I move.
The first withdrawal makes us both moan. I pull back until just the tip remains, then push forward again, watching her face as I fill her. Her mouth falls open.
"Eyes on me," I command. "I want to see you."
She opens her eyes, locks onto mine. No hiding. No disconnection.
The rhythm builds. Each thrust goes deeper, harder. She's so wet the sound fills the room. Her legs wrap around me, heels digging into my ass. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, nails leaving crescents.
"Harder," she begs. "Please, Gabriel, fuck me harder. I’m want to come again."
My hand finds the back of her neck, grips hard. She cries out, arching into it, her pussy clenching around me.
"You like that?" I growl, pulling harder. "You like when I take control?"
"Yes," she moans. "God, yes."
My other hand grips her hip, holding her in place as I fuck into her. The old wood creaks under us.
A brass candlestick tips, clatters to the floor. Neither of us cares. The eye contact never breaks.
I reach between us, find her clit with my thumb. She's swollen, sensitive. I circle it once and she nearly comes off the table.
Her pussy starts to flutter, tightening around me. Her thighs tremble, breathing fractures.
"Gabriel," she gasps. "I'm going to—"
"Come for me. Now."
The command comes out without calculation. This is what I’ve been suppressing alongside everything else — the certainty, the need to take charge of something. It doesn’t feel dangerous right now. It feels exactly right.
She shatters. Her pussy clamps down, pulsing, milking me. She throws her head back and screams my name. Her whole body convulses, and I keep fucking her through it.
“Come inside me, Gabriel,” she breathes.
The permission breaks something loose inside me. My hands clutch at her hips, yanking her down on my cock as I thrust forward one final time. I'm buried to the hilt when I come, my entire body convulsing as I empty myself inside her. Pulse after pulse, until I'm shaking. The pleasure is blinding, soul-binding—a religious experience more profound than any I've had at the altar.
She collapses against me, her breath hot against my neck, her body still trembling with aftershocks. For several minutes, we stay joined, my softening cock still inside her, neither of us willing to break this connection.
She holds me through it, her pussy still fluttering with aftershocks. The sacristy fills with our breathing, incense now mixed with sex and sweat.
We stay joined, neither willing to separate. I can feel myself softening inside her, our combined release starting to leak out. My thumbs trace circles on her hips where I gripped too hard. Her fingers stroke my hair.
I wait for the guilt. Brace for it. I just fucked a woman in a pew and then in my sacristy, on the table where I prepare communion. Her pussy is still dripping with my cum.
But I can't bring myself to feel shame. Not with her still wrapped around me, not with her lips pressing soft kisses to my jaw, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
The guilt doesn't come.
Something else fills that space. Something warm that's been growing since she walked into my life.
"How do you feel?" she asks, pulling back to see my face.
I consider honestly. Body: ruined, humming, more alive than I've been since I was twenty. Mind: quiet for once. Soul: here. Present. Not reaching for God or penance, just existing with this woman.
"Like I've been holding my breath for years," I tell her, "and I just exhaled."
She kisses me, soft. I can taste myself on her tongue, and it sends another pulse through my spent cock.
