Her bra is simple. Black. The clasp is in the back and I get it on the first try, which feels like a minor miracle for a man who hasn't undressed anyone in nearly a decade. Her breasts spill free and I cup them both, running my thumbs over her nipples, watching them harden under my touch.
"God," I breathe, and it's not blasphemy. It's the closest thing to prayer I've said in weeks.
She arches into my hands, and I bend to take one nipple into my mouth. The sound she makes when I suck, a broken little moan that she tries to swallow, goes straight to my cock. I want to hear every sound she's been holding back. Every moan she stifled in the sacristy, every gasp she swallowed on the altar because someone might hear.
Tonight, let them hear.
I work her nipple with my tongue, teasing it to a stiff peak, then switch to the other while my hand slides down her stomach to her waistband. Her trousers have a button and a zip, and I'm better with these than the blouse — one hand, quick, efficient. She lifts her hips off the counter and I pull the trousers andunderwear down together, dropping them on the floor on top of the ruined blouse.
Sera naked on my kitchen counter. My mother’s club kitchen, and Sera's body.
I've served communion to hundreds of people. Placed the host on their tongues with reverence and care. I have never, in all my years behind the altar, felt anything as sacred as this woman bare in front of me with kitchen light on her skin.
I drop to my knees.
The position of prayer. The position of worship. We've done this before — on the altar, the symmetry of confessional and supplication. But this is different. No transgression fuelling it. No stolen hour in a church. Just a man on his knees because there is nowhere else he wants to be.
I press my mouth to the inside of her thigh and she jolts, fingers finding my hair. I kiss higher, taking my time, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling the muscles in her legs tense as I get closer. Her breathing has gone ragged. Her fingers tighten in my hair.
"Gabriel—"
"I've been kneeling in the wrong direction for eight years," I murmur against her skin. "Let me make up for it."
I put my mouth on her and she comes apart.
Not immediately — I'm not that arrogant. But fast, faster than I expected, because she's already soaked, already swollen, and when my tongue finds her clit and presses flat she makes a sound that I will hear in my dreams for the rest of my life. A raw, unguarded cry that bounces off the kitchen tiles and says finally, finally, finally.
I eat her like communion. Slow, reverent, thorough. My tongue works in long strokes from her entrance to her clit, pausing to circle, to press, to suck. Her thighs clamp around my head and I grip them, holding them open, keeping her spread forme because I need to see all of her, need to taste every part of her while she writhes on my counter.
"Oh god — right there — don't stop—"
I don't stop. I add a finger, sliding it inside her, curling it forward while my tongue keeps its rhythm on her clit. She's tight and hot and dripping, and when I add a second finger she clenches around them so hard my cock throbs in sympathy.
"Come for me," I say against her, and the vibration of my voice must do something because she dissolves. Her back arches off the counter, knocking the wooden spoon to the floor with a clatter, her thighs shaking, her hands pulling my hair hard enough to hurt. I work her through it, gentling my tongue as she comes down, feeling the aftershocks pulse around my fingers.
I stand, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and Sera looks at me with glazed eyes and flushed cheeks and a smile that's wicked.
"Get your pants off," she says.
I obey. There's a sentence I never thought I'd think about a woman giving me an order, but when Sera tells me to strip, I strip. Belt, trousers, boxer briefs — all of it hitting the floor in a pile that mingles with her ruined silk. I'm so hard it almost hurts, my cock jutting thick and heavy between us.
Her eyes drop and her lips part. She reaches for me, wrapping her hand around my shaft, and my hips jerk forward involuntarily. Her grip is firm, confident, and she strokes once from base to tip, her thumb circling the head where I'm already leaking.
"Sera." Her name comes out strangled.
"I want you inside me."
I pull her to the edge of the counter. The height is almost right — she's raised just enough that I can line myself up, the head of my cock pressing against her entrance. I feel the heatof her, the slick welcome, and every muscle in my body is screaming to push forward.
But I stop.
"Look at me," I say.
She does. Those dark eyes, clear and present. Not performing. Not surviving. Just here, with me, choosing this.
I push into her slowly, watching her face as I stretch her open. Her lips part, her eyes flutter, and her hands grip my shoulders. I'm thick — I know this, have always known this — and the pace is deliberate, giving her time to adjust while I fight every instinct to bury myself to the hilt.
"More," she whispers. "All of it."
