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"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." Sophie's voice wavered in the dim confessional, fingers twisting the lace edge of her sleeve. The scent of old wood and faint incense hung in the air, thick enough to choke on. "It’s been... two weeks since my last confession."
A beat of silence. Then, Father Benedict’s voice—low, measured, the way it always was in this cramped space—filtered through the lattice. "Go on."
She swallowed. The words had rehearsed themselves in her head a dozen times since dawn, but now they stuck like honey to the roof of her mouth. "I’ve entertained... impure thoughts. More than once."
Another silence. Longer this time. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped an octave, the polish of his usual composure sanded down to something rougher. "Describe them."
Sophie's breath hitched. "I—I imagined hands that weren't my own. On my—" A sharp inhale cut her off as the wood creaked on the other side, the sound of a knee braced against the divider.
"Where?" The word wasn't pastoral anymore—it was gravel, the edge of a blade dragged lazily across stone.
Her thighs pressed together under her skirts. "My thighs. Higher. There was... whispering. Latin. Like Mass, but—"
"Profane." The word came out strangled. "Whose hands, Sophie?"
Sophie’s pulse stuttered at the way he said her name—not "my child," but Sophie, like he’d been tasting it in the dark for months. The lattice screen suddenly felt insubstantial. "Yours," she whispered, and the confession hung between them, sacrilegious and sweet as stolen wine.
The silence that followed was thick enough to carve. Then, the scrape of the confessional door unlatching. "Stand up." His voice had shed its clerical cadence entirely—this was a command. "Out of the box. Now." Sophie’s knees trembled as she obeyed, stepping into the nave’s dim light. The sacristy door stood ajar, shadows pooling beyond it.
Inside, vestments hung like specters in the gloom. Benedict’s silhouette was a sharp cut against them, his collar already undone, the white tab discarded carelessly atop a chest of liturgical linens. "Lock the door," he said. When she turned, he was closer—close enough to see the pulse hammering in his throat. "You kneel for forgiveness, don’t you?" His thumb brushed her lower lip, smearing the words. "Show me how devout you are."
The stone floor bit into her knees through her skirts. Above her, Benedict excelled sharply, one hand cradling the back of her head—not forcing, just claiming. "Good girl," he murmured, and the praise curled hot in her belly. His other hand worked his belt open with a click that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. "Open."
Sophie’s lips parted before the command had fully left his mouth, her breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts as the scent of him—ink and incense—filled her lungs. The first brush of him against her tongue drew a ragged sound from Benedict’s throat, his fingers tightening in her hair just shy of pain. "Wider," he gritted out, and she obeyed instinctively, her jaw aching as he slid deeper, the taste of him blooming bitter and addictive across her palate.
The vestment press creaked under his grip, the sound obscene in the quiet sacristy. "Christ—" The blasphemy slipped out unbidden, his head tipping back as her tongue curled experimentally along his length. "Just like that," he murmured, voice fraying at the edges. His thumb stroked the hinge of her jaw, the contradiction of tenderness and command unraveling her. "Take it like you’ve dreamed about."
She had. God help her, she had—late at night with her fingers between her thighs, the memory of his voice in the confessional staining her sheets with shame. The reality was hotter, heavier, the stretch of her lips around him a delicious ache that made her moan around his cock. Benedict’s breath caught audibly. "Look at you," he rasped, tilting her chin up until her watering eyes met his darkened gaze. "So pretty on your knees, swallowing sin like communion."
A shudder wracked him as she hollowed her cheeks, her fingers digging into his thighs for balance. He let her set the pace for three torturous strokes before his control snapped, his hips snapping forward to bury himself to the hilt. Sophie gagged, tears pricking at her lashes, but the hand in her hair gentled instantly, his thumb swiping at the wetness on her cheek. "Shh, I’ve got you," he soothed, even as his other hand guided her head back onto him with relentless pressure. "Just breathe through your nose. That’s it—good girl."
Sophie’s muffled whimper vibrated against him, sending a fresh wave of heat crashing through Benedict’s veins. He could feel the way her throat fluttered around him, the involuntary contractions of her muscles as she struggled to accommodate him. His grip on her hair loosened slightly, allowing her to pull back just enough to catch her breath, her lips slick and swollen in the dim sacristy light.
He dragged his thumb across her lower lip, collecting the wetness there before pressing it back into her mouth. "Suck," he ordered, watching as her tongue curled obediently around his finger. "You take it so well," he praised, his voice rough with want. "But I think you can do better, can't you?"
Her answering nod was eager, almost desperate. Benedict exhaled sharply as she leaned forward again, this time swallowing him down with a determination that left his knees weak. The wet, filthy sounds of her efforts filled the sacristy, mingling with the rustle of vestments.
His control was slipping, fraying at the edges like a well-worn rosary. The press of her teeth—light, accidental—drew a hissed curse from his lips, but instead of recoiling, he found himself pushing deeper, chasing the sharp burst of pleasure-pain. "You’re going to be the death of me," he muttered, half to himself, as her nails dug into his thighs through the fabric of his trousers.
Benedict’s fingers tightened in Sophie’s hair again to hold himself steady as his hips stuttered forward involuntarily. He could feel the tension coiling low in his belly, the inevitable crest of it building with every drag of her tongue along his length. "Slow down," he warned, though his voice was frayed beyond authority. But Sophie didn’t—couldn’t—her movements growing more frantic as if she, too, sensed the precipice they were teetering on.
A bead of sweat traced the line of his temple as he fought for control. His free hand fisted in the fabric of his cassock, knuckles pressing white against the black wool. "Sophie," he gritted out, her name a prayer and a curse all at once. Her answering hum vibrated through him, and with a groan, he surrendered, spilling down her throat with a force that left him trembling.
She swallowed reflexively, her throat working around him until he was spent, her fingers clutching at his thighs like a drowning woman to driftwood. Only then did he gently ease her back, his thumb catching the stray drop at the corner of her mouth. Her lips were swollen, her breathing ragged, but her eyes were dark with something that mirrored his own hunger.
For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, the weight of what they’d done settling between them like incense smoke. Then, with a roughness that belied the gentleness of his touch, Benedict hauled her up by the arms, pressing her back against the vestment chest. The wood creaked in protest as his mouth crashed onto hers, tasting himself on her tongue. Sophie whimpered into the kiss, her hands tangling in his disheveled robes, pulling him closer as if she could fuse them together.
The vestment chest groaned under their combined weight as Benedict pinned Sophie against it, his hands sliding down to grip her hips hard enough to bruise. She arched into him with a desperate little noise, her fingers scrabbling at his shoulders like she was afraid he might vanish if she didn’t hold on tight enough. The taste of him—bitter and salt-sharp—still lingered on her tongue, and the realization that he was kissing her with the same fervor made her dizzy. His teeth caught her lower lip, tugging just shy of pain before soothing it with his tongue. "You ruin me," he muttered against her mouth, the words hot and ragged. "Christ, Sophie—"
She cut him off by rolling her hips against his, the friction drawing a choked groan from his throat. The layers of her skirts were suddenly unbearable, the fabric bunching between them as he hitched her higher against the chest. His knee slid between her thighs, pressing up insistently until she gasped into his mouth. "Tell me," he demanded, nipping at her jaw. "Tell me how often you've thought about this."
"Every night," she admitted in a rush, her nails digging into the back of his neck. "Every Mass—God help me—when you'd lift the chalice, I'd imagine your hands on me instead."
Benedict made a sound like he'd been struck, his fingers tightening in the fabric of her dress. "Little heretic," he breathed, but there was no condemnation in it—only heat. His palm slid up her thigh, bunching her skirts higher until the cool sacristy air kissed her bare skin. "You crossed yourself with my fingers in your head, didn't you?" His touch skimmed higher, teasing. "Made your own devotions."
Sophie's gasp echoed off the sacristy walls as Benedict's fingers finally found her—hot and slick and already trembling for him. "Yes," she choked out, her hips jerking against his hand like a marionette with its strings cut. "Your fingers—your mouth—I'd imagine them everywhere during the homily."
Benedict's laugh was dark, his thumb circling her clit with merciless precision. "And what else?" His teeth grazed her earlobe, the scrape sending a shiver down her spine. "Did you touch yourself thinking of me, Sophie? In your bed, under your skirts, pretending it was my hand between your thighs instead?"
Her answering moan was muffled against his shoulder as she nodded frantically, her nails scoring crescents into his back through the rough fabric of his cassock. The sacristy smelled of wax and sweat and the dark musky scent of her arousal, the air thick enough to choke on. Benedict dragged his fingers through her folds with agonizing slowness, watching her face as she writhed against him. "Show me," he demanded, his voice raw. "Show me how you did it."
Her hands shook as she gathered her skirts higher, the cool air raising gooseflesh along her thighs. Benedict's breath hitched when she spread herself for him, her fingers gliding through her own wetness with a practiced ease that made his cock twitch against her hip. "Like this," she whispered, circling her clit in tight, desperate little strokes. "I'd think about your voice—the way you'd say Dominus vobiscum like it was filthy—and I'd—" Her words dissolved into a whimper as her hips jerked forward, chasing her own touch.
Benedict's fingers wrapped around her wrist, pulling her hand away with a growl that vibrated against her throat. "Not like that," he murmured, replacing her touch with his own—broad fingers sliding through her slickness with none of her hesitation. "You don't get to come alone anymore." The first press of his fingers inside her drew a ragged cry from Sophie's lips, her back arching off the vestment chest as he crooked them just so. "This is mine now," he breathed against her jaw, his thumb circling her clit in counterpoint to the slow, devastating thrust of his fingers. "Every gasp, every tremble—mine."
Sophie's nails bit into his shoulders as he worked her with cruel precision, his rhythm deliberate, calculated to unravel her. The sacristy air blinked, thick with the scent of sex and crushed lavender from her petticoats. She could feel the edge approaching like a storm, her thighs shaking around his hand, but Benedict slowed, withdrawing his touch entirely just as she teetered on the brink. "No—" she whimpered, her hips chasing his retreating fingers like a supplicant after communion.
"Patience," he chided, though his own breathing was ragged, his pupils blown wide with want. He lifted his glistening fingers to her mouth, pressing them against her parted lips. "Clean them." The command brooked no argument, and Sophie obeyed without thought, her tongue lapping at the salt-bitter taste of herself as Benedict watched, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack. "Good girl," he murmured, the praise curling hot in her belly. His free hand fumbled with his cassock, shoving the fabric aside just enough to free his cock—already hard again, flushed dark with need. "Now ride me."
The vestment chest groaned in protest as Benedict lifted her onto it, his hands guiding her thighs around his hips. Sophie's breath caught as the blunt head of him pressed against her entrance, her body stretching to accommodate him with a slick, filthy sound that echoed off the stone walls. Benedict's grip on her hips tightened, his forehead dropping to hers as he sheathed himself to the hilt in one smooth, devastating thrust. "Fuck—" The curse tore from his throat, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs. "Tighter than confession," he gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily.
Sophie's gasp shattered against his collarbone as Benedict buried himself deeper, the stretch of him igniting every nerve. The vestment chest rocked beneath them, its carved edges biting into the backs of her thighs, but the discomfort was distant—secondary to the way he filled her, his cock dragging against that sweet, secret place inside her with each punishing thrust. "Benedict—" His name fractured into a moan as he gasped, the new pressure wringing a broken sound from her throat.
His hands slid from her hips to her waist, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows above her pelvis as if memorizing the way her body yielded to his. "Look at you," he rasped, his voice raw with reverence. The sacristy's single candle gilded the sweat-slick column of his throat, the flickering light catching on the silver crucifix still tangled in the open collar at his chest. "Taking me like you were made for it." His hips snapped forward, punctuating the claim, and Sophie's fingers scrabbled against the vestments piled behind her, silken chasubles sliding like liquid under her grasp.
The rhythm was merciless—the sure, measured strokes of a man who knew exactly how to ruin her. Benedict's breath came in harsh gusts against her temple, his control fraying with every choked whimper she couldn't suppress. "Tell me," he demanded, teeth grazing her earlobe. "Tell me you've imagined this."
"Y-yes," Sophie gasped, her nails scoring down his back as he hit that spot again, the pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. "When you—ah!—when you bent over the missal, I'd—" Her words dissolved into a cry as Benedict's hand slid between them, his thumb finding her clit with unerring precision.
His thumb circled her clit in tight, relentless strokes, the pressure just shy of painful. Sophie's thighs trembled around him, her heels digging into the small of his back as if she could pull him deeper still. "You'd what?" Benedict growled against her throat, his hips snapping forward to punctuate the question. "Tell me."
"I'd imagine—" Her voice fractured as his teeth scraped her collarbone, the sting of it sending a shockwave of heat straight to her core. "Your hands pinning me to the pew—your mouth between my legs—oh God—" The words dissolved into a ragged moan as Benedict's fingers twisted in her hair, tipping her head back to expose the frantic pulse at her throat.
"Not God," he corrected, his breath scalding against her skin. "Me." His thrusts grew erratic, the vestment chest creaking dangerously beneath them. The scent of sex and spilled wax filled the sacristy, thick enough to taste. Sophie's vision blurred at the edges, her body tightening around him like a vice as pleasure coiled low in her belly, taut as a bowstring.
Benedict's hand slid from her hair to her throat, his thumb pressing just enough to make her gasp. "Come for me," he ordered, his voice rough with want. "Now." The command—and the sharp twist of his fingers against her clit—sent her hurtling over the edge with a broken cry. Her back arched off the chest, her thighs clamping around him as wave after wave of pleasure wracked her.
Sophie's climax tore through her with the force of a collapsing cathedral, her fingers clutching at Benedict's cassock as if it were the only thing tethering her to earth. The sacristy walls seemed to ripple around her, the scent of crushed lavender and sweat thick in the air as she convulsed around him. Benedict hissed through his teeth, his grip on her hips tightening to the point of pain as her body milked him ruthlessly.
"Christ Almighty—" His voice was shattered glass as he fucked her through her orgasm, each thrust driving her higher until she was sobbing against his shoulder, oversensitive and trembling. The vestment chest creaked ominously beneath them, its carved edge biting into her thighs, but Benedict didn't slow—couldn't stop—his own release barreling toward him like a runaway carriage.
His rhythm stuttered when Sophie's teeth sank into his shoulder, her muffled cry vibrating against his skin. The sharp burst of pain-punishment-pleasure unraveled the last of his control. With a groan that sounded more like a prayer than a curse, Benedict buried himself to the hilt and came, his hips jerking erratically as he spilled into her with a violence that left them both gasping.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant drip of wax from the guttering candle. Benedict's forehead rested against hers, his lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones as he fought to steady himself. Sophie's fingers unclenched from his robes slowly, her limbs liquid with spent pleasure.
The crucifix lay cold against Sophie’s collarbone where Benedict’s chest pressed against hers, the metal warming between their skin as their breathing slowed. His fingers traced idle patterns along her spine, the touch incongruously tender after the roughness of their coupling. The sacristy smelled of sex and candle wax, the air heavy with the weight of what they’d done—what they were still doing, tangled together atop vestments meant for holy rites.
Sophie stirred first, her fingers brushing the undone buttons of Benedict’s cassock. "We should—" Her voice cracked, raw from crying out. "Someone could—"
"Not for hours." His lips grazed her temple, the words vibrating against her skin. The parish was empty, he explained between kisses—no vespers today, no pious widows lingering after Mass. Just them and the gathering dusk beyond the sacristy door. His hand slid down to grip her thigh, hitched still around his hip. "Stay."
A shiver ran through her at the command, at the way his thumb pressed into the soft flesh just beneath her skirts. She should go. Should right her dress, smooth her hair, pretend she hadn’t just come apart on a priest’s cock atop a chest of Eucharistic linens. But Benedict’s mouth was tracing the shell of her ear, his teeth catching on the delicate gold hoop she’d forgotten to remove before confession. "You’re trembling," he murmured, his breath hot against his neck.
Sophie exhaled shakily as Benedict’s teeth grazed the tender skin behind her ear, her fingers tightening reflexively in the fabric of his cassock. The scent of him—incense and sweat—filled her lungs, anchoring her in the moment even as her thoughts spun like leaves in a storm. His thumb pressed deeper into her thigh, a silent demand, and she bit back a whimper. "I can't," she breathed, though her hips arched toward him of their own accord. "We shouldn't—"
"Shouldn't what?" Benedict's voice was a low rasp against her throat, his lips tracing the frantic pulse beneath her skin. "Pray? Confess?" He nipped at her jaw, the sharp sting drawing a gasp from her lips. "Too late for that."
The vestment chest crept as he shifted, his cock—still half-hard inside her—twitching in response to her involuntary clench around him. Sophie's breath hitched, her thighs tensing where they bracketed his hips. "You're insatiable," she accused weakly, her nails scraping down his back as he rocked forward lazily, coaxing another tremble from her oversensitive body.
Benedict chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against her collarbone where his mouth lingered. "And whose fault is that?" His fingers tightened in her hair, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. The candlelight caught the gold flecks in his eyes, the pupils still blown wide with want. "You walked into my confessional with sin on your tongue," he murmured, his thumb brushing her swollen lower lip. "Did you think I'd let you leave unabsolved?"
Sophie's breath stuttered as Benedict's fingers tightened in her hair, his thumb pressing against her bottom lip with deliberate pressure. The sacristy air clung to them, thick with the scent of sex and spilled candle wax, and she could still feel him—hardening again inside her—as if her body was a prayer he couldn't stop reciting. "You're not absolving me," she whispered, her voice raw. "You're damning us both."
Benedict's exhale was sharp, his grip shifting to cradle her jaw instead. "Then damnation tastes sweeter than I imagined." His mouth crashed onto hers before she could reply, his tongue claiming hers with a hunger that bordered on violence. The vestment chest groaned beneath them as he rocked forward, his cock sliding deeper with a slick sound that made Sophie whimper into the kiss.
His hands were everywhere—tangling in her disheveled hair, skating down her ribs to grip her hips—as if he couldn't decide whether to worship or ruin her. Sophie arched against him, her nails scoring down his back through the rough fabric of his cassock, the friction of wool against her fingertips a stark contrast to the heat of his skin beneath. Benedict broke the kiss with a gasp, his forehead pressing against hers as his hips stuttered. "Look at me," he demanded, his voice frayed at the edges.
Sophie forced her eyes open and found Benedict's gaze locked on hers, dark as the sacristy shadows. The candlelight gilded the sweat-damp hollow of his throat, the flickering flame catching on the silver crucifix still tangled in his open collar. It swung between them, cool metal brushing her clavicle with every ragged breath they shared.
The crucifix swung like a pendulum between them, its silver catching the candlelight with each unsteady breath. Benedict's fingers traced the chain where it lay against Sophie's flushed skin, his touch trailing lower to the first undone button of her bodice. "You should have worn your rosary today," he murmured, the pad of his thumb brushing the swell of her breast. "I would have made you count every bead with your tongue."
Sophie's gasp was sharp as his fingers found her nipple through the thin fabric, pinching just hard enough to make her hips jerk against him. The movement dragged a groan from Benedict's throat, his cock twitching inside her where they were still joined. "Tell me," he demanded, his teeth scraping her earlobe. "Did you touch yourself while praying the Hail Marys I gave you last week?"
Her nails bit into his shoulders as he rolled his hips in a slow, filthy circle that had her seeing stars. "Y-yes," she admitted, the confession spilling from her lips like wine from an overturned chalice. "In the bath—after—I thought about your mouth instead of... instead of the mysteries."
Benedict's growl vibrated against her throat, his hand fisting in her skirts to hike them higher around her waist. "Sinner," he breathed, but there was no condemnation in it—only heat. His fingers slid between them, finding her clit with unerring precision, and Sophie's back arched off the vestment chest with a cry that echoed off the stone walls.
The candle guttered suddenly, plunging the sacristy into near-darkness as Benedict's fingers worked her with merciless precision. Sophie's thighs trembled around him, her body strung tight as a bowstring even as oversensitivity made her squirm. "You—" Her voice broke as his thumb circled her clit in tight, punishing strokes. "You gave me three Hail Marys last Wednesday."
Benedict's teeth flashed in the dim light as he smiled against her throat. "And how many times did you come thinking of me instead?" His free hand slid down to grip her hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there as he thrust up sharply, drawing a choked sob from her lips. The vestment chest creaked ominously beneath them, its carved edge biting into the backs of her thighs—a counterpoint to the pleasure-pain of his cock filling her again.
Sophie's fingers scrabbled at his shoulders, her nails catching on the rough wool of his cassock. "Twice," she gasped, arching into his touch. "Once in the bath—" Her breath hitched as his teeth grazed her collarbone. "—once at my dressing table with my—oh God—with my rosary between my thighs."
Benedict's hips stuttered at the admission, his cock twitching inside her. "Filthy girl," he murmured, his voice thick with want. His hand left her hip to wrap around her throat, not squeezing—just holding—as his thumb traced the frantic pulse beneath her skin. "Did you think of me when you came? Imagine it was my fingers instead of your beads?"
Sophie's answering nod was frantic, her pupils blown wide as Benedict's thumb pressed harder against her pulse point. The rosary—her mother's silver one—had been cool between her thighs that night, the beads slipping treacherously against her slick skin as she imagined his fingers instead.
Benedict made a sound like a wounded animal, his grip tightening fractionally on her throat. "Say it." His hips jerked forward, punctuating the demand. "Tell me how you fucked yourself on those beads pretending they were me."
The crude words sent a fresh wave of heat through Sophie's veins. "I—" Her voice cracked as his fingers found her clit again, circling with agonizing precision. "I held the crucifix between my teeth," she gasped, "and imagined it was your cock."
Benedict's control snapped. With a growl that vibrated through her bones, he hauled her forward by the hips, slamming her down onto him as he thrust up with enough force to make the vestment chest skid an inch across the stone floor. Sophie's cry echoed off the sacristy walls, her nails raking down his back as pleasure-pain lanced through her.
The crucifix slipped from Benedict's open collar, swinging wildly as he drove into her with relentless force, the silver flashing like a fallen star between them. Sophie's thighs clamped around his hips, her body tightening around him with each punishing thrust—but Benedict didn't slow, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass as he lifted her slightly, angling deeper still. "Say it again," he gritted out, his breath scalding against her damp temple. "Say what you did with those beads."
Sophie's sob caught in her throat as his teeth grazed her earlobe. "I—I held them inside," she gasped, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths, "and pretended it was you filling me—Benedict!" His name shattered into a wail as his thumb found her clit again, rubbing rough circles that sent sparks skittering along her nerves.
Benedict's hips stuttered at the sound, his rhythm fracturing as he felt her walls fluttering around him. "Come," he ordered, his voice raw with desperation. "Now." His fingers twisted against her clit in time with a particularly brutal thrust, and Sophie came with a cry that sounded more like a prayer than a profanity, her back arching sharply off the vestment chest.
The sight of her—bliss-drunk and trembling, her lips parted around silent pleas—was enough to undo him completely. Benedict's grip on her hips turned bruising as he followed her over the edge, his release punching through him with enough force to leave his vision whiting out at the edges. For one dizzying moment, the only sound in the sacristy was their mingled panting and the distant drip of wax from the guttering candle.
The crucifix swung wildly between them, its chain catching in Sophie’s tangled hair as Benedict shuddered against her, his forehead pressed to her collarbone. The scent of sex and candle wax clung thick to the sacristy air, fusing with the fierce heat radiating where her nails had frantically clawed at his shoulders through the heavy wool of his habit. Sophie’s fingers trembled as she brushed them over the rumpled fabric—half apology, half claim—before Benedict caught her wrist, pressing her palm flat against his racing heart.
"Feel that?" His voice was rough, his breath hot against her damp skin. "You did that." His thumb traced the delicate bones of her wrist, the contrast of reverence and possession making her pulse jump beneath his touch. Sophie swallowed hard, her throat still tender from earlier, and Benedict’s gaze darkened further.
"You look at me like I am the one holding the leash," he murmured, his hand sliding up her forearm to cup the back of her neck, tilting her head back against the carved wood of the chest. "But you are the one pulling it, Sophie. Every prayer, every mass... I am looking for you in the pews. I am preaching to you."
Sophie’s eyes fluttered shut, a soft whimper escaping her swollen lips. The cool metal of the silver crucifix was trapped between their chests again, a sharp reminder of the world just outside the heavy sacristy door. But in here, under the weight of his body and the bruising grip of his hands, the rest of the world didn't exist. There was only Benedict—her priest, her sinner, her secret devotion.
"Look at me," he commanded softly, the pastoral gentleness returning to his voice, though it was laced with a dark, heavy possessiveness.
When she opened her eyes, he was watching her with a reverence that frightened her more than his anger ever could. He leaned down, pressing a slow, deep, almost agonizingly sweet kiss to her lips, tasting the salt of her tears and the heat of their shared sin.
"You are my church now, Sophie," he whispered against her mouth, his fingers tightening in her hair. "And I will worship here every chance I get."