Warning: The following post contains an excerpt from my series “About to Sin.” This story not only celebrates m/m sexuality, but has a priest as one of the leads. I’m rating this post NC-17 reader discretion is advised.
Sometimes while reading stories I wonder: How hard can they kiss? How much can the tongues “fight?” How firm and gripping can the touch be? I’m all for aggressive sexuality in writing, but it almost seems as if we’ve set this thing up that it must be aggressive to be hot.
While working on “About to Sin” for Publisher That Can’t Be Announced Yet, Dr. Singh had reason to give Father Daniel a little lesson about sin. I didn’t intend to make a point with this kiss, but I think it helps illustrate that “firm” sexuality and “soft” sexuality can be equally arousing.
“You make me thirst.” Father Daniel closed his eyes and curled a hand around my neck. He pulled me into a kiss and the tight squeeze against the nape of my neck forbid me from denying him. Damn, he was thirsty and hungry too. He moaned and pulled me closer pinching our lips between our teeth. I tried to back my head, but he tugged against me.
I heard the paper rustling as he squirmed and winced as our teeth pinched again. Not wanting to leave a kiss with a bloody lip, I felt for and found his wrists. Quickly pinning them to the paper above his head, I broke the kiss. “Not so hard. It doesn’t have to be brutal to be powerful.” I looked at his dazed eyes and saw his arms over his head. He silently begged to be tied up. He expected brutality.
Just to be stubborn, I fluttered my lips over his coaxing his to part. The tip of his tongue swiped my lips and I kissed him with a whisper of touch. Flicking my tongue in and out of my mouth to barely brush his. The cool air of the room washed around and through our embrace.
He writhed against my hold and nudged his head up. I backed mine. I may, occasionally, play games and hurt lovers, but I don’t inflict pain. His fingers gripped my wrists and he started pleading with me for something only he knew. I kept up the fluttering torture until I heard his feet kicking and ripping the paper.
His eyes flicked between my eyes and lips. “You’re not supposed to feel good.”
“Too bad.” I released his wrists and nuzzled his neck. “What kind of propaganda have you been fed? Do you really think being gay is all about anonymous sex and angry testosterone filled foreplay? Glory holes and cruising?” I interlaced our fingers and held our hands before his face. “Being gay isn’t about the sex. It’s about this.” I shook our connected hands. “It’s about being comfortable with someone you care about. It’s about longing to see someone and wanting to know all about them.” I broke eye contact and glanced at his collar. “It’s about knowing someone's dirty little secrets and respecting and liking them in spite of it.” Returning my gaze to his eyes, I continued. “The sex is just—”
He mouthed my name.
He moaned and squeezed my fingers.
“Expression of all of that—”
“Fail.” I closed my eyes and kissed him. He ripped his hand way from me and clawed at my back yanking me closer. His fingers twisted into my scrubs. He nearly ripped them before I could tuck my head down and let him take it off. My shirt along with my stethoscope hit the floor.