“Do it,” Church orders. “Give me what’s mine.”
I break apart for him, on him, around him. I can’t see and I can’t hear—I can only feel and thrash and cry his name as my pussy clenches and releases in abrupt, shuddering waves. It’s all hot, mindless sensation, and it’s flowing everywhere in my body, from my seizing lower belly down to the soles of my feet and the aching beads of my nipples. Everything feels and aches and unravels for my Church, and he knows it, he knows it’s all for him, that my pleasure is his, my pain is his, thatIam his. He may think I’m only his right here in this moment, he may think that he’ll never get to own me again after this, but that doesn’t erase the totality of his possession. Of his need to brand me inside and out.
As my body wrings itself out with release, Church seems to lose all patience. All control. My wrists are dropped so he can shove my dress up even higher and squeeze my breast; my thigh is pressed against the case so that my cunt is completely open for his needs. His inhales come in rasping snarls and his exhales in short, angry growls.
And his fucking—his fucking is unstoppable. A cruel weapon meant to command me, and my pulsing sex is evidence that he already does. Not that he seems satisfied with a single orgasm from me. No, he won’t be satisfied until I’m wrecked, until I can barely stand and his fuck is the only thing keeping me upright.
“Give me more,” he whispers in my ear. “Give me everything until it’s all mine.”
I can’t speak, I can’t hardly breathe—this was how it used to be between us, this is what I’ve been secretly keening for: this ravenous hunger he had for me, like he’ll die if he doesn’t swallow me whole.
And it turns out that in order to live, I need to be eaten alive.
What a lewd picture we make. Anyone walking in could see this cold, dangerous boy with his belt dangling around his hips, his angry cock buried inside a squirming girl with her dress shoved up to her waist and her cheeks flushed from his dirty, filthy attentions.
Anyone could see this for what it is—a liturgy as frantic as it is holy. A sacrifice being taken.
I come again.
Now, it is really only him keeping me pinned against the wall, and as he grinds into me with that massive thing, I slowly melt against him. My hands paw limply at his biceps as my head drops onto his shoulder and lolls there, like a doll’s. And he fucks me like a doll, like a plaything.
“You were right,” I tell him, the words husky and air-starved from all the orgasms. “You are still my temple.”
“And you are my prayer,” he growls back. “Mine.”
Underneath my fingertips and against my stomach and between his legs, all of him goes impossibly taut, impossibly hard. Even as one part of him surges into me, the rest of him trembles and shakes and shivers, like he’s got a fever. Like he’s sick with needing to come.
And then he does.
His eyelids lower, his jaw flexes, and every single muscle in his body seems intent on pushing in deeper, on pumping into me harder, and right when he gives a thrust so fierce I feel my foot lift off the floor, he gives a darkly erotic growl, and releases into me with long, heavy pulses.
He keeps me pinned as he fills me, and it’s all so wet, so dirty, to feel him like this without a condom, and I love it, I want more of it, I want it all the time.
He stabs into me again and again, using his own spend to make the slides slick and fast as he chases the last clenches of his pleasure and makes sure he leaves every last drop between my legs. But for as carnal and raw as it all is below, his hands are grabbing and grabbing above, like he can’t get me close enough. Like I’ll never be close enough to his heart.
We’re sweating, indecent, and still so very exposed, but I never want to move. I just want to curl into his strong chest forever.
I feel his lips on my hair, and then his nose as he breathes me in.
“Charlotte,” he says miserably. “My sweet, brilliant Charlotte.”
“Church, I—”
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says, pressing his lips to my temple and then easing free of my body. “I know.”
I huff. “I don’t think you do.”
He doesn’t respond to me with anything other than a nod of resignation. He thinks I’m about to tell him to go to hell, and he would go there meekly if I did.Meekly.
My Church, meek and mortal, and all because he thinks he deserves the worst. I mean, he does, but it’s also not the point right now.
The point is that I don’t want to tell him to go to hell. I don’t want him to go away. I don’t want him going anywhere except everywhere I’m going.
He kneels to tug my dress down and help me step into my panties. “Will you listen to me?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says.
“I love you,” I say and then my breath gets all stuttery and short, because suddenly nothing feels as important as getting this right. “I love you and I don’t want you to stay away from me. I want you close. I want you next to me, inside me. I want to belong to you again.”