Four Deacons Drove Out My Father, So I Brought Them to Their Knees novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Not Twice Running

She breaks her own rule on the second night, takes Isaiah to her childhood bed, bites his shoulder and lets him mark her back, and gets a midnight text from Abner.

He came back for his hat on Monday night, and I pulled him down the hall before he finished saying so.

"Not twice running," Isaiah said against my mouth.

"I make the rules," I said.

"You do."

"Then I can break one," I said.

"You can," he said, and his hands were already at the zipper of my dress.

My old bedroom was at the end of the hall, small and square, with a narrow bed under the window.

The corkboard still held my swim ribbons.

I had dragged the sheet off the quilt that afternoon, and the streetlight came through the curtain and lay yellow across the bed.

Isaiah stopped in the doorway and looked at the ribbons.

"Don't," I said. "Look at me."

He looked at me.

I pushed his jacket off his shoulders and unknotted his tie.

I undid his shirt one button at a time, with him standing still and letting me.

His chest was broad and covered in gray hair.

I put my mouth on it, and he groaned, and I kissed my way down to his belt and back up to his throat.

"You're slow," he said, and his voice shook.

"You taught me."

I stepped back and pulled my dress over my head.

He took his time looking, and I let him.

Then he put his hands on my bare waist and lowered me onto the bed with great care.

"Naomi," he said.

"Not yet," I said.

"Miss Gervais."

"Better," I said.

He knelt over me on the narrow mattress, and the old springs creaked.

He put his mouth on my breast and sucked the nipple slowly, then harder, with the flat of his tongue.

I arched up into him and locked both hands in his hair.

"More," I said.

He gave me more.

He moved to the other breast and used his teeth gently, and the sound I made surprised us both.

His mouth went down my belly, kissing slowly, and he stopped at the edge of my underwear and breathed against it.

"Take them off," I said.

"You did not give me leave to say your name."

"I'm giving you leave to take them off."

He drew them down my legs with his teeth catching the lace, and I laughed.

The laugh turned into a moan when he put his thumb on my clit.

He did not use his mouth this time.

He used his hand, two fingers pushed deep and his thumb working in slow circles, and he watched my face the whole time.

"Look at you," he said, low. "All that hard talk, and you come undone like this."

"Shut up and keep going."

"Yes, ma'am."

I rode his hand, and the springs creaked.

I came once, fast, with my head back on the pillow and my fingers wrapped around his wrist.

He did not let me rest.

He kept his fingers in me, still moving, until I was wet to the sheet and begging.

"Isaiah, I want you inside me," I said.

"You've had my hand."

"I want your cock."

I reached down and found it before he could answer, thick and heavy in my hand.

I stroked him from the base to the tip and felt him tremble.

"Naomi," he said, and nearly choked on it. "Miss Gervais."

"Say you want it," I said.

"I want it more than I have wanted anything in twenty years."

"Then take it," I said.

He closed his eyes for a second.

He shoved his trousers and shorts down and kicked them off, and he was thick and ready in the streetlight, the head dark and wet.

I spread my legs.

He settled between them, braced on his forearms, and pushed the head of his cock against me.

I held his shoulders and lifted my hips.

He pressed in, slow, an inch, and another, and I gasped at the stretch of him.

"Hold still," he said, strained. "Let me."

"No."

I pulled him down by the back of his neck, and he sank into me to the root.

We both stopped.

He was so deep that I felt him in my belly.

I wrapped my legs around his hips and dug my heels into his back.

"Move," I said.

He moved.

He started with long strokes that pulled almost all the way out and filled me again.

Each one made the bed knock softly against the wall.

I met every thrust.

His gold tooth shone when he breathed through his mouth, and sweat ran down from his temples.

"You are more than I have earned," he said.

I didn't want that from him.

I wanted to be the one in charge of him.

So I turned my head and bit down on his shoulder, hard, in the muscle above the collarbone.

He cried out.

"Mark me," I said, with my teeth still in him. "Go on. Mark me back."

He gripped my hips in both hands, his fingers sinking into my skin, and drove into me harder.

The bed hit the wall.

The ribbons on the corkboard shook.

"There," I said. "That."

"This?"

"Yes. Yes."

He held me down and fucked me, deep and steady, and the pleasure climbed from my belly up through my chest.

I raked my nails down his back, and he groaned my name, and this time he did not correct it.

"Turn over," he said, rough.

I did not argue.

I rolled onto my hands and knees on the quilt.

He knelt behind me and gripped my hips in the same marks, and I heard his breath catch.

"Don't talk," I said. "Fuck me."

He pushed into me from behind in one long thrust, and I buried my face in my arms and moaned.

He was deeper this way, and he held my hips and set a hard, even rhythm.

His hips slapped against me with every stroke.

I reached back and caught his wrist and held on.

His other hand slid into my twists and wrapped them gently around his fist, and he tilted my head back.

"Take it, then," he said.

"Harder."

He laughed, a low, wrecked sound.

Then he gave me exactly what I asked for.

He fucked me hard, and I could hear how wet I was with every thrust.

My arms gave out until my chest was on the bed.

He hauled me up by the waist until I knelt with my back against his chest and his arm banded across my stomach.

His mouth was at my ear, and I felt every ridge of him moving inside me.

"That's it," he said. "Let me hear you. Nobody is on this street."

"Isaiah."

"Louder."

I said it louder, and again, and the sound filled the little room.

He bit my earlobe, and then my neck, hard enough to leave a mark of his own.

I turned my head and found his mouth, and we kissed with his cock still driving into me.

He reached around and found my clit with two fingers, and he rubbed it in tight circles in time with his cock.

"Come for me," he said, and his baritone dropped. "Come on, Naomi. Let me feel it."

That did it.

The orgasm broke over me in waves, and I screamed with my head thrown back against his shoulder and clenched around him again and again.

"Oh, God," Isaiah said, "oh, God, girl."

He drove in once more and held there, shaking, and I felt him pulse deep inside me, hot and heavy.

He folded over my back and kissed the nape of my neck.

We lay in a heap on my childhood quilt until our breathing slowed.

Then I pushed him onto his back.

"Naomi," he said. "I'm fifty-nine."

"Then you'd better be a quick study."

I straddled his hips, and he was already stirring against me, and I took him in my hand and sank down on him.

He groaned and grabbed my thighs.

I rode him slowly, with my hands flat on his chest and the streetlight on my skin.

His eyes never left my face.

Each time I rose, I felt him slide almost out of me, and each time I came down I took all of him.

"You are not hurrying," he said.

"I'm taking what I came for."

He pushed himself up against the headboard without leaving me, and I wound my arms around his neck and rode him in his lap.

His mouth found my breast again, and his hands spread across my back and held me close.

I rolled my hips in slow circles, grinding my clit against him, and every circle drew a groan from his chest.

"Faster," he said.

"No," I said.

"Naomi."

"I said no. I decide how fast."

His whole body shook with the effort of obeying, and I loved it.

I bit his other shoulder, so he would match.

He swore, and his hips bucked up, and I caught his wrists against the headboard and rode him harder.

"Naomi," he said, and this time I let him say it.

"Again," I said.

"Naomi."

"Again."

"Naomi, I'm going to," he said.

"Not before me."

He gripped my hips, fingers sinking into the marks he had left.

He drove up into me to meet every stroke, and I came a second time with my forehead against his.

He followed me with a long, shuddering groan.

I stayed there until he softened and slipped out of me, and then I slid down beside him.

His shoulders were bleeding a little where I had bitten him.

I touched one of the marks with a finger.

"That will show over my collar," he said.

"Good."

He turned his head on the pillow and looked at the ceiling.

"I sat behind you at your mother's funeral," he said. "You did not cry. You counted the ceiling tiles."

"Don't."

"I only wanted you to know I remember you."

"Rule," I said. "Nobody says my father's name in my bed."

"I haven't," he said.

"I'm telling you so you can tell the others."

"I'll tell them," he said.

I should have been angry that he remembered.

Instead I lay there with his come drying on my thighs and his fingerprints coming up on my hips.

I let him stay until the streetlight went out.

He dressed in the dark, and he took his hat this time.

At midnight, after his truck was gone, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

The number was one I did not know.

"Wednesday. After prayer meeting. The bank lot across Dauphin Street. Come as you are, young lady. A. Toliver."

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