We stand at the same moment, chairs scraping, and before I know it, we’re on the couch, pressed side by side. The couch is small, barely wide enough for two, and our thighs are flush from knee to hip. I bury my face in his shoulder, inhale the woody scent of smoke from the fire, and something underneath, something uniquely him.
He gathers me into his lap, arms banded around my waist, and just holds me. For a minute, it’s enough. For a minute, the world is small and safe.
Then I tip my head back, brush my lips against his ear, and say, “I need you.”
His grip tightens. His voice is wrecked when he says, “I want you to need me, Sarah. Even if you're the only person in the world who does. Do you truly need me?”
And then, without thinking, I hear myself, “Yes, Father.”
The room freezes. I can hear my own pulse, can feel a tremor run through him.
I want to rewind and erase those words. Or laugh them off, but he tips my chin up, searches my face.
“Is that what you need, Sarah?” His voice is low, nothing like the sermons, nothing like the gentle comfort of before. It’s a voice that could command armies, or just me.
I nod, unable to speak.
He lifts me, carries me to the bed, and when he lays me down, his hands are steady, sure.
“Good girl,” he says, and the words slide through me, hot and sharp.
I arch, desperate for more. He strips me, slow but with purpose, and every touch is electric, every kiss a promise. He lays me down on the bed like something breakable and rare, the mattress sags under our weight.
There’s no hesitation in his movements now; no trembling, no second-guessing. His body is a wall around me, his hands bracketing my head, his knees pinning my thighs apart.
He hovers, the fire’s glow painting his jaw in hard lines, eyes gone black and hungry.
“You’re sure?”
I nod, dizzy with want. “Yes, Father,” I whisper, the word sizzles from my tongue.
Something shifts in him. He leans down, kissing my throat, slow and possessive, like he’s staking a claim. I arch into him, desperate to be claimed, to be known and kept. His hands tracedown my arms, not gentle now, but firm, and he pins my wrists above my head, his fingers laced through mine.
“Good girl,” he breathes against my skin, and every inch of me sings.
He takes his time. He studies me, his eyes rove over my body like he’s memorizing every freckle, every bruise, and nothing here is shameful. I tremble from the comfort of being held so tightly. He releases my wrists only to spread my arms wide on the pillow, palms up, and then he ties them together with the sleeve of his own shirt, knotted quick and sure. My pulse stutters at the sound of fabric tightening around my skin.
He leans back to look at me, spread out, helpless, hungry.
“You trust me?” he asks.
My answer is in the way my legs part for him, the way my body arches off the mattress, the way I pant, “Yes, Father. I do.”
He makes a sound, almost a growl. He moves down my body, kissing, biting, teasing. He tongues my nipple until it’s peaked and aching, then moves to the other, sucking until I whimper.
“You want my mouth, baby girl?” he asks, low and dangerous.
“Yes, please,” I gasp, and the words come out pleading.
He laughs, warm and wicked, and slides down. His stubble scratches my thighs as he nuzzles between them, inhaling deeply.
“Sweet girl,” he says, and then he’s licking me, slow at first, then faster, working me open with his tongue and his fingers. I can’t move, can’t do anything but take it, and the helplessness is a high I never knew I needed. My hips try to buck, but he holdsthem down, his grip bruising, and the contradiction of his rough hands and gentle mouth … they undo me.
“Come for me,” he commands, and I do, so hard I nearly black out. I sob his name, every nerve lit and flaring.
He doesn’t stop, just slows, licking softly as I ride out the aftershocks. Only when I’m limp and shuddering does he move up, unties my wrists with careful fingers, massaging away the ache.
He kisses me, and I taste myself on his lips.
