"Spread your legs wider," I command, and she obeys instantly, the dress bunching around her waist.
I push her underwear completely aside and just look at her for a moment. Her pussy is perfect—pink and swollen and glistening with arousal. I can see her clit, hard and begging to be sucked. I lean forward and breathe her in, the scent of her arousal making my cock leak against my pants.
"Please," she whimpers. "Gabriel, please—"
I press my mouth to her pussy and we both groan. She tastes incredible—sweet and musky and addictive. I lick from her entrance to her clit in one long stroke, and her thighs clamp around my head as she cries out.
I eat her pussy like I'm starving. My tongue circles her clit before sucking it into my mouth, and she nearly comes off thealtar. Her hands fist in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, and the pain just makes me more desperate to taste every inch of her.
"Oh God," she gasps. "Oh fuck, your mouth—"
I push my tongue inside her, fucking her with it while my nose presses against her clit. She's so wet she's dripping down my chin, and I want to drown in her. My hands grip her thighs, spreading her wider, opening her completely to my mouth.
I slide two fingers inside her while my tongue works her clit, curling them inward. Her pussy clenches around my fingers, and I can feel how close she is.
"That's it," I murmur against her. "Come for me. Come on my tongue while you're spread on my altar."
I suck her clit hard while my fingers pump faster, and she shatters. Her back arches, pussy pulsing around my fingers as she comes with my name on her lips—not Father, just Gabriel, broken into pieces by pleasure. I keep my mouth on her, drawing out her orgasm until she's shaking and pushing at my shoulders.
I stay there, face pressed to her thigh, breathing in the scent of her, my cock so hard it hurts. Not peace—I'm desperate to fuck her. But clarity. The geometry of worship completely rewritten.
She runs fingers through my hair, gentle now. When I look up at her from my knees, her eyes are wet with something that has nothing to do with the orgasm and everything to do with what this means.
I stand, help her down. She reaches for my cock, clearly visible straining against my pants, but I catch her wrist.
"Not yet," I say, though it kills me. "When I finally fuck you, it won't be because I lost control. It'll be because I choose to."
We walk back in silence. At her door, at my couch, the few yards between us that we both know is fiction now.
"Goodnight, Gabriel."
"Goodnight, Seraphina. My angel."
The door closes. I don't shower—I want her taste on my tongue while I lie awake with my cock aching. I stroke myself once, twice, then stop. The denial is part of it now. When I finally have her, I want to be desperate for it.
I am a priest who just made a woman come on my altar, and what I feel is not guilt.
Every mass from now on, I'll stand behind that altar knowing exactly how she tastes. Every "Body of Christ" will carry the memory of a different body, a different communion.
The altar is changed. The confession is coming.
And when—if—I finally give in to it, I'm going to fuck her so hard she forgets there was ever a time we were strangers.
12 - Seraphina
The knock is wrong.
I would bet a thousand dollars that Alma arrives with the firm, rhythmic knock of a woman who considers locked doors a personal insult. And Mrs.Herrera would have a tentative, apologetic tap with a side of casserole. This knock is different. Three sharp raps. Precise. Impatient. The knock of someone who expects doors to open and doesn't have time to wait.
Gabriel is in the other room on a parish call. I'm at the kitchen table with my laptop and Julian's ring and coffee going cold. I look at the door. The knock comes again. Same cadence. The person on the other side isn't going away.
I don't answer it. It's not my house. But I'm suddenly aware that I'm sitting in a priest's kitchen on a Monday afternoon with my laptop and my coffee mug and my shoes by the door and a bowl of mangoes on the counter, and whoever is knocking is about to see all of it.
Gabriel appears from the other room. He looks at the door. Something crosses his face, not quite recognition, but the bracing that comes before impact. Through his collar, I can see tension gathering in his shoulders, the same coiled readiness I saw in the parking lot when those men came for me. My body responds immediately, not with fear, but with that sick thrill of anticipation. Danger at the door, and Gabriel preparing for it, and God help me, my thighs press together at the sight.
He opens it.
The man on the doorstep doesn't belong to Homestead. Doesn't belong to any small quiet life.
