"Say my name again," I ask, not sure why I need to hear it.
"Seraphina." He says it like a fact, like something true and unchangeable. Not the desperate way he said it in the sacristy, not the guilty way he's whispered it before. Just my name in his morning voice, certain as sunrise.
His hand traces lazy patterns on my back, and I realize he's spelling something. Letters on my skin. S-E-R-A. Over and over, like he's writing me into existence, making sure I'm real.
"I thought you'd wake up different," I admit. "Thought Father Gabriel would come back."
"He's gone." Simple. Certain. "I took off more than the collar last night."
The crucifix above us catches morning light, bronze warming to gold. Some resurrections require a kind of death first.
It starts slowly, his hand moving from writing my name to learning my body in the growing daylight. Last night was desperate, all that hunger breaking open. This morning he explores with reverent attention, fingers trailing along my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. My nipplesharden immediately at his touch, and he notices—of course he notices—circling them with maddening lightness until I arch against him.
His fingers find the old burn on my inner forearm. He traces it with such tenderness that my throat tightens.
"Your abuela was right." He brings my arm to his lips, kissing the scar. "You run hot."
I shift against him, feeling his cock already hard against my thigh, thick and insistent. My pussy throbs in response, still swollen and sensitive from last night. The soreness between my legs makes itself known—a sweet ache, evidence of how thoroughly he fucked me in the sacristy. His breath catches when I press against him, his cock jumping at the contact.
"I want to see you," he says. "All of you. In the light."
No shadows now, no sacristy darkness. Just morning sun painting us both gold.
His fingertips circle my nipple, brushing the underside until it pebbles tight, and when his palm cups my breast—heavy, reverent—he pauses, thumb flicking lazily over the dark nipple before moving down to the dip of my waist. I feel the heat coil low, raw and sweet, a pleasure so sharp it borders on ache.
My palm skates over the plane of his chest, following the shallow valley of his sternum, the fine line of dark hair running from his collarbone down his stomach. His flesh is less forgiving than mine—ropes of muscle from his punishing runs. I find a ridge of scar tissue on his side, near the ribs, and press a kiss there before trailing my hand lower, passing over the unexpected softness at his hip, the V-lines that lead to his cock, already leaking pre-cum against his stomach.
I reach down and wrap my hand around him. He shudders, hips bucking involuntarily. His cock is hot, the skin satin-smooth and the shaft heavy in my grip, already leaking pre-cum, which I smear with my thumb over the swollen head. Istroke him with slow, even pressure, watching his face for every reaction—how his eyelids fall to half-mast, how his teeth dig into his lower lip, the way his nostrils flare when I squeeze at the base.
"Fuck, Sera," he breathes, then captures my wrist, stopping me. "Not yet. I need to be inside you."
The blunt want in his voice undoes me. I part my thighs and let myself splay open atop the mattress, conscious of the way the sun catches the seam of my pussy, how wet I already am. Gabriel stares with naked hunger, then lowers his body over mine, threading his knees between my legs and bracing on his forearms.
He pauses, just breathing me in. His fingers come up to stroke gently over my mound, then slip down to part my folds. He lingers there, almost scientific in the way he explores, running the pads of his fingers through my slickness before drawing slow, lazy circles around my clit. I arch, unable to stop my hips from rolling into the sensation, and he smiles again—softer this time, like a secret.
"Christ, you're soaked," he murmurs, running one finger through my folds. "Is this for me?"
"Always for you," I admit, then gasp as he presses hard into my clit with his thumb.
He positions himself at my entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against me. We both watch as he pushes in slowly, my pussy stretching to accommodate him.
I clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in as he enters me, the stretch sharp and glorious. Gabriel hisses through his teeth, the vein in his neck bulging. The visual is obscene and perfect—his cock disappearing into me inch by inch, my wetness coating him.
For a moment neither of us moves—I squeeze around him, adjusting, and he just looks at me, the intensity almost unbearable.
He kisses me then, slow and open-mouthed. The movement of his body is gentle at first, a deliberate rocking that makes me swell with pleasure instead of blinding me to it. He pulls back just enough to watch my face as he thrusts—once, twice, then again, each time a little deeper, a little rougher.
The sheets bunch beneath me as I arch, my body greedy for as much contact as possible. Gabriel's hand finds the back of my knee and pushes my leg up, opening me further, and the change in angle makes me cry out. He never looks away, not even as his rhythm unravels, not even as he loses himself in the sensation of my wet heat gripping him.
His eyes fix on mine, and his voice catches. "This… this is what I've been searching for in every prayer, every ritual. The sacred made flesh."
He tries an angle that doesn't quite hit right, adjusts, finds the spot that makes me cry out. The humanity of it, the willingness to learn, is more intimate than any expertise. But then his hand finds my throat—not squeezing, just resting there, thumb along my pulse. The gesture is possessive, a reminder of the man who put professionals on their knees. Even in tenderness, the dominance surfaces.
He says nothing for a long moment, just watches my face as he fills me completely. Then, with quiet certainty:
"You've ruined me for confession."
His hips begin to move with purpose now, each thrust deliberate and deep.
