“Dios,” I groan. “You feel—” I can’t finish the sentence, can’t find words in any language for what this feels like.
“Move,” she whispers, her nails digging into my shoulders. “Please, Marcus. Move.”
I do, setting a rhythm that’s deliberate and deep, each thrust punctuated by whispered Spanish and English, prayers and profanity mixing effortlessly.
The confessional creaks with our movements, the sound obscene in the quiet church, but I can’t stop, can’t slow down.
Her body tightens around me, and I feel her climax building.
I reach between us, finding the bundle of nerves that makes her cry out, swallowing the sound with my mouth.
When she comes, it’s with my name on her lips and my rosary beads pressed between us like a brand.
I follow moments later, my body going rigid, a sound torn from my throat that’s half prayer, half curse.
We stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, our bodies still joined, the weight of what we’ve done settling over us like a shroud.
Finally, I lower her gently, helping her straighten her clothes with shaking hands.
She’s flushed and beautiful, her lips swollen from my kisses, and I want to do it all over again.
“Marcus.” Her voice is soft, uncertain. “What does this mean?”
I cup her face, forcing her to meet my eyes. “It means I’m not letting you go. It means Adrian isn’t the only one who’s fallen. It means—” I stop, the words too big, too dangerous.
“It means we’re in trouble,” she finishes, but she’s smiling slightly.
“Sí, querida.” I kiss her forehead gently. “So much trouble.”
We emerge from the confessional, breathless and disheveled, my hand still holding hers.
The church is dark except for the votive candles, their flames dancing in some invisible draft.
Then I see him.
Elijah stands in the shadows of the nave, his blue eyes reflecting candlelight.
He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of his usual formal attire, his golden hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it.
His angel face wears an expression that’s anything but innocent as he steps forward into the light.
Charlie gasps, her hand tightening on mine.
But Elijah’s eyes aren’t shocked.
They’re resigned.
Like he’d known we’d fall together one day.
Like he’s been waiting for this moment.
“I think,” he says quietly, his French accent thickening slightly, “it’s time we all had a conversation about what’s really happening here.”
7
ELIJAH
I’ve been watching her for three weeks now, and it’s destroying me in the most exquisite way possible.
