Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Claire
Claire was having a really hard time believing that Mirela had never, ever pleasured someone; at least with her mouth and tongue. How could someone inexperienced make her legs tremble the way they were?
Holding her habit with one hand, she clutched onto red hair, guiding Mirela exactly where she wanted her. She wanted to learn, and God willingly, Claire was going to teach her all the places she could use that pretty mouth of hers to make her cum, starting with her cunt.
Claire closed her eyes, threw her head back, and moaned. Her nails raked against Mirela’s scalp, earning the most beautiful sound she had heard coming from a human ever. The vibration of Mirela’s moan coursed through her chamber.
The woman between her legs was hungry, and with each touch of her tongue to her opening and with each stroke to her clit, Claire felt like she was about to dissolve into a puddle.
“Mirela,” she gasped, letting go of the habit and grabbing onto Mirela’s hair. “D–don’t stop please.”
Mirela’s mismatched eyes shot up to look at her, snuggling closer to Claire’s cunt, now holding on to her thighs tightly. Her callused hand felt incredible on her skin, and she hoped that by the end of all of this, she would carry the marks of Mirela’s hands on her skin proudly.
Mirela pulled away once, her lips glistening with Claire’s wetness. The sight alone was enough to send her over the edge.
“You taste like everything that is holy,” Mirela said, moving her hands from her thighs to the juncture of her legs. Using her thumbs, she spread Claire even more. “You are God sent. Just for me to have.” Mirela sucked her lower lip in then licked her upper one.
“I want more.” She released a guttural groan right before latching on to Claire’s clit and sucking it hungrily.
If it wasn’t for her iron grip on Mirela, Claire knew she would’ve fallen. The attacks were slow yet overbearing. It didn’t take long, just a few strokes of Mirela’s tongue, a few caresses of her thumb to her clit, and her entire body contracted.
Her grip on Mirela’s hair was almost painful as Claire released a scream that echoed within the holy walls of the cathedral. Her vision blackened, and all she saw were stars. All she felt was her skin on fire, and all she knew was Mirela.
***
Mirela
Claire’s cries were as beautiful as when she sang, and she knew, deep in her chest, that she would spend a lifetime chasing them again.
When she finally pulled away, she took her in. Proud of how disheveled and undone Claire looked. And to think that it was all because of her that this gorgeous woman was breathing hard, legs quivering, eyes half closed, lips parted. That was her doing…
God, she wanted to paint her just like that, keep that memory of Claire undone just for her eyes to see over and over again when she missed her. The flickering candlelight wrapped around her, catching on her darker skin, made her seem almost unreal.
Before Mirela could speak, Claire reached for the fabric clinging to her and let it fall away. Mirela’s mind went blank. Her breath caught as she took in the sight before her. Claire’s body was…breathtaking.
With a thin sheen of sweat draping every inch of her skin, her large chest heavy and bare, topped with dark nipples.
Mirela’s hands twitched with the need to touch.
Still on her knees, still worshipping this creature before her, she cupped her breasts and watched the other woman’s eyes roll to the back of her head.
So, she liked to have her breasts touched… Good. Mirela would remember that when they were intimate again, because she knew they were going to be intimate again.
Claire was perfect. And with that realization came a quiet wave of dread. Because soon it would be her turn to be seen. To be bare in a way she had never dared to be.
Her body was not like Claire’s. Hers was scarred and uneven, rough and taut. Nothing like the softness and perfection that was Claire. She hesitated, her throat tight, her fingers trembling. But when she lifted her eyes, Claire was looking at her with such tenderness that the fear began to fade.
“What is it, Mirela?” Claire asked softly, her fingers brushing against Mirela’s jaw with such tenderness it nearly undid her.
“My skin,” Mirela whispered. “It’s not like yours. I am… not perfect like you. I don’t want you to find me horrifying—or to run away. Not now, when I finally have you this close.”
“Mirela…” Claire’s voice was barely a breath. Her smile was so gentle, so achingly sincere, that it almost broke Mirela’s heart. “Whatever is underneath your clothes,” she murmured, “I will love every inch of it.”
Love.
She said she would love it.
Mirela frowned, a shadow crossing her features. But Ferron… he always said—
No.
She would not think of him. Not now. Not when Claire had spoken those words, when she had looked at her as though there was nothing to fear, nothing to hide.
Taking a steady breath, Mirela rose to her feet. With trembling hands, she grabbed the edges of her green blouse and pulled it over her head, her eyes squeezed shut as the fabric fell away. Then, she hooked her thumbs into her trousers and let them slide down.
The chill of the night kissed her bare skin, raising goosebumps along her arms.
With her eyes still closed, she heard Claire gasp. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe Claire regretted her words, maybe she wanted to leave…
Before she could retreat into shame, warmth found her—the soft, steady press of Claire’s hands.
One hand traced the scars along her right shoulder, down her arm, across her hip and thigh. The other rested gently over her chest. Mirela’s breath hitched, her lungs refusing to obey as Claire’s touch drew her back into her body—into herself.
“Beautiful.” Claire said, planting a kiss on her right collarbone, then her breast.
Mirela finally opened her eyes. Their gazes locked just as Claire took her right nipple into her mouth while her other hand caressed the planes of her stomach, through her red curls, and touched the wetness between Mirela’s legs.
Mirela’s brows knitted together, her mouth opening into a silent gasp just as Claire slipped a finger through her wet lips.
This was too much, too soon. She could barely hold onto Claire’s shoulder; her legs were already about to give out.
“You are drenched,” Claire said, stepping closer, close enough to press her chest against Mirela’s. “All because of me.”
Claire’s skin was so warm it erased all those quiet, cold nights she had to endure to get to this specific night. All that coldness and hunger diminished the moment she kissed Claire’s lips.
“You should not sound so surprised,” Mirela replied. “You know exactly what you are doing to me.”
“Oh? What am I doing to you, Mirela?”
“You are unraveling me slowly, on purpose.”
Claire smiled, before biting her lower lip and lowering her head back to Mirela’s other nipple. Mirela grasped the back of her head, pulling her to her chest, enjoying the warmth of her mouth contrasting with the cold air around them.
Her legs became liquid. If it wasn’t for Claire guiding her to the bed, she would’ve surely made a fool out of herself by falling right there and then.
The moment Mirela lay back against the bed, her hand moved instinctively toward the cover. Before she could grasp it, Claire caught her wrist, shaking her head gently as she straddled her hips, settling over her thighs.
“Do not cover yourself.”
“But I do not want you to—“
“You do not want me to see you?” Claire scoffed softly, arching a brow. She released Mirela’s hand, her own beginning a slow, reverent exploration of her skin. “Never—ever—feel ashamed of your marks, Mirela.”
She cupped her face then, her thumb brushing tenderly over the scar along her right cheek. “They are proof of your will to live. A trophy for surviving. You are perfect.”
Mirela’s breath hitched. Her gaze searched Claire’s face desperately, hunting for doubt, for pity or anything that might betray a lie. There was none. Only warmth and devotion.
“Perfect?” she whispered.
Claire nodded, taking Mirela’s right hand in her own.
“Your hands are perfect,” she said softly.
“Even without experience, they are gentle. Kind. Willing.” She pressed a kiss into Mirela’s palm before placing both of Mirela’s hands on her waist. She then traced her fingers slowly along her forearm.
“Your arms are strong. They make me feel safe when you hold me.”
Her hands moved higher, now touching her breasts. Claire inhaled sharply, her lips parting as her hands covered Mirela’s taut nipples. Claire took her time there, squeezing and taking in their weight before shuddering and continuing her journey further.
“Your body tells the story of your strength.”
Mirela’s stomach tightened at the words, and Claire’s brows lifted in quiet appreciation before she smiled as her hands traveled further.
“You have strong, thick thighs too.” Claire added with a soft laugh, “and your ass is strong as well.” She chuckled before reaching for and squeezing Mirela’s butt playfully.
Mirela let out a surprised yelp and arched instinctively, and Claire shifted, slipping from her waist to sit beside her instead.
Relaxing at the playfulness, Mirela let her knees part just slightly. Her heart, however, hammered inside her chest—so strong, so loud she was almost certain Claire could hear it. As quietly as her heavy breathing allowed, Mirela looked up at her.
She felt exposed. Yet Claire’s face above her was calm and… loving.
Was that what love looked like?
Mirela did not truly know. And yet it had to be. There was no other explanation for the peace in Claire’s expression, for the gentleness in her gaze.
Claire touched her again, this time at her hipbone, her eyes drifting from Mirela’s face to her legs.
“May I touch you some more, Mirela?”