What She Needs by Lacey Alexander Page B

back more completely on the desk and shut her eyes.
    Yet as Brent’s hands closed tight over her bare hips, he leaned over and rasped, “No. Open your eyes and watch me fuck you.”
    She forced them wide in response, but focused on the ceiling.
    And then felt him waiting—waiting for her to do what he’d said.
    So she lightly clenched her teeth and drew her gaze slowly, uncomfortably downward, until she met his—and he said, “Lower. My cock.”
    She sucked in a breath, felt her chest heave. Dragged her gaze downward, over the priest’s collar and the black fabric of his suit. Until she again saw the large male appendage jutting from it like a steel girder.
    She watched him close his fist around the base. She watched him guide the engorged head, a dot of shimmering moisture at its tip, to where her pink folds lay parted, ready. She watched him push the head inward—her body braced for the impact, which came, hard.
    As his length drove slowly, deeply, into her, they both let out long, low groans, and Jenna continued witnessing the amazing way her body swallowed that part of his. Until her eyes fell shut again, out of pure pleasure, fullness—and this time he didn’t insist she open them just yet.
    With his big hands back at her hips, he began thrusting in earnest. He didn’t go slow like last night—instead he found a brisk, hard rhythm, and she felt every stroke at her very core. Each made her cry out as it jolted her body—her breasts jiggled within the tight lace still outlining them, and she found herself gripping the bottom edge of the desk with both hands to hold herself steady.
    “Open your eyes, Jenna,” he said, his voice warm, dark.
    She obeyed, meeting his as their bodies collided, again, again.
    Then he released one of her hips and reached down for her hand, removing it from the desk’s edge. He drew it up over where he entered her—hard, so hard—and pressed her fingertips to her clitoris, holding them there. “Touch yourself while I fuck you,” he said, his gaze still steady and commanding on her.
    Impulsively, she tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t allow it. He pushed her fingers back down, even moving them over the sensitive nub to send an unbidden pleasure expanding outward.
    “I don’t want it to happen that way,” she protested as he continued to pound into her flesh below. “I want you to do it.”
    He simply gave his head a short, definite shake. “Rub your clit,” he insisted. “Do it!”
    But the second he began to remove his hand, she did, too—so he shoved her fingers back down, rougher this time, forcing her to feel her own wetness.
    She bit her lip, their eyes still locked. “This . . . doesn’t . . . make me . . . feel good,” she managed between the hard strokes of his erection.
    “It will if you let it,” he assured her. “You can even close your eyes if you want.” He suddenly sounded a little more like Brent than Father Powers, and she immediately accepted the offer to shut her eyes, shut out all the shocking, erotic images assaulting her. But she still didn’t want to touch herself. It wasn’t that she never did—she did sometimes; it was that she couldn’t bear to do it in front of someone. Even during sex. It felt so . . . private, personal.
    Yet Brent still held her fingers down into her folds, and even just the friction created by his thrusts succeeded in moving her clit against her hand. And soon she heard her breath begin to change, deepen, felt her chest begin to expand and contract as she bit her lip and lifted her hips to better meet his hard drives—and her own fingers.
    Oh God. Oh God, it would happen soon. Still, Brent flattened his fingertips over hers, moving them in a hot little circle that made her begin to moan.
    And as his touch grew gradually lighter, she wanted to lift her hand away, too—but she didn’t. Couldn’t really. Because—dear God—she was so close, everything inside her pounding, pulsating, reaching. And then