. Feels like the divider is nothing more than a couple
centimeters of balsa wood.

As
though reading my mind, his other hand traces the edges of the panel.
I imitate him and find a latch at the top. My finger pauses on it,
toys with the idea of removing this flimsy shield between us.

“But
is it only flirting that you’re
interested in?” I
half-smile, wondering if he can see me through the latticework. It’s
so dark in here I can’t
see anything of him beyond the outline of his hand, a darker shadow
where his head tilts toward the sound of my voice.

“I
must confess: impure thoughts do come to mind. Quite a lot of them,
actually. But should we really desecrate this sacred space?”
His voice drips in sarcasm, and he drums his fingers on the wall, a
beat that reverberates through my palms.

My
smile widens. “Father,
is this space not meant for unburdening our darkest selves? Do we not
enter here to confess the desires of our weak bodies?”

“What
is it your body desires now?”
he whispers, the joking, priestly affectation gone, only his deep,
radio-perfect voice remaining.

My
finger flips the latch, and the balsa wood screen between us
unhinges. We both press our other hands to it reflexively and catch
it between us, one hand on either side. Then he takes hold of the
screen and lets it drop to his side of the cubicle.

We
stare at one another through the newly opened space. I still can’t
see much. A strand of hair that hangs in his eyes. An angled jaw, a
slice of cheekbone, a hollow where his eyes are. I don’t
need to be able to see them to know he’s
staring straight at me.

I
can
feel
it.

A
tiny part of my brain yells at me to hold up. Think this through.
Remember last time
?
it shouts, and I can still picture he-who-must-not-be-named. The
reason I applied to study abroad this semester in the first place, so
I could get a break from his stupid, knowing smirk.

But
this is what I came here for. A fresh start. To get my mind off the
past, off every bad decision I’ve
made since setting foot on the Penn campus.

What
better way to start over than a harmless fling with an innocent guy
I’ll never see again
(or never see at all, for that matter)?

Instead
of answering him, I lean through the newly created opening and run my
hands through his silk-smooth hair. He pauses an inch from my face,
his nose brushing mine.

“Walk
on air against your better judgment,”
he breathes, hot against my lips. It doesn’t
seem like he’s
talking to me. More to himself.

Deep
in the recesses of my mind, the tiny part that’s
still functioning buzzes with recognition—
I
know that line
. From
where?

Then
I forget all about it, because his lips crush against mine. His hands
tangle in my hair tightly. I let my fingers run through his hair down
the back of his neck to curl around his white-hot skin. He breaks
away, grabs a fistful of my hair to tilt my head to one side. His
lips graze my jawline, followed fast by his teeth, sinking into the
soft spot just beneath my ear, hard enough to leave a mark. “You
taste just as good as you sound,”
he murmurs.

I
groan. Something about the fact that he hasn’t
bothered to ask my name—hasn’t
even waited to see my face before taking me—is
so fucking hot.

“I
could say the same about you, Father,”
I whisper.

His
rough stubble scratches my cheek as I catch his ear between my teeth
and bite down hard in response. That earns me a soft, guttural growl.

There’s
a splintering sound. He cracks through the remainder of the flimsy
wall between us with one knee. For a second I freeze, afraid someone
must have heard that. They’ll
open the door, find us in here.

But
outside, someone screams a terrible karaoke rendition of the newest
Adele song. Background music blasts, cups clank, and the party rages
on, no one the wiser about what’s
happening behind the closed doors in this tiny, abandoned corner of
the room.

“Don’t
worry.” I can
practically hear the grin in his voice. “They
won’t hear us. Not
until I make you really scream.”

Then
his lips dig into mine once more and he’s
lifting me, one arm around my waist, dragging me over the partition
into his side of the confessional.

“Forgive
me, child, for I plan to sin.”

“Is
it wrong that I think I’ll
enjoy it?” I
lean down to lick his lips.

He
grabs my legs, adjusts me so I’m
straddling him and runs his hands down my back to my skirt. “Only
enjoy it? Oh, I think we can do better than that.”
He toys with the waistband for a moment, then drops his hands
farther, reaching for the hem at my knees.

I
grab at the hem of the thin shirt he’s
wearing, but he catches my wrist.

“Clothes
on,” he whispers,
more a command than a request.

My
heart skips a beat.

Then
he shoves up the hem of my too-long, too-proper skirt. It bunches
around my waist, but he leaves it there and hooks a finger through my
thong, tugging it down my legs inch by inch. The edge of his finger
skates across my pussy, just a teasing brush, as he pulls my
underwear down. “Wet
already, I see. Why, it’s
almost as if you’re
more than enjoying this.”
He stops when the thong is halfway down my thighs, and I wriggle,
trying to pull it the rest of the way off.

He
holds me still with one firm arm around my waist.

Fine.
That’s how he wants
to play it? My turn.

“Seems
like I’m not the
only one
enjoying
this.”
I drop my hand between us. Even through his jeans, I can feel the
hard press of his cock. I trace the outline, feel him twitch when I
press my fingertips against his tip.

Suddenly,
he grabs both of my wrists, pulls my arms behind my back so I can’t
reach him, can’t
touch him.

I
swallow a groan of frustration. “What?”

He
keeps holding me there, gazing up at me through a lock of hair that’s
fallen across his face. If I’m
not mistaken, he’s
smiling. “Just you
first,” he says.

I
open my mouth, about to say I don’t
understand, when he pushes me onto my feet, slides off the
confessional bench and drops to his knees between my legs.

Oh
god.

He
grips my ass hard with both hands, pulls my legs toward him. If
anyone opened the door now, they’d
have a face full of my . . . everything.
I squeeze my eyes shut, heart pounding with nerves. Nerves, and
something more. Something a lot like thrill.

I’ve
never done anything like this before. Fucking in the film room late
at night in a near-abandoned library basement with a locked door and
no windows was hardly the same thing as being in a hastily
constructed box with a party raging outside.

This
is such a terrible idea.

And
yet. Adrenaline floods my veins. Added to the lust already pulsing
through them, there’s
no way I’m telling
him to stop.

His
lips brush my inner thigh. I forget the party. I forget everything.

His
tongue flashes out to trail up my leg. I shiver, and he laughs, a
puff of hot air that burns against the sensitive skin he just licked.
“You taste even
better than I imagined,”
he says, his voice almost a growl.

“Fuck
me,” I gasp.

Another
laugh. “Not yet,”
he murmurs into my skin. “Not
until you’re ready
to burst.” His teeth
nip along the crook of my leg and my hip. Nerve endings I didn’t
know existed start to fire. Shivers ricochet up my spine. I can’t
help the soft moan that breaks free.

That
earns me another laugh, this one right against my . . . 
oh
GOD.

His
tongue swirls across the skin between my legs. His fingers clench my
ass again and I jerk forward involuntarily, press myself hard against
his face. I let one hand drop to cup his head, and when his tongue
glides over my clit, I can’t
help but clench my fist in his hair.

“
Shit,
”
I hiss.
But he’s only
getting started.

He
delves between the slick folds of my pussy, laps at me. One hand
slides from my ass, skates over my hips to the front, where he
brushes my bellybutton, still licking as his fingers trickle down,
down, down. His tongue slides out of me and I gasp again, this time
from want.

I’m
not left wanting long. I groan through gritted teeth as he slides one
finger into me. It glides in easy. I’m
soaked.

“God,
you’re so tight.”

His
tongue circles my clit again, sending bullets of pleasure shooting
through my nerves while he thrusts in a second finger, then a third.

I
rock against him, my legs shaking so hard it’s
difficult to stay standing. He holds me in place with his other hand,
gripping so hard it’ll
leave marks. His fingers fucking me slow at first, then faster,
harder, while his tongue lashes my clit.

Before
I know it my head falls back and I’m
moaning out loud, desperate, hanging on the edge of release.

He
curls his fingers inside me, brushing against my walls at the same
time that his tongue spears my clit.

The
orgasm sparks through me and I cry out, my knees finally losing all
control over keeping me upright. My head buzzes, my vision going red
at the edges, and all I can think about is
if
he can do that with just his tongue . . . 

Luckily,
he’s a faster
thinker than I am at the moment. He catches me, yanks my underwear up
and my skirt down fast as possible. I grab at his shirt in protest—we
haven’t even done
him yet, it’s my
turn. But he spins me away from him, and I land on his knee facing
the confessional door just as it bursts open.

Bright
light floods my probably red-hot face, blinding me. I hold up a hand
against it while my eyes struggle to adjust after what feels like
hours spent inside this totally dark booth.

Through
a squint, I can see at least a dozen people peering in at us, wearing
various expressions of surprise and amusement. The guy who opened the
door has on a full bishop outfit, complete with giant scarlet hat.