Chapter 11 - Gabriel
Sunday morning and there’s a woman in my shower.
The sound of water through these thin walls makes my cock stir before I'm even fully awake. My shower. My soap—she's using it because hers, she informed me with casual authority while reorganizing my kitchen, doesn't lather right with the hard water.
I sit on the couch where I slept—badly, this thing designed by someone who despises spines—and stare at the collar on the side table.
The water stops. Footsteps. Then she emerges in my robe—oversized, sleeves rolled three times, hem dragging. Her hair drips. Her skin glows pink from heat. She smells like my soap, which means she smells like me, which means my cock goes from stirring to fully hard in seconds.
I turn away, suddenly fascinated by my keys.
"Problem?" Of course she notices. She tracks everything—how I grip doorframes to keep from grabbing her, how I've mapped escape routes through my own kitchen to avoid brushing against her, how I haven't made proper eye contact since Wednesday when I came so hard in her mouth I saw God.
"We need to leave in an hour," I say.
"We?"
Seminary never covered this: how to explain why a beautiful woman is emerging from your rectory on Sunday morning. The parking lot connects everything. No back exit unless she climbs through the bathroom window, which I consider for three desperate seconds before accepting that would be worse.
"You leave early," I say, scanning the lot through my kitchen window. No suspicious vehicles. "Before anyone arrives. Drive somewhere, come back in twenty minutes, park like any parishioner."
She looks at me with something between amusement and pity.
“Are you more scared of Markovic’s men or your own parishioners?” she asks.
I refuse to dignify that with an answer.
“Well?” she insists.
I glance up. “I can’t punch my parishioners into submission, so…”
She checks the GPS watch—panic button untouched, tracker steady. Good. She leaves at eight-fifteen, wearing a thin jacket and still damp from my shower, and I try not to think about water running down her body, my soap between her breasts, her hands spreading lather over skin I've barely touched.
The parking lot is empty. Perfect.
Except for Alma.
Alma's sedan pulls in just as Sera pulls out. Through my window, I watch Alma's head swivel with the deliberate rotation of a woman acquiring ammunition. I am comprehensively fucked, and not in the way my cock has been begging for.
By eight-forty Sera's back, taking the third pew as I enter in vestments.
She's wearing a simple dress that makes her collarbone look like territory I need to mark with my teeth.
Her hair has dried loose. I can imagine the scent of my soap on her, and my cock responds by pressing insistently against my pants under the flowing vestments.
The Gospel reading goes fine. The prayers, manageable. Then comes the homily.
I step to the lectern, open my notes, look up.
She's watching me with her intense focus, filing me away like evidence. Learning my professional face the way she's learned what I look like when I come.
"God's mercy is not transactional. We don't earn it through—"
She shifts, crosses her legs. The dress rides up just enough to show the curve of her thigh, and my brain whites out. That's the thigh I gripped at the gala. That's the thigh that trembled when I had my fingers inside her, when she was so wet she dripped down my hand.
"Through our works," I manage. "But through grace freely given—"
She pushes hair behind her ear, exposing her neck. I'm paralyzed by memory: her confession about Julian—’he'd say kneel and I'd kneel, and my pussy would clench before he even touched me.’ My cock throbs so hard I have to grip the lectern to stay upright.
Three sentences about mercy tumble out, probably backwards. Mrs. Alvarez dabs her eyes like I've said something profound. Alma watches from the back, clearly not buying any of this.
I make the mistake of looking at Sera again.
She's just existing, breathing, being a person in a church.
But my mind supplies the image anyway: her in the confessional, my cock disappearing into her mouth, the way her throat worked to take all of me, how she moaned while swallowing my cum like she loved the taste.
"And so we see," I say to the back wall, "that mercy requires us to… to open ourselves to grace. Let us pray."
The Our Father has never been more necessary. I deliver the rest of mass to fixed points on walls—anywhere but the third pew where she sits wearing my soap like she's marked by me.
After mass, after the handshake line, Alma corners me.
"That woman. From the diner."
"She needed help with—"
"At eight-fifteen in the morning? With damp hair?"
"It's not what you're thinking."
Her look says she's thinking plenty and all of it's accurate. "Father Gabriel, I've known you three years. You’re a good man. You take care of your flock. But you run like demons chase you, and now suddenly there's a woman in your shower?"
“A parishioner visiting the rectory for help,” I reply sternly.
"I'm not your confessor," Alma replies, lips pursed. "But I am your friend. And right now, I'm worried."
I shift my weight, vestments suddenly too warm in the morning air. Nothing escapes Alma’s notice. Including, apparently, Sera.
"I appreciate your concern," I say, hearing how formal I sound. "But there's nothing inappropriate happening."
The lie tastes like mud. Every second with Sera is inappropriate—my thoughts, my dreams, the way my body responds to her mere presence.
Alma's eyes narrow. "Whether anything inappropriate is happening or not, people talk, Father."
"Thank you for the reminder." I keep my voice even, professional. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to prepare for the eleven o'clock."
I retreat to the sacristy, shutting the door behind me. My hands tremble as I remove my chasuble, hanging it carefully on its stand. The silk is cool against my fingers, a reminder of my vocation, my promises.
I press my palms against the ancient wooden table where generations of priests have prepared for mass. What would they think of me now? A priest harboring a woman marked for death, a woman who makes me question everything I’ve built my life upon.
The door opens. I don't need to turn to know it is Sera.
"What did Alma want?"
I close my eyes. "She’s just protective."
"Of you? Or your vows?"
"Stop it, Seraphina," I snap.
I turn to face her, keeping the table between us. Her dress clung to her curves, modest by any standard but still enough to make my blood run hot.
“Stop what?” she asks, her tone growing blades.
I shake my head.
"It’s my busiest day, Sera. You need to leave. Go to the rectory, stay inside, don’t you dare go anywhere without me. I’ll be back tonight."
She opens her lips to protest, and I feel like an asshole for ordering her around like her husband used to, but I need her to leave before I tear that pretty sundress into shreds with half my flock still standing in the parking lot.
She huffs in displeasure, but, thank God, leaves.
I spend the day lighting candles, arranging flowers, taking notes, counseling the bereaved, and pretending my thoughts aren't constantly returning to her.
I survive on muesli bars between services, my stomach quieted but my mind restless. Every distant engine sound has me tensing, listening for her car. The safety watch offers some protection, but it's not enough—not with Markovic's reach. The man didn't build his empire by being stupid or merciful.
Finally, it is time to lock up the church. Ten pm, when even sinners go to bed.
The church is empty, dark except for the few remaining flickering candles.
Until suddenly it is filled. Sera walks in, her light footsteps pattering down the aisle.
I can’t help it. I turn around and watch her.
She walks the nave, fingers trailing over pews. Stops at the altar. Leans back against it like it's a kitchen counter.
"You stared at me during your sermon."
"I tried not to."
"You failed."
"I know."
"What were you thinking about? When you lost your place?"
"Your neck."
She inhales sharply. "What about my neck?"
"Where I'd put my mouth."
I'm walking toward her, or she's pulling me, or the church is collapsing inward. My hand finds her jaw, thumb on the pulse point that's racing.
She doesn't wait. Fingers hook under my collar—the actual collar, using my restraint as a handle—and pulls. Our mouths meet and it's different from the gala. We know each other's rhythms now. The intimacy under the heat makes it impossible to stop.
I lift her onto the altar.
No thought. Just instinct that puts her on the stone, and she's there with her legs parting and me stepping between them like this is what altars are for.
Her legs wrap around me, pulling me against her, and the dress rides up and my hands are on her thighs—bare skin, warm, smooth—and she makes a sound that goes straight to my cock. I press forward, grinding against her, letting her feel how fucking hard I am, how much I want to be inside her.
"Gabriel," she gasps, and my name in her mouth makes me thrust against her harder.
My fingers find the edge of her underwear—soaked through, completely drenched. "Fuck, you're so wet," I growl against her mouth. "Is this what you were thinking about during mass? Getting fucked on my altar?"
She moans, hips rolling against my hand as I push the fabric aside. My fingers slide through her slick folds, finding her clit, circling it while she gasps against my neck.
"Please," she whispers. "I need—"
I push two fingers inside her and she cries out, her pussy clenching around them immediately.
She's so wet I can hear it as I fuck her with my fingers, the obscene sound echoing in the empty church.
My thumb finds her clit, pressing in circles while my fingers curl forward to that spot that makes her whole body shake.
"That's it," I murmur against her throat. "Let me feel you. Let me feel how much you want my cock."
She's grinding against my hand now, chasing her release, and I pull my fingers out. She whines at the loss, but I need more. Need to be inside her. Now.
I fumble with my belt, shoving my pants down just enough to free my cock. It springs free, hard and aching, the head already wet with pre-cum. She looks down at it and licks her lips, and I nearly come just from that.
I position myself at her entrance. Right there. The head of my cock pressing against her pussy, feeling how wet she is, how ready.
The flushed lips of her pussy glisten, slick and swollen, a trembling invitation.
My cock leaves a smear of pre-cum as I line up, the tip parting her folds with a shine that matches the fever in her eyes.
Her thighs quiver, gripping my hips, her cunt pink and parted, pulsing against my crown, desperate to swallow me down to the root.
The moment overflows with anticipation, like waiting for a storm to break over the horizon, the air heavy with the electricity of desire and the promise of release.
My cock throbs against her, aching to be inside her, and I can feel her wetness inviting me in.
A moment of pure and unadulterated need, two bodies poised on the edge of ecstasy.
One thrust and eight years of celibacy end on the altar where I serve communion.
I can't.
My body locks. Not won't—can't. A circuit breaker tripping. Eight years of vows, and this is the one I can't break. The final line.
She feels me stop, sees the war on my face. "It's okay," she whispers, understanding.
I can't go forward and I can't let go and I can't stop wanting—
So I drop to my knees.
The position of prayer, of worship. Her hands find my hair as she realizes what I'm about to do.
"Spread your legs wider," I command, and she obeys instantly, the dress bunching around her waist.
I push her underwear completely aside and just look at her for a moment. Her pussy is perfect—pink and swollen and glistening with arousal. I can see her clit, hard and begging to be sucked. I lean forward and breathe her in, the scent of her arousal making my cock leak against my pants.
"Please," she whimpers. "Gabriel, please—"
I press my mouth to her pussy and we both groan. She tastes incredible—sweet and musky and addictive. I lick from her entrance to her clit in one long stroke, and her thighs clamp around my head as she cries out.
I eat her pussy like I'm starving. My tongue circles her clit before sucking it into my mouth, and she nearly comes off the altar. Her hands fist in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, and the pain just makes me more desperate to taste every inch of her.
"Oh God," she gasps. "Oh fuck, your mouth—"
I push my tongue inside her, fucking her with it while my nose presses against her clit. She's so wet she's dripping down my chin, and I want to drown in her. My hands grip her thighs, spreading her wider, opening her completely to my mouth.
I slide two fingers inside her while my tongue works her clit, curling them inward. Her pussy clenches around my fingers, and I can feel how close she is.
"That's it," I murmur against her. "Come for me. Come on my tongue while you're spread on my altar."
I suck her clit hard while my fingers pump faster, and she shatters.
Her back arches, pussy pulsing around my fingers as she comes with my name on her lips—not Father, just Gabriel, broken into pieces by pleasure.
I keep my mouth on her, drawing out her orgasm until she's shaking and pushing at my shoulders.
I stay there, face pressed to her thigh, breathing in the scent of her, my cock so hard it hurts. Not peace—I'm desperate to fuck her. But clarity. The geometry of worship completely rewritten.
She runs fingers through my hair, gentle now. When I look up at her from my knees, her eyes are wet with something that has nothing to do with the orgasm and everything to do with what this means.
I stand, help her down. She reaches for my cock, clearly visible straining against my pants, but I catch her wrist.
"Not yet," I say, though it kills me. "When I finally fuck you, it won't be because I lost control. It'll be because I choose to."
We walk back in silence. At her door, at my couch, the few yards between us that we both know is fiction now.
"Goodnight, Gabriel."
"Goodnight, Seraphina. My angel."
The door closes. I don't shower—I want her taste on my tongue while I lie awake with my cock aching. I stroke myself once, twice, then stop. The denial is part of it now. When I finally have her, I want to be desperate for it.
I am a priest who just made a woman come on my altar, and what I feel is not guilt.
Every mass from now on, I'll stand behind that altar knowing exactly how she tastes. Every "Body of Christ" will carry the memory of a different body, a different communion.
The altar is changed. The confession is coming.
And when—if—I finally give in to it, I'm going to fuck her so hard she forgets there was ever a time we were strangers.