"Harder than I ever did with him," she whispers. "I felt guilty. I felt like a whore."
"Not a whore," I tell her. "Just starving. And you knew where the food was."
"I wanted you to ruin me," she sobs out. "I wanted you to save me from him, but I also wanted you to destroy me. Is that a sin?"
"Yes," I say. "Coveting. Lust. Dishonoring the family."
The bench scrapes as I stand.
"Gabriel?"
"Stay on your knees," I order.
The door to my booth flies open with a kick. Two steps later, the curtain on hers rips back.
Blair kneels on the padded rest, hands gripping the ledge, head bowed. She looks up as my frame fills the small space. She’s got wet eyes with mascara streaking down her cheeks. Her lips are pink and parted, wet from her tongue and her tears.
"You confessed your darkest sins," I say, unbuckling my belt. The sound of leather snapping is violent in the quiet church. "Now comes the penance."
"Here?" she squeaks.
"The only god here is me," I say, shoving my pants down enough to free my cock. "And if there’s another, he knows better than to intervene."
Crowding into the booth with her is necessary. The space is too small, forcing us to press together, skin to skin, heat to heat.
"Stand up and turn around," I growl.
She scrambles to obey, getting to her feet and turning her back. She leans forward, bracing her hands on the little shelf where the Bible sits.
My hands hike her dress up.
She’s bare underneath and I inhale, breathing in the scent of what I do to her. The way I own her body.
"Look how ready you are for me," I praise, running a hand over her ass.
The confession worked better than any foreplay.
My hands grip her hips and I drive into her.
She screams as I bottom out.
It echoes through the church, a sound of pure, unadulterated blasphemy.
"Quiet," I bite out, leaning down to cover her mouth with my hand as I push an extra inch to make sure I can’t get any further inside of her. She goes up on her toes. "Unless you want the nuns to hear."
She bites my palm, muffling her moans as I pound into her.
This is dirty. Wrong. The hottest fucking thing I’ve ever done.
Taking my son’s girlfriend in a confession booth while she admits she fantasized about me the whole time feeds the monster in my chest in a way nothing else ever has.
He demands complete ownership over her, starting with her body and ending with her soul.
"You belong to me," I whisper against her ear, thrusting deep. "Not some invisible god. Not Ryder.Me."
"Yes," she cries into my hand.
"Who owns your soul?"
