I reached around to try to set him free from the cage of his pants, but I cried out in sharp, delicious pain as my attempt at involvement was denied.
“Don’t let go.”
Chilled, tingling fingers slammed into me, my pantsaround my knees, my sex flooding around him as I succumbed.
This wasn’t lovemaking. This wasn’t even sex.
“Cal,” I groaned. I wanted him. I needed him. And yet, I couldn’t do it in a church. The vestiges of religious trauma forced me to squirm, to fight, to struggle with whatever dormant parts of me were afraid of depraved, debaucherous sin.
“Listen,” he growled into my ear. “Either we’re going to fuck, or you’re going togetfucked.”
Holy shit. Gods almighty, I never stood a chance. I was so totally and completely his.
With the forced submission of my face against the wood, I missed the swift motion of him unleashing himself and connecting with me. I may have been surprised, but the entire neighborhood was not. The belly-deep cry came from a wild, carnal place as he filled me. His hand unraveled from my hair, both of them gripping my hips as he slammed into me. I braced myself against the holy relic, using my free hand to cover my mouth. It was successful for only a few powerful thrusts and poorly stifled moans before the hand was torn away.
“Don’t you dare” came his animal command.
I didn’t care where we were. I didn’t care who was listening. I didn’t care if the prudish King of Heaven himself peered down to cream all over this deconsecrated church.
Maybe if my back weren’t arching, if my eyes weren’t dotted with dopamine, if oxytocin weren’t flooding through me, I’d find it within myself to search for a semblance of repressed, puritanical modesty. Maybe if I weren’t cum-hungry from the orgasm that had been denied me only hours prior, I would have tried harder to keep quiet, if only to protect my friends from having to listen to the hard sounds of thrusting, of moaning, of my hitching, climbing breaths as I crawled closer and closer to the peak.
“I can’t—”
But I couldn’t spit out the sentence. I had no idea what I needed to say.I can’t take it all? I can’t breathe? I can’t stand?I can’t do this? I can’t cum in a chapel while everyone I love listens to me scream?
“You can, and you will.”
Maybe if it hadn’t felt so fucking good, I’d have wondered what it was about Heaven’s scent that had turned him so deliciously possessive.
Maybe.
I’d heard murmurs of men receiving a gift they poetically referred to aspost-nut clarity. Despite their ape-like command of language, I could relate. I’d experienced an equivalent time and time again, though mine happened in the cocktail of hormones, in the rush of sensation, in the bath of pain, pleasure, fear, want, and delectable submission.
I was breathless, barely lucid, as I bent at the waist and took his cock again and again and again.
As Caliban fucked the shit out of me, I was anchored in three truths. The first was he was, on no uncertain terms, from Hell—fire and brimstone, the sadistic, dominating, wicked, wonderful thing I’d been raised to fear. The second was that, no matter how many pantheons and deities littered the earth and its infinite realms, Caliban was the indisputable god of sex. And the third was that no matter how angry I was, no matter how betrayed I felt, and no matter how much time I needed, I would always choose my demon.
My hand slipped off the pulpit’s edge, unable to hold myself up.
He slid a hand to my throat, holding me upright while cutting off my air.
Fuck it. It was amazing. He was my air.
I gladly sacrificed breathing as I took him.
Perhaps it was my years of looking at men from beneath my shoe that made it so sensational to meet someone worthy and able to wield power over me. Or, there was a chance I felt a spike of sugar-sweet control knowing that Silas’s involvement had elicited a degree of jealousy I’d had yet to experience. But my personal demon took a little too muchenjoyment in my cry of pain as he twisted my wrist behind my back, relishing in the cry as he pulled out in the final, precarious moment, emptying himself on the skin of my bare ass.
He slapped a wet, cum-slick, still-hard cock on my cheek.
My jaw was on the floor as I spun toward him, but his aggression had already transitioned into glorious affection. My face cradled in one hand, the other resting on the small of my waist, he pressed a series of tender, beautiful kisses into me. He wiped away the sweat from my forehead with the back of his hand. He rotated me gently to mop me up with the underside of his shirt before pulling me into the cradling aftercare that had made it impossible for me to love anyone else. He stroked my hair slowly, pressing a gentle kiss into the crown of my head.
I was loved. I was satisfied. I was perfect.
“And now,” I chuckled into the indentation between his pectorals, “let me guess. I smell like Hell?”
“Now,” he corrected, “you smell like mine.”
***
