Stunned by the beauty of it, Claire pressed her hands over her ears. The muscles in Mirela’s arms flexed with each pull, straining against the green blouse. Her body movedwith the rhythm she noticeably had mastered long ago. The moonlight painted her in silver and shadow, sweat glinting along her throat.
Claire couldn’t look away. The bell rang again, the sound rolling through the night like thunder. Mirela exhaled, her breath visible in the cold air. When she turned, their eyes met.
In that look, Claire felt reverence, hunger, fear, and the reckless, impossible truth of what they had already become.
***
Mirela
Mirela couldn’t tear her gaze away from Claire. Her hair was undone, her breath uneven, her lips parted as though she’d just been running. She looked nothing like the nun she had seen in the cathedral days ago, and despite that, to Mirela, she looked even more beautiful than before because she looked real.
Her hand still gripped the thick rope of the bell before she gave it one last pull, too hard, too long. The toll echoed through the night and Mirela didn’t even stop to think that someone, anyone might notice that she had pulled on the rope one too many times.
She was too preoccupied looking at the heavenly creature before her, a creature that stared at her with something that could only be described as devotion.
“Claire,” Mirela called out, finally releasing her hold on the ropes. She walked to Claire as her hands trembled to hold her like she had done back in the convent.
It appeared that was exactly what Claire was thinking. As soon as Mirela stood before her, Claire reached for her, her hand clasping her face, pulling her down for a kiss.
This one was completely different from the one before. This kiss wasn’t timid, nor chaste. It was hungry.
Her arms wrapped around Claire instinctively, slotting their mouths together, needing her closer, needing her skin. Mirela had to touch, to taste, to feel every inch of this woman who had made her feel seen and safe.
She lifted Claire with ease, her body lighter than she thought it would be. Claire let out a soft yelp, wrapping her arms securely around Mirela’s shoulders as she made her way towards the stairs.
Mirela quieted her surprise as they made a trail of soft moans and breathless laughter that echoed off the stone. Mirela’s pulse pounded so fiercely she could barely breathe.
Never in her life had Mirela thought she would have this, a person like Claire touching her with a sweetness and want she had only seen when she looked upon the perishers. She never thought she would be looked upon withthe need burning in Claire’s eyes. This woman wanted her, and yet the want pouring from Claire didn’t feel wrong or sinful—it felt right.
When they reached her chamber, Mirela settled her down in the middle of the room. Claire’s fingers explored her arms, her shoulders, the curve of her neck, and every touch felt like a consecration. Mirela’s skin burned beneath her fingertips; every caress made her light-headed.
Even when she released Claire, she couldn’t peel her hands off her. Their mouths found each other again, deeper this time, desperate, reverent. Mirela drank her in, her hands cradling the other woman’s face, attacking her mouth and allowing whatever felt right to guide her.
“I want to worship you,” Mirela whimpered.
“Have you ever been with someone?” Claire asked, her voice trembling, the question itself a confession.
Mirela took a step back, allowing herself to take a clean gulp of air and breathe something other than Claire’s intoxicating rosy scent. She hadn’t been with anyone, but she had seen lovers outside of the cathedral, she had seen them hide in dark alleys, thinking that no one could see them. She had seen the way they worshipped one another. On their knees, kissing the lover’s body as the other stood. She had seen it in all types of couples, and she was jealous of their boldness.
She wanted to be bold with Claire, to be able to pleasure her and elicit the same sounds she had heard from those lovers in the streets…
She knew she wouldn’t be the best, but she was willing to learn everything that was Claire, everything that would make her tremble with want and need.
“No. I haven’t,” Mirela finally answered.
Claire gave a breathless laugh, tinged with disbelief. “Of course not. Why am I even asking?”
Mirela tilted her head and smiled faintly. “I have witnessed many things from up here, Claire. I smell the city’s food, hear its laughter, its sorrow.” She paused, her hold on Claire softening. “I’ve seen lovers, too, finding corners in which to hide themselves. Sinful to some. But to me…” Her eyes lingered on Claire’s face, her lips. “To me it always looked like freedom.”
Claire breath hitched. “What are you saying?”
“I said I wanted to worship you, Claire.” Mirela found herself kneeling before her, still tethered to her by her hands to Claire’s waist. She looked up and wondered how heaven could have blessed her with such a divine creature.
But it was Claire who looked down as thoughshewere the sacred one. As though Mirela were something to worship.
“My beautiful Mirela,” Claire whispered, her hands cupping Mirela’s face with delicate care, as if she might break.
Mirela’s throat closed.
