She shakes her head, a tight little motion that still jostles the veil. “More. But slow.”
“Slow,” I echo, and I keep it measured, giving her time to decide again and again. Her body tilts into my palm, learning me, and I start to wonder if I read her wrong earlier. Maybe she’s not acting. Maybe she’s never had anyone ask. Maybe she’s making this up as she goes for both of us.
“Tell me,” I say against her jaw. “Tell me how you want me. Tell me what you want.”
“You lead,” she breathes, contradicting herself and meaning it. “But only because I said so.”
“Yes, Caterina.”
Her name shakes her. She leans closer; the open door lets October in and I don’t feel it. All I feel is her heat through the mess of fabric and the slow, careful way she rocks, testing what matches the pulse I set under my skin.
“Good girl,” I murmur when she finds it, because praise is a lever and I’m not above using it.
She breaks a little on a laugh that isn’t a laugh. “Again.”
“Good girl.” I keep my mouth on hers while I say it so she can take the words straight from my tongue.
I shift back on the bench and bring her with me, closing the last inches the way we started—on her terms, one breath at a time. Sanctuary sits between our mouths like a live wire only she can cut. I keep one arm cinched at her waist, an anchor not a trap, and put my other hand at her jaw, thumb riding the soft corner of her mouth until she tilts for me.
“I’m going to kiss you again, Kitty,” I warn, low in her ear. I leave a beat where the word could land and end this.
It doesn’t.
I kiss her. Not a crash—contact, pull, a slow seal that turns heat into heat. Her lips open on a small sound that stakes me to the spot. Wintergreen and smoke and nerves. The edge of her veil brushes my knuckles; the borrowed rosary taps my wrist like a metronome keeping time for sin. When her fingers curl in my lapel and tug, I take the hint and deepen it, tongue tasting the soft give of her, then retreating, letting her chase.
Her knees bracket my hips now. The habit pools at her waist; pale skin and black cloth make a cross of shadow over her collarbone. I slide the hand at her jaw down, along her throat, onto the line of her sternum, and then lower—slow enough to stop if she wants me to. She arches once, asking without words. I answer by palming her through thin cotton, feeling the taut peak nudge my hand. She gasps into my mouth and I swallow it, then lift my head to check her eyes.
“Okay?” I ask.
“Yes,” she breathes. “More.”
I push the skirt higher. Warm thighs. A tremor. I fit my hand between them and stroke the inside of one until the shiver smooths. Then I slide my fingers up to the heat of her. She’s already wet through, slick against my knuckles. I trace her over the fabric—one slow pass to map her, the next to circle the littleknot of nerves I’m looking for. When I find it, her hips jump. I do it again, smaller, softer, then firmer, testing pressure until her breath starts to stutter on a rhythm I can match.
She moves more surely, then flinches—tiny, almost nothing—when I slip under the edge of her panties and touch her bare. Not fear. Not no. A line no one’s crossed.
I freeze. Everything hot in me goes to ice for one suspended breath. Her lashes lift. She knows exactly what I felt. She knows I know.
“Caterina,” I say quietly, thumb still, fingers slick from her. “Is this your first?—”
She cuts me off with a kiss that tastes like defiance and decision. “You wanted a saint,” she whispers against my mouth, softer now, a dare and a mercy. “Let me be a good one.”
That floors me. It shouldn’t, but it does. I rest my forehead to hers until both our breathing evens out. “We don’t have to,” I manage, voice rough from trying to be gentle. “We can stop here and still have everything.”
Why am I willing to stop for this saint? On the one night of the year when I try to burn every innocent image out of my mind, this perfect fucking angel appears. And instead of hurting her, or wanting her to sin and embrace the fallen… all I want to do is make it good for her.
Fuck.
There’s something about the innocent in her eyes. Hell, her very soul is calling to me.
And I need her next words like I need to take her and claim her as my own.
“I want this,” she says, eyes huge under the veil. “I want to choose it. I want to remember when the sheets are cold and all I have are words and memories to keep me warm.”
I nod once. “Then we take it slow. You call it. You say when.”
Her answer is to lift her hips and drag my hand back to her. I circle her clit with two fingers, a steady, patient rhythm; her mouth falls open, head tipping back against the wood. I slide one finger lower, testing her—slick heat, tight at the entrance. I press just the tip inside and wait while her body learns me. She exhales hard, opens around my knuckle. I add a second finger to my circling hand, keep the pressure gentle and mean it to be kind. The sound she makes—quiet, shocked, hungry—goes straight through me.
“Look at me,” she says, and when I do, she glances down pointedly.
