"I should tell you to leave," I say, my voice rough with need.
"But you're not going to."
"No."
She stands. The confessional is tiny—barely room for both of us. I can smell her arousal, sweet and musky. My mouth waters.
I say her name. Her full name. "Seraphina."
She drops to her knees.
Christ. Just drops. No hesitation. Looking up at me with those amber eyes that have been haunting my dreams. The position puts her face level with my cock, which is straining visibly against my pants.
"I've been thinking about this," she says, her hands finding my belt. "About having you in my mouth. About making you lose control."
My breath catches. My hand moves to her hair—silk between my fingers. "Sera…"
"Tell me to stop." Her hands work my belt open, then my zipper. "Tell me this is wrong."
"It is wrong." My voice is wrecked. "I don't care."
She frees my cock and we both groan. I'm painfully hard, the head dark and swollen, pre-cum beading at the tip. She looks at it like she's starving.
"You're bigger than I imagined," she says, wrapping her hand around the base. "And I imagined a lot."
Then she takes me in her mouth.
The wet heat of it makes my knees buckle. She takes me deep, her throat working, and I have to brace myself on the doorframe to stay standing. Her mouth is impossibly hot, impossibly soft. She sucks hard, her tongue swirling around the head before taking me deep again.
"Fuck," I groan, my hand tightening in her hair. "Your mouth…"
She moans around my cock, the vibration making me see stars. She's not tentative, not exploring—she's devouring me with single-minded focus. Her hand works what her mouth can't reach, twisting on each stroke. Her other hand cups my balls, rolling them gently.
I look down and nearly come from the sight alone. Sera on her knees in a confessional, my cock disappearing into her mouth, her eyes locked on mine while she destroys me. The sanctuary lamp paints everything red—her hair, her skin, the spit-slick shine of my cock when she pulls back.
"I've wanted this since the first day," she says, pulling off just long enough to speak. "Wanted to see you come apart. Wanted to taste you."
She takes me deep again, deeper, her throat opening to accommodate me. I feel her gag slightly and the sound goes straight to my balls.
"Sera…" Her name comes out as a warning. "I'm going to…"
She doesn't stop. If anything she sucks harder, her hand pumping faster, and my orgasm hits like lightning. The intensity rivals anything from before the priesthood—eight years of denial releasing all at once. I come in powerful pulses, her throat working to swallow while my vision tunnels. She takes everything, moaning like she loves the taste.
When she finally releases me, we're both panting. A string of saliva and cum connects her lips to my cock for a moment before breaking. The sight makes my spent cock twitch.
Silence. The church. The crucifix watching from the wall. The confessional door standing open like evidence.
I slide down the doorframe. End up on the floor, back against wood, legs unable to hold me. She's still there, kneeling, lips swollen and pink. We're both in the doorway, breathing hard, the taste of sacrilege thick as incense.
I look at her and see my cum on her lips, see the wet spot on her jeans where she's soaked through, see the hunger still burning in her eyes. No shame. No regret. Just satisfaction and a promise of more.
She sees the apology forming—must see it on my face—and cuts it off.
"Don't." Her voice is steady, sure. "Don't make it into something you did wrong. You didn't tell me to do anything. I chose to kneel. I chose to suck your cock. That was mine."
The distinction matters. The difference between this and Julian is everything.
I touch her face. Thumb along her cheekbone, then down to her lips, still wet with my release. She catches my thumb between her teeth, bites gently, and my cock starts to harden again.
