21. Jesus
Chapter twenty-one
Jesus
Celeste
I’m going to see it.
My breath hitched as his body was revealed in its entirety.
Jesus was utterly naked. His skin glowed faintly in the light, the ridges and planes of his muscles casting shadows that seemed perfectly divine.
I stared, unable to look away.
There was no shame in his nudity, no awkwardness or hesitation. He simply existed, fully himself, as if this were the most natural state of being.
His chest, sculpted and flawless, rose and fell with steady hypnotic breaths. Small veins ran like tiny rivers beneath his bronzed skin. The curves of his pectorals were smooth yet firm, leading to abs so defined they could have been carved by an artist’s chisel.
Lower still, my eyes traveled without permission, and I swallowed hard.
His waist was lean, tapering down to narrow hips that led to powerful thighs, muscles flexing beneath his skin as he shifted slightly.
My cheeks burned and my heart nearly stopped as my gaze dipped lower, catching sight of his cock. “Oh my. . .”
Jesus’s cock was long and thick, standing at attention like a spiritual soldier ready for some holy battle. Its skin was smooth and gleaming. Veins traced its length, pulsing with each beat of his heart.
The tip was a deep pink, swollen and glistening with precum, begging for attention.
And somehow. . .there was nothing lewd about it.
His presence, even in his nakedness, carried an air of reverence, as though this was simply how he was meant to be seen—whole, unhidden, completely himself.
The curve of his cock was beautiful in its own right, every detail adding to the aching pull I felt low in my stomach.
I bit my lip, trying to make sense of what I was feeling.
This was supposed to be Jesus—the savior, the divine—but in this moment, he was also a man, a creation of sensuality and power so potent it felt like the air between us might ignite.
His voice held this loving deepness to it. “Why do you look at me like that, Celeste?”
“I. . .I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. You see beauty, don’t you? Strength. Desire.”
I nodded, and my lips parted slightly.
His hand lifted again, brushing my cheek. “And does that scare you?”
“Yes.”
“It shouldn’t. This is how you were made to see. To feel. To want.”
My breathing quickened as his touch lingered. The heat radiating from him was impossible to ignore, sinking into my skin and setting my nerves alight.
My hands itched to reach out, to touch him, to feel the solid warmth of his chest beneath my fingertips.
“You were given these desires for a reason, Celeste. The body is not a prison for the soul—it is its partner, its vessel, its expression. Every curve, every line, every sensation is a gift. To deny it, to shame it, is to deny the Creator’s love.”
My gaze flickered over him once more, lingering on the hard planes of his stomach, the strong lines of his arms, the impossible perfection of his erection.
A deep ache pooled low in my stomach. “I feel like I shouldn’t. Like what I did with Cassian is wrong, like even this moment right here is wrong.”
“You’ve been told that the physical is lesser than the spiritual? That desire is a weakness? That to feel is to sin?” He lowered his hand. “The physical is not separate from the spiritual—it is a reflection of it. To love the body is to honor the soul. To embrace desire is to embrace the Creator’s passion.”
The way he spoke, so calm and certain, began to unravel the tightly wound guilt inside me.
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.
Jesus reached out again, and his hand rested lightly on mine. “Do you remember the story?”
“What story?”
“I’ll remind you.” His hand moved toward me, and before I could process what was happening, his fingers brushed lightly against my forehead.
In an instant, the room disappeared.
The warmth of his spirit, the softness of the sheets, even the steady rhythm of my own breathing—it all vanished, replaced by a suffocating darkness.
I blinked, and suddenly, I was somewhere else.
The sky above was a deep, churning gray, as though the heavens themselves were grieving. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low, ominous growl that vibrated through the air.
The ground beneath my feet was hard and uneven, and littered with jagged stones and patches of dry, cracked earth.
And then I saw it.
The hill.
Rows of crosses stood like grim sentinels against the storm-darkened sky, their wooden beams rough and splintered.
The wind carried the sound of muffled sobs, broken prayers, and anguished cries.
A crowd had gathered, and all of their faces were pale and tear-streaked
And at the center of it all, towering above the chaos, was Him .
Jesus.
Nailed to the cross.
His body was bruised and bloodied, his skin marred by deep gashes and dark rivulets of crimson. The crown of thorns sat crooked on his head, the sharp spikes digging into his scalp.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths.
Oh no.
My knees buckled, and I fell to the ground. “Why am I here?”
I didn’t see him, yet his voice filled the air. “This is the story.”
I tried to turn away, to shut my eyes, but I couldn’t. The scene held me captive, forcing me to watch, to feel every ounce of the pain and sorrow that hung in the air.
People were crying—some openly, their wails piercing the air, others silently, their faces etched with anguish.
A woman collapsed to her knees nearby, clutching at her chest as though her heart were breaking.
Another man turned away, unable to look.
And yet, amidst the sorrow, there was anger.
Some in the crowd jeered, their voices sharp and cutting. “If you’re the Son of God, come down from that cross!”
Another laughed cruelly, pointing at Jesus’s battered figure on the cross. “He’s just a man!”
I couldn’t breathe.
My chest tightened, and tears streamed down my face as I watched him—watched the life slowly drain from his body, watched his head dip forward under the weight of pain.
And then I heard his voice again, gentle but firm. “I knew it all would happen.”
I blinked, the scene fading slightly as I turned my head, searching for him. “Why didn’t you stop them? You knew. You could have stopped it.”
“Because I love you. I love us , and humanity needed love more than anything else. More than comfort, more than safety, more than even justice.”
My tears came harder now.
“And now. . .you are never alone. Not in your grief, not in your fear, not in your struggles, and especially not in your passions, your desires.”
And just like that, the vision began to fade.
The hill, the crowd, the crosses—all of it dissolved into light, returning me back to the bed and him.
“I love you.” His gaze held mine. “I stayed for all of it. For the moments of passion that consume all of your souls. For the love that burns brighter than reason. For the desires you all try to hide, the longing you all feel when you touch each other, when you kiss, when you give yourself completely to another. I stayed for your joy, your laughter, your heartbreak, and yes—your lust. Because every piece of you, Celeste, even the emotions you’ve been told to fear, is sacred to me.”
I shivered.
He cupped my face with his hand. “Go to him.”
“Go to who?”
“Cassian.”
I widened my eyes.
He leaned closer. “Go to him, Celeste. Right now. He’s going to hurt himself, and I cannot get through to him no matter how I try. It is only you in his mind. Stop him from hurting himself.”
The words slammed into me. “What? He’s going to hurt himself?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he doesn’t understand desire and passion. That’s why I sent you to him. You’re to teach him about love.” He moved his hand from my face. “Go to him.”
His command reverberated through me like a bell tolling in the stillness, and before I could respond, everything around me shattered.
The light of the room dimmed, the warmth vanished, and I was plunged into cold, unrelenting darkness.
His voice surrounded me. “Go to him, Celeste.”
Gasping, I woke up, opening my eyes and panting in bed.
What the fuck?
Trembling, I sat up in bed.
Rain pattered against the window, a soft percussion that seemed almost soothing—until a crack of thunder split the quiet, shaking me to my core.
Jesus’s words echoed in my head. “Go to him.”
I glanced at the clock on the bedside table.
The glowing numbers read 3:13 a.m.
What the hell am I supposed to do with this?
A dream, a vision, whatever it was—it had been so vivid, so real.
And Him. Jesus. I could still feel His gaze, the warmth of His touch on my face, the conviction in His voice as He spoke about Cassian.
About desire .
My stomach clenched as a shiver ran down my spine.
What if it wasn’t just a dream? What if. . .
Another clap of thunder rattled the window, and my decision was made.
I threw the covers back and swung my legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floor was cold against my bare feet, grounding me for a brief moment.
Lightning lit up the sky outside, and in its brief flash . . .
“Go to him.”