Chapter 15 - Gabriel #2
"I've wanted to do this since the diner," she confesses, fingers exploring. "Touch you. See what you've been hiding under all that black."
I’ve wanted to be seen since long before the diner. I just didn’t think I was allowed.
My hands find the hem of her blouse. I pull it over her head, that moment of vulnerability when her arms lift and her face is briefly hidden. The blouse falls. She's wearing a simple bra and Julian's ring on its chain, gold catching lamplight against her skin.
I see the ring. Her dead husband's secret resting between her breasts. I don't ask her to remove it. The ring is part of her story.
She carries her dead the way I carry mine. We don’t have to put them down to be here.
I trace the curve of her breasts above the bra, watching goosebumps rise. Her nipples are hard, visible through the thin fabric. I pinch one through the material and she gasps, arching into my touch.
"So responsive," I murmur, doing it again, harder.
"Gabriel," she breathes, and my name in her mouth while I'm touching her like this makes me harder than I've ever been.
My cock is already free between us, hard and thick, and when she pushes my pants down to my feet, she looks down and licks her lips.
Just having her staring at me makes me pulse. She catches a bead of pre-cum with her finger, brings it to her mouth, tastes me while maintaining eye contact.
"Jesus Christ," I groan.
Her bra clasp gives way under my fingers. I palm her breasts, perfect handfuls, thumbs circling her nipples until she's writhing against me. We're clumsy with need. My elbow knocks against the wall, her heel catches on my pants leg.
She notices my hands trembling, catches them in hers, brings them to her mouth and kisses each palm. The simple intimacy of it overwhelms me more than the nudity.
"It's okay," she whispers against my skin. "I've got you."
I haven’t heard words like that since before my mother died. I’ve been the one holding everything together for so long I forgot this was even possible — someone’s hands catching mine.
Her skirt falls. She’s already bare underneath, and I can see the wetness, smell her arousal in the small room.
"You're an angel," I breathe, taking in the sight of her, completely naked before me. Soft curls, glistening folds, her clit swollen.
We're skin to skin in the lamplight, naked in my sacristy. The preparation table is solid wood where I set the Eucharist every Sunday. She sits on the edge, her breasts jiggling at the movement, and she parts her legs wide. I step between them.
I grip my cock, stroke it once while she watches. Her eyes track the movement, pupils dilated. I position myself at her entrance, not pushing in yet, just rubbing the head through her wetness. We both groan.
For a moment I just look at how my cock rests against her pussy, thick and dark against her pink folds. I could stare at that for days. She's so wet I can see it glistening on my shaft. My cock throbs, another drop of pre-cum mixing with her arousal.
"Look at us," I tell her, my voice rough.
She looks down at where we're almost joined, watches as I slide my cock along her slit. The head catches on her entrance and she whimpers.
"Stay with me," she whispers.
I push inside her.
She's so wet I can feel it dripping down my balls.
She cradles my face, patient, letting me arrive. No pushing, no urging. Just holding me.
I have heard a thousand confessions in this church and guarded mine. I told myself that was humility. It was cowardice. I wanted to be known — really known, not performed at — and I was too afraid of what someone might find.
She’s finding it now. And she’s still here.
I move.
The first withdrawal makes us both moan. I pull back until just the tip remains, then push forward again, watching her face as I fill her. Her mouth falls open.
"Eyes on me," I command. "I want to see you."
She opens her eyes, locks onto mine. No hiding. No disconnection.
The rhythm builds. Each thrust goes deeper, harder. She's so wet the sound fills the room. Her legs wrap around me, heels digging into my ass. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, nails leaving crescents.
"Harder," she begs. "Please, Gabriel, fuck me harder. I’m want to come again."
My hand finds the back of her neck, grips hard. She cries out, arching into it, her pussy clenching around me.
"You like that?" I growl, pulling harder. "You like when I take control?"
"Yes," she moans. "God, yes."
My other hand grips her hip, holding her in place as I fuck into her. The old wood creaks under us.
A brass candlestick tips, clatters to the floor. Neither of us cares. The eye contact never breaks.
I reach between us, find her clit with my thumb. She's swollen, sensitive. I circle it once and she nearly comes off the table.
Her pussy starts to flutter, tightening around me. Her thighs tremble, breathing fractures.
"Gabriel," she gasps. "I'm going to—"
"Come for me. Now."
The command comes out without calculation. This is what I’ve been suppressing alongside everything else — the certainty, the need to take charge of something. It doesn’t feel dangerous right now. It feels exactly right.
She shatters. Her pussy clamps down, pulsing, milking me. She throws her head back and screams my name. Her whole body convulses, and I keep fucking her through it.
“Come inside me, Gabriel,” she breathes.
The permission breaks something loose inside me.
My hands clutch at her hips, yanking her down on my cock as I thrust forward one final time.
I'm buried to the hilt when I come, my entire body convulsing as I empty myself inside her.
Pulse after pulse, until I'm shaking. The pleasure is blinding, soul-binding—a religious experience more profound than any I've had at the altar.
She collapses against me, her breath hot against my neck, her body still trembling with aftershocks. For several minutes, we stay joined, my softening cock still inside her, neither of us willing to break this connection.
She holds me through it, her pussy still fluttering with aftershocks. The sacristy fills with our breathing, incense now mixed with sex and sweat.
We stay joined, neither willing to separate. I can feel myself softening inside her, our combined release starting to leak out. My thumbs trace circles on her hips where I gripped too hard. Her fingers stroke my hair.
I wait for the guilt. Brace for it. I just fucked a woman in a pew and then in my sacristy, on the table where I prepare communion. Her pussy is still dripping with my cum.
But I can't bring myself to feel shame. Not with her still wrapped around me, not with her lips pressing soft kisses to my jaw, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
The guilt doesn't come.
Something else fills that space. Something warm that's been growing since she walked into my life.
"How do you feel?" she asks, pulling back to see my face.
I consider honestly. Body: ruined, humming, more alive than I've been since I was twenty. Mind: quiet for once. Soul: here. Present. Not reaching for God or penance, just existing with this woman.
"Like I've been holding my breath for years," I tell her, "and I just exhaled."
She kisses me, soft. I can taste myself on her tongue, and it sends another pulse through my spent cock.
My fingers trace the curve of her spine. In the dim light, with her curls wild around her face and her lips swollen from my kisses, she looks like something from another world—too beautiful to be real.
I pull out slowly, both of us groaning at the loss. I watch my cum drip from her pussy onto the sacred table, and I feel possessive satisfaction.
We dress slowly.
I fix my clothing with hands that aren't quite steady. Sera smooths down her skirt, looking around for her torn underwear. I find it on the floor by the pew, picking it up and offering it to her with a sheepish look.
"Sorry about that," I say, gesturing to the ripped fabric.
She takes it from me, stuffing it into her purse with a laugh that breaks the tension. "I'm not."
We stand facing each other, the enormity of what we've done settling between us. I've broken vows I swore before God. I've defiled a sacred space. I've crossed a line that can never be uncrossed.
And I don't regret a single moment.