Read Online Rabid by T K Kenyon - Free Book Online

and weighing it down until the mass rose inside his pants. Her skin was so cold. It would be like screwing an ice sculpture caught fire.
    She shook a robe away from its hanger, stepped away, and flipped it around her. “Don’t want those mu shus to get cold,” she said.
    “They’ll keep.” He spun her around and kissed her hard. It would be an easy thing to part that robe and her legs and crush her between his dick and the wall.
    She would scream, maybe bite.
    When he broke away for air, Leila said, “Yeah, the mu shus will keep.”
    She grabbed one of his wrists, spun him, and the floor rushed up at him.
    He caught himself on his hands and knees. Weight on his back forced him to the ground. His arm wrenched behind his back. She bit him lightly on the ear.
    His shoulder hurt but didn’t tear, as long as he didn’t move. “Careful, I’m not young.”
    “You should be careful what you start. Sit up.” Her voice was raspy in his ear. She didn’t let go of his arm, still twisted behind him. Her weight left his back. Conroy sat back on his heels, kneeling. She said, “Unbutton your shirt.”
    He unbuttoned his shirt with his free hand. Leila might rip it off if he didn’t, and explaining missing buttons might be difficult.
    Leila’s grip on his arm loosened and he tried to get away so he could twist her hands behind her, but she pressed his fist into his shoulder blades. His back bowed. She yanked his shirt down over his shoulders to his elbows so he couldn’t move his arms and tied it into makeshift bonds. His dick was so stiff it ached.
    Her hands slid in his waistband and he sucked in his belly to reduce the flab. She opened his pants.
    He said, “This isn’t what I was thinking.”
    “You were thinking about it rough.”
    “Yeah,” he admitted. She stepped back from him and Conroy stumbled forward. His hands were still knotted in his shirt. He couldn’t catch himself. His arms pulled him backward, and he steadied. The shirt loosened, and one arm was free. He turned on his knees.
    She pushed him backward. Still off balance from pitching forward and shuffling on his knees, he tipped, and she jumped on him.
    He struggled but she was strong, so he fell back. One hand was still wrapped in his shirt, and she grabbed that one and his bare hand and forced them above his head. She held them there with one hand and pushed his underwear down. Elastic cupped his balls.
    The air polymerized into ice.
    She grappled in her robe pocket and found a foil envelope, tore the packet, and slapped the purple, corrugated condom on his dick.
    She pressed herself onto him, around him, and he bucked as she fucked him. The hardwood floor bruised his vertebrae. Above him, she was a long, pale arc of flesh from his dick to his hands, holding him down, pressing at both ends, soaring between. When he had grabbed her, he thought he could have her like that, but Leila turned it around on him again. She was a ball of twisted detonator cord, and he never knew which cut wire was going to blast her apart.
    Idiot priest. Why did Conroy do this?
    Because the whole rest of his life, he craved this.
     
    ~~~~~
     
    Dante had finished cleaning the bookshelves when a knock rattled his door. He squatted, never simple in an ankle-length cassock but he was so accustomed to wearing it that only a Roman-collared shirt felt undressed, and swept together obscene magazines and stuffed them in a box. “Yes?”
    Mrs. Sloan came in. She clutched a scrap of paper in her hand. “You might start with these kids.”
    Dante took the list. Four of them, he already had contacted. Three new names, though.
    If Dante ever saw that bastard Nicolai, if Dante was ever within reach of his haggard, lizard throat—but he stopped. Wrath was one of the seven deadly sins. God’s justice was more important than Dante’s own sense of outrage. He rubbed his eyes, which throbbed and ached all the time.
    Mrs. Sloan was beside him, and her hand fluttered near his arm.