Chapter 29 #2
He’s on his feet too, but he stays at the end of the aisle, watching me pace with arms crossed. “It’s not nonsense, Aurelia. Princes before me have done the same in pursuit of love.”
The word stops me dead, and the very air in my lungs has abandoned me. “Love?”
“Yes, the worthiest pursuit. The thing that wars are fought over. What makes the poets write verse and musicians sing songs.”
“We’ve only known each other for two months.” This is insane. He can’t love me. It’s not allowed. I can’t allow it, can’t allow my heart to think that being in love is even an option.
He’s in front of me now, taking both my hands in his.
“Yes, and in those two months I’ve grown to know a woman who is fierce and kind and nurturing.
Who gives so much of herself because she can’t help but do so, with no expectation of return.
A woman that’s loyal and smart and subtly funny.
” He puts a finger under my chin, lifting my face to his, our lips mere inches from each other.
“I’ve grown to love a woman who sees me as Friedrich the man, not Friedrich the prince. ”
His words are a wrecking ball to the walls I’ve constructed over many years.
He loves me? I must be crazy. I’ve gone completely insane.
My brain is quiet, all the alarms going off as I ran are suddenly silent.
The only feeling left in me is the fire I always feel when he’s close like this, when his hands are on me, and our bodies are trying to occupy the same space.
“Fritz,” I practically whimper.
He crashes his lips to mine, needy and desperate, as if he’s trying to force all the words he said to take root inside me. And god help me, I can’t stop him. My body needs his touch like it needs oxygen to live.
I can feel his erection growing against my thigh second by second, and even though we just got off together not two hours ago, I’m dying to have him again.
The way he ruts against me, I know he feels the same.
I moan against his lips, and his hands leave my hair to cup my behind, hoisting me up with strength that still surprises me.
My legs go instinctively around his waist and my arms around his neck.
He carries me up the steps into the sanctuary and kneels on the red carpet before the altar, my body laid out below him. His kisses are reverent now, slow and worshipful along the collar of my shirt; his hips are no longer seeking my center.
He makes quick work of my damp sweater, tossing it aside before tugging my leggings down too. He groans his approval when he sees I’m not wearing any panties underneath.
“So naughty, Nanny Sumner.”
I want to smile at him, to grin and blush like the shy girl I have always been for him.
But heat and lust and need are warring against the fear and the understanding of what must be done.
And if I have to leave, if I must be the voice of reason here, I need to have one last moment with the man who has taught me to love my body, to enjoy my sexuality, to not be ashamed to seek pleasure in another.
Here, in the middle of a church, I’m naked before the man who will one day be the head of that institution.
And as he strips off his own running clothes, he watches me with eyes that express devotion and admiration.
My legs fall open, beckoning him in, and he falls to his knees between them.
He genuflects before my body at the altar of his god.
“This is my body, broken for you.” He lies over me, caging me in with his lithe frame, held up on one forearm but still skin to skin.
He takes one of my hands and places my palm to his neck. His pulse thrums against me as his desire throbs at my entrance. “This is my blood, poured out for you.”
I could die right in this moment from being pulled in so many directions. Lust and fear and affection and reason all toss me around like a ship in a storm. Friedrich wins; he always wins in the battle of wills in my mind, and I’m in too deep to think about the implications.
I am ready to share every part of myself with this man who has opened himself so fully to me.
He told me before that he doesn’t have sex, he doesn’t think it proper for the heir to the throne to go slagging around.
But here, in this church that means so much to him, in front of the depiction of his broken, dying savior, Friedrich’s eyes have never left mine.
“Yes,” I say to the unvoiced question. Yes, take me. Yes, you can have all of me.
He closes his eyes now, releases a big breath. I, on the other hand, haven’t breathed since he took his boxer briefs down. He looks to me again, so tender and beautiful.
“This is my life, given up for you.”
He presses into me, my body ready to receive him, still wet and aching from our earlier session. His fingers have been inside me before, but the stretch of his penis aches in a way that makes my toes curl in delight.
He’s still watching me, studying my eyes like I’m a painting he can’t quite figure out.
His arms on either side of me begin to shake, and I know he’s using all his willpower to stay and allow me a moment to adjust. It’s so kind, he’s so considerate in everything he does, even when his own need is clawing its way to the surface.
The pain in my body is nothing compared to the pain in my soul right now, and all I want is to forget all of that in the sheer bliss he brings me.
“Please, Friedrich,” I breathe, tears threatening at my eyes as I trace the quivering muscles of his arms.
He sinks all the way in with a groan, and I gasp at the fullness, the burn, the sheer rightness in being completely consumed by him.
The tears fall now, and he wipes them away with the pad of his thumb, pressing gentle kisses to my lips as I grow accustomed to his thick length sheathed in my virginity.
We don’t need any words; he reads my eyes as if he can see my soul. He drags himself out, slowly, slowly, until just the tip remains inside. Then, still moving carefully, he presses back in, dragging out my pleasure with his.
“Please,” I gasp again after a few more tenuous movements. “I need more, Fritz. Make me forget.”
He growls, punctuated by the slap of his hips against mine, and I squeak with delight and only a touch of pain. He shoots me a positively devilish grin and does it again, filling the stone chapel with the deliciously vulgar sounds of flesh on flesh.
“So fucking tight,” he groans, peppering my lips and cheeks and neck with tender lips.
He’s in no rush, respecting my body and the intrusion he is inside of me.
He finds a leisurely rhythm in time with his breaths, and god, now I know why the church is so focused on sex because I think I might go insane if I don’t get to feel this again and again.
The connection between us only serves to heighten the pleasure as he hums sweet words to me.
So beautiful, and such a sweet pussy, and Christ, I fucking need you.
Something starts to build inside me, stronger than the tears that are still leaking from my eyes, deeper than the agony of the knowledge of what I must do after this is over, more powerful than the shame I should be feeling at giving myself over to lust and desire, more brilliant than the affection I have for this man who has taken every part of me that I’ve so willingly given.
It starts in my limbs, tight and tingling and torturous as it draws to my core and settles in my pelvis.
Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body.
But our bodies are worship. Here, linked together in the most primal, instinctual, spiritual way, we are giving glory to the creator for blessing us with this moment of pure bliss. Pure joy. Pure…
Rapture.
A cry escapes my lips before I can tell myself to be reserved.
I don’t think I could if I tried. My vision sparkles with bright white.
My entire body is absolute pleasure, and it feels like coming up for air after being held under the water too long.
Like all my senses and the teachings of my childhood have been keeping me from really breathing all this time.
And the scriptures were right. My body is not my own.
It’s his. My body belongs to Friedrich, and his belongs to me.
And we will pay the price for that. But right now, in this moment, all I feel is utter peace.
The only thing keeping me from floating up to the wooden rafters is the weight of Friedrich above me. His face is beautiful agony as he watches me come down from my orgasm. His thrusts have turned hard and erratic, adding to the addictive ache I’m feeling.
“Aurelia,” he pants, “Mon trésor.” Beads of sweat catch in his hair and eyebrows, dropping on my face and chest with each meeting of our hips. “So fucking good.”
His breaths escape in moans so deliciously dirty I’ll be hearing them in all my fantasies for years to come.
My prince is unraveling above me, and a strange sense of pride flows over me.
I cry out at the sudden loss of him inside me as he pushes off of me, jumping to his feet just in time to turn away to the edge of the sanctuary and shout his release.
My entire view is his gloriously toned backside, the muscles of his bum and thighs clenching and flexing as his body spasms and his ejaculate spatters on the stone floor again and again and again.