The collar around my neck suddenly felt tighter as his fingers followed its path downward, between my breasts, to where it connected with the rest of the ensemble. He gave it the slightest tug, just enough to remind me it was there, that I was wearing what he had chosen.
“I will fuck you, Mercy,” he told me. “Right now. And you will make the congregation hear it with your soft little moans.”He slid a thumb along my lower lip. “Because you’re a good Christian girl.”
My breath caught in my throat. The sanctity of the office, the church itself — it should have been enough to make me pull away. Instead, I leaned into him.
His hands moved beneath the lace, pulling it to the side; he found the heat between my legs, sliding his fingers up and down, spreading my wetness. I bit my lip to keep from crying out. His fingers slipped inside me, and I gasped against his shoulder, muffling the sound in the fabric of his shirt.
“I want to hear you,” he muttered.
His thumb circled my clit as his fingers worked deeper inside me, finding that perfect rhythm that made my thighs tremble. I gripped his shoulders, nails digging into the expensive fabric.
The thought of Darlene down the hall, of Sister Ruth with her knowing looks, of the deacons and their wives — all of them just beyond that door — sent a forbidden thrill through me. I rocked against his hand, the lace scratching deliciously against my skin.
But suddenly, he withdrew his hand, leaving me aching. I should have felt shame, spread open on his desk like this, but all I felt was want — raw and undeniable.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
I did.
He lined himself up and pushed forward in one smooth motion, filling me completely. This was nothing like our first time. The sudden fullness forced a gasp from my lips that he caught with his mouth.
The desk creaked beneath us, a rhythmic accusation. His hands found the collar at my throat, fingers tracing its path down between my breasts as he thrust deeper. The sensation of the red lace trapped between our bodies, the bite of the garter straps against my thighs, the weight of his body pressing me into the mahogany desk — it was all too much.
“Pray,” he growled against my ear. I wasn’t sure whether he was telling me to say my grievances to the Lord or whether he had just declared me his victim. The words sounded the same.
“Our Father who art in heaven,” he began, slamming into me so hard that the mahogany desk moved.
I gasped, throwing my head back.
The garter straps bit into my thighs as he gripped them, using them to pull me harder against him.
“Say it, Mercy.Our Father—”
“Our Father who art in heaven,” I repeated, breathless, eyes closed.
“Hallowed be thy name,” he continued, his voice a dark benediction against my ear.
The blasphemy of it should have stopped me. Instead, it pushed me closer to the edge.
“Thy kingdom come,” I gasped, barely able to form the words as he hit that perfect spot inside me. Again and again.
“Thy will be done,” he replied.
The door remained closed. I could hear footsteps in the hallway, voices murmuring, the distant sound of a hymnal being practiced on the piano downstairs.
“On earth as it is in heaven,” he growled, his rhythm faltering as he neared his own release.
I bit down on my lip to stifle a cry as he thrust deeper, but it came out anyway. The pressure was building inside me.
Fuck.
“Give us this day,” he commanded, his voice hoarse. “Mercy, say it.”
“Our daily bread,” I whispered back, the words barely audible as my body tightened around him.
He slipped his hand between us, finding where the red lace had been pushed aside, his thumb pressing against my clit. The pleasure was immediate — too much and not enough all at once.
“And forgive us our trespasses,” he continued, his eyes never straying.
