She reaches for my shirt buttons. One by one, her fingers working but not fast enough. The black clergy shirt falls open. She pushes it off my shoulders, and I'm bare from the waist up in the room where I put on sacred garments.
Her palm flattens against my chest, over my heart. The racing beneath her hand can't be hidden. Years of cold showers and self-denial, and my body has been secretly preparing to be touched. She traces down my abs, following the trail of hair that disappears into my pants, and my cock jumps at the proximity of her hand.
"I've wanted to do this since the diner," she confesses, fingers exploring. "Touch you. See what you've been hiding under all that black."
I’ve wanted to be seen since long before the diner. I just didn’t think I was allowed.
My hands find the hem of her blouse. I pull it over her head, that moment of vulnerability when her arms lift and her face is briefly hidden. The blouse falls. She's wearing a simple bra and Julian's ring on its chain, gold catching lamplight against her skin.
I see the ring. Her dead husband's secret resting between her breasts. I don't ask her to remove it. The ring is part of her story.
She carries her dead the way I carry mine. We don’t have to put them down to be here.
I trace the curve of her breasts above the bra, watching goosebumps rise. Her nipples are hard, visible through the thin fabric. I pinch one through the material and she gasps, arching into my touch.
"So responsive," I murmur, doing it again, harder.
"Gabriel," she breathes, and my name in her mouth while I'm touching her like this makes me harder than I've ever been.
My cock is already free between us, hard and thick, and when she pushes my pants down to my feet, she looks down and licks her lips.
Just having her staring at me makes me pulse. She catches a bead of pre-cum with her finger, brings it to her mouth, tastes me while maintaining eye contact.
"Jesus Christ," I groan.
Her bra clasp gives way under my fingers. I palm her breasts, perfect handfuls, thumbs circling her nipples until she's writhing against me. We're clumsy with need. My elbow knocks against the wall, her heel catches on my pants leg.
She notices my hands trembling, catches them in hers, brings them to her mouth and kisses each palm. The simple intimacy of it overwhelms me more than the nudity.
"It's okay," she whispers against my skin. "I've got you."
I haven’t heard words like that since before my mother died. I’ve been the one holding everything together for so long I forgot this was even possible — someone’s hands catching mine.
Her skirt falls. She’s already bare underneath, and I can see the wetness, smell her arousal in the small room.
"You're an angel," I breathe, taking in the sight of her, completely naked before me. Soft curls, glistening folds, her clit swollen.
We're skin to skin in the lamplight, naked in my sacristy. The preparation table is solid wood where I set the Eucharist every Sunday. She sits on the edge, her breasts jiggling at the movement, and she parts her legs wide. I step between them.
I grip my cock, stroke it once while she watches. Her eyes track the movement, pupils dilated. I position myself at her entrance, not pushing in yet, just rubbing the head through her wetness. We both groan.
For a moment I just look at how my cock rests against her pussy, thick and dark against her pink folds. I could stare at that for days. She's so wet I can see it glistening on my shaft. My cock throbs, another drop of pre-cum mixing with her arousal.
"Look at us," I tell her, my voice rough.
She looks down at where we're almost joined, watches as I slide my cock along her slit. The head catches on her entrance and she whimpers.
"Stay with me," she whispers.
I push inside her.
She's so wet I can feel it dripping down my balls.
She cradles my face, patient, letting me arrive. No pushing, no urging. Just holding me.
I have heard a thousand confessions in this church and guarded mine. I told myself that was humility. It was cowardice. I wanted to be known — really known, not performed at — and I was too afraid of what someone might find.
She’s finding it now. And she’s still here.
