She’s for real about this. Utterly serious. This is what she wants, what sheneeds, just like she needed me the day I delivered the beer to her aunt Nellie’s store.
I kiss her lightly on the mouth, then set my cheek against hersand feel her tremble with anticipation at my low voice in her ear. “As a matter of fact, I have had a fantasy or two of that nature. Let me get myself cleaned up real quick, and then we’ll see what we can do to defile this place.”
24
Cathy
I sit on the edge of the counter in the women’s bathroom and wait while Heathcliff pees, strips, and washes up. I’m swinging my legs, trying to dispel some of my nervous energy, while wetness squishes from my pussy onto the counter. I’m getting more desperate by the second, which means somebody’s going to die soon. Today or tomorrow, I think, and it feels like more than one person, but I can’t be sure. It’s like the future isn’t settled yet.
My fingernails drum rapidly against the faux marble surface, and I squirm, pressing my legs together. My back arches at the familiar, uncomfortable sensation of many-legged things slithering up my spine. I don’t think Cernunnos likes the feeling; he keeps sending tight, anxious pulses of energy through my bones, like he’s trying to counter the banshee effect.
When I was trying to convince Heathcliff to fuck me, Cernunnos reacted with interest.What you feel, I will feel. I hope he’s a skilled lover.
Since then he has been silent, neither approving nor disapproving. I try not to think about the fact that in doing this, we’reessentially engaging in a weird spiritual threesome.
Nope, not going to think about it. I’m going to think about Heathcliff, who is standing next to me wiping himself down with paper towels.
Fully naked, Heathcliff is a glorious sight. The cheekbones of a prince. Thick, sensual lips. Brown skin laced with tattoos, muscle and sinew packing every inch of his body.
He pitches the paper towels in the trash, picks me up, and shoulders his way out of the women’s bathroom, heading straight for the sanctuary.
With me in his arms he strides down the center aisle, toward the pulpit, toward the great, ancient tapestry looming over us from its place on the wall. The dimmed lights and crimson carpet give the room a red-gold cast, gleaming off the wooden pews, shining in the droplets clinging to Heathcliff’s damp black hair.
He sets me down on the platform’s edge, with my back against the front of the pulpit and my feet on the steps. When he moves back and takes a moment to just look at me, I feel like an entirely different kind of sacrifice…something beautiful and precious. A grateful sob hitches in my throat, and I reach for him because I can’t bear his body being separate from mine any longer. I need him inside me, deep and firm and warm—I need his strength countering the unfamiliar power flowing through my limbs. I need him to make me believe that I’m stillmyself.
Heathcliff drops to his knees. Crawls up the steps and pushes my legs apart like he did in the truck. Then he buries his beautiful mouth and his thick, warm tongue in my pussy.
It’s instant relief, and it’s exquisite torture. Everything else is wiped from my mind as Heathcliff coaxes my clit to a frenzy of need, licking it delicately, then plucking it with his teeth, then stroking myfolds with long sweeps of his tongue.
My hands reach above my head, fumbling for something to hold on to, and they find the edges of the thick wooden cross nailed to the front of the pulpit. I dig my nails into it, gripping it for leverage. Heathcliff lifts his head, his lips and jaw damp from my wetness. He grins. “God, you look beautiful right now. Can I try something?”
I’m not sure what he has in mind, but I’m in a wild mood, so I nod.
Rising quickly, he runs up onto the platform, out of my line of sight. I wait, my pussy quivering, every puff of air against it feeling like a cold gust of wind. I need him to kiss me there, devour me, swallow me and claim me before the god can.
Heathcliff returns with one of the gold cords they use to tie back the curtains for the baptistry. Bundling my wrists together in one hand, he pins them against the decorative cross, wraps the gold cord across them, and then winds the cord around the pulpit and knots it before kneeling in his place again.
I’m bound to the pulpit, staring out at the wooden pews, the dull white walls, and the ceiling beams of the sanctuary. I never see the church from this angle—no one does. The pastor is always standing on the platform, higher than everyone else, while the people are below, gazing upward. I’m hovering between the two, suspended in the heated haze of lust, with my hands tied to the cross and my legs splayed in the most profligate way. There’s a god in my head and a beautiful man kneeling between my thighs, and I am suspended between both of them. I need Heathcliff to touch me, to tether me, to ground me.
I lurch toward him, but the cord keeps my hands in place above my head.
“That’s it,” Heathcliff says, gazing at me. “I wish I could take aphoto of you like this. You look like a goddamn saint. The profane kind.”
“Gloriously profane.” I smile at him, and he gives me one of his warm grins, the kind that’s usually tinged with sardonic humor—but this time I sense the pain at the edges.
“Be still for me, Cathy,” Heathcliff murmurs, lowering his face to my sex.
I understand now why he bound me. With my arms tethered like this, I’m even more at his mercy, and everything is heightened. Each heated puff of his breath, the sliver of space between his mouth and my clit—it’s intense, exquisite, overwhelming.
Heathcliff seems intent on making this the best orgasm I’ve ever had. He’s building toward it carefully, adding the restraints, teasing me with his breath, torturing me with tiny flicks of his tongue.
“God, just…please,” I whimper.
He releases a shuddering breath, as if he’s exhaling the last of his restraint. Then I squeal breathlessly as he tucks both hands under me, lifts my ass several inches off the platform, and sinks his face into my pussy again with a contented rumble of pleasure.
My entire existence narrows to the space between my legs where he’s doing the Lord’s work, creating a storm of explosive sensation. My eyes roll back and I arch in his hands, my head tilting back against the pulpit. “Ah…ah…Heathcliff…oh shit…”
Inside me, the god is writhing, climbing, urging, almost pleading. He wants to come—to connect—as badly as I do. I ignore him as best I can and give myself over to Heathcliff, who is humming between my thighs now, causing a delicious vibration while his tongue drives through my folds, over and over, lashing my clit with every pass.
