There’s never been a boy, let alone a man. In Canaan? Please. The only “couples” in our high school were married by graduation, and most of them are expecting their first child by Christmas of this year. Again, I have a phone, and the internet, and Netflix. I understand that not everywhere is like here, and that there are high schools where people my age “date casually” and experiment in carnal lust and try pretty much everything before marriage.
I’ve been told my entire life how wrong that is, and that it’s shameful, and wicked to be trying to those things with anyone but the person who is your husband or wife under the eye of God. I’ve been taught that premarital anything is a sin worthy of eternal damnation. Or at the very least, a sin worthy of never finding your one and only, because anything besides an actual “white wedding” is a mockery of the celebration itself.
The thing is, I’ve never been sure if I really believe that. I mean, I understand the message of love behind the overbearing fearmongering involved with shaming people into “waiting.” I knew a girl in school a year above me, Laura, who went out with James Lahey for years, and who most certainly lay with him, on multiple occasions. I know this because James Lahey is a disgusting, Hell-bound little cretin who told the whole school about it. Her family ended up moving her senior year, to Savannah, and I remember most of the school avoiding her like she was tainted goods the last week she spent in Canaan.
The thing is, I’ve looked Laura up online, out of curiosity. And you know what? She’s doing great. I’ve stalked her on social media, and she’s at Clemson University, looking like she’s having the time of her life. She’s on the Dean’s list there, majoring in biochemistry, and she plays on the girls’ soccer team. She’s got a handsome boyfriend who looks really nice, and she’s a prominent member of the youth ministry on campus.
Point being, she’s not an outcasted harlot or leper. She’s still with the church. Presumably, God is still a part of her life. Her boyfriend even has an anniversary post to her that mentions that he had to “get through some bad ones to find the good one,” so, presumably, they both know they’ve “been with” other people. And they’re still happy and together.
It’s things like that that make me question everything. And I’m not so sure that questioning things is a bad thing. I’m not sure if the God I believe in would be mad at a few questions.
What he would be mad at, though, is the sort of thoughts I’m having concerning Gabriel Marsden. This isn’t some boy my age I’m curious about “dating.” Gabriel is a man, older than me, and my thoughts aren’t about “dating” him.
…They’re much, much more wicked than that.
The thoughts I’ve done my darnedest to avoid all day, ever since last night actually, don’t involve Gabriel taking me out to dinner and a movie. They don’t involve holding hands or taking a stroll at dusk. They’re… more carnal than that. A lot, lot more carnal, actually.
I flush, and my body tingles as I sink into the comforter in the darkness of my bedroom. My skin feels electric, and a devilish heat begins to pool between my thighs, no matter how hard I try and clench them together. No, the thoughts I harbor concerning Gabriel are wicked, sinful thoughts. They involve him grabbing me and kissing me in a way that’s nothing like the chaste, Hollywood kisses in romantic comedies. They involve him biting my skin and ripping my very clothes from my body piece by piece.
They involve his hands all over me, and especially in places where no hands but my own have ever touched. I blush, and I shiver on the bed as the filthy thoughts take over and crush the rest of my defenses. I close my eyes and pull a blanket over me. My breath comes ragged, and slowly, I unbutton my jeans. I swallow thickly and push them down beneath the blanket, and my hands slide over my tummy.
My fingers find the edge of my plain, regular cotton panties, and I know it’s wrong, and sinful, and horrible, but the Devil has taken hold of me. The Beast himself has sunk his claws into me, and I can’t stop.
I gasp as my fingers slip under the waist and push deep into my panties. Smooth skin turns to soft downy hair under my fingers, and then with a muffled gasp and stifled moan, that turns to slick, velvety-soft, wetness. My fingers bump over the little nub between my legs, and I gasp sharply. I turn my head, squeezing my eyes shut and biting at my pillow as my fingers push lower. I spread myself open, blushing horribly as one digit slips between to tease over my wetness.
Over my… my pussy.
Even thinking the crude word has me shivering on the bed, and my fingers become more eager. I rub that little bump again, which I know is my clit, I just can’t bring myself to even say it in my head. I keep rubbing it with one finger while my other hand slips lower. I push a finger down between my lips, and I whimper into the pillow as it finds my opening. I slip it inside, and the pleasure begins to overtake me.
When I close my eyes tightly, it’s Gabriel touching me. It’s the Devil himself pushing his hands between my legs and touching me where no man ever has. He’s stroking me closer and closer to something… tight, and hot, and trembling. Something I’ve always stopped just short of, because it scares me. But this time, I know there’s no stopping.
With Gabriel in my head, and those piercing blue eyes gazing over me, and those lips on mine, in my head, he’s moving over me on the bed. He’s spreading my legs, and instead of his finger, it’s his… his…
I blush.
His cock that slips between my lips and begins to sink into me.
Claiming me. Taking me. Damning me to sweet, panting, moaning, and thrashing Hell and damnation.
I rub faster, and my hips begin to arch off the bed. I’m past where I’ve ever gone before, I know the explosion is almost inevitable this time. I moan into the pillow, my pulse throbbing in my ears and my body tensing and clenching and getting ready to explode. My fingers rub my clit harder, and I’m about to shatter at any moment—
When there’s knock at my bedroom door.
“Delilah, honey?”
I almost have a heart attack.
With a muffled shriek of pure mortification, I literally throw myself off the side of the bed, taking the bedside table and the books on it with me. My mother gasps on the other side of the door.
“Delilah? What was that!”
“It’s fine! It’s fine!” I scream, cringing and blushing almost painfully with embarrassment. “Don’t come in, I’m changing!” I yell as I furiously pull my panties back into place and yank my jeans up. I cringe when I feel how wet my panties are against me—a sobering reminder of just how close to that line I got. How close to sin I got.
I suck in a breath of air and sit there on my bedroom floor, trembling.
“Delilah?” my mother calls again.
“Y—yes?” I croak. Lord, just take me now, please?