Matthew 13 #3
I placed it back on the shelf, still not turning around. His hand came to rest on the small of my back.
“This is new,” he said, voice low near my ear. “This defiance.”
“Is that what it is?”
His hand moved up my spine, between my shoulder blades, to the nape of my neck where he gathered my hair in his fist.
“Turn around.”
I turned, my back against the bookshelf, his hand still tangled in my hair. His eyes had darkened to that impossible shade that made my knees weak.
“What are you doing, Mercy?” he asked, voice pitched low enough that even if someone had their ear pressed to the door, they wouldn’t hear.
“Testing boundaries,” I said honestly.
A smile ghosted across his face. “And what have you learned?”
“That you like it more than you should.”
His grip tightened in my hair, just enough to make me catch my breath. “Dangerous conclusion,” he murmured.
In one quick move, he turned me around against his desk. My back was to him, and his hands now on my hips.
Judah's mouth found the back of my neck.
“This is not why I asked you in here,” he said against my skin.
“No?” I arched against him, feeling his growing erection press against me.
“No.” He grunted when I moved my hips up and down. A little friction here, a little there.
His fingers dug into my hips, stilling my movement.
“The Henderson forms,” he said.
“Processed.” My voice came out steadier than I felt.
“The September schedule.”
“Fixed.”
In answer, he spun me around to face him, lifting me onto the desk in one fluid motion. Papers scattered. Something — a pen, maybe — clattered to the floor. His hands slid up my thighs, bunching my skirt as they moved.
His mouth moved to my shoulder. The same place as this morning — the same spot, like he was returning to something he'd left there.
“Do you know,” he said, “what I thought about during the eleven o'clock pastoral meeting?”
I closed my eyes. “Something blasphemous, no doubt.”
He grinned against my skin and pushed the shirt up and over my chest.
The collar around my neck suddenly felt tighter as his fingers followed its path downward, between my breasts, to where it connected with the rest of the ensemble. He gave it the slightest tug, just enough to remind me it was there, that I was wearing what he had chosen.
“I will fuck you, Mercy,” he told me. “Right now. And you will make the congregation hear it with your soft little moans.” He slid a thumb along my lower lip. “Because you’re a good Christian girl.”
My breath caught in my throat. The sanctity of the office, the church itself — it should have been enough to make me pull away. Instead, I leaned into him.
His hands moved beneath the lace, pulling it to the side; he found the heat between my legs, sliding his fingers up and down, spreading my wetness. I bit my lip to keep from crying out. His fingers slipped inside me, and I gasped against his shoulder, muffling the sound in the fabric of his shirt.
“I want to hear you,” he muttered.
His thumb circled my clit as his fingers worked deeper inside me, finding that perfect rhythm that made my thighs tremble. I gripped his shoulders, nails digging into the expensive fabric.
The thought of Darlene down the hall, of Sister Ruth with her knowing looks, of the deacons and their wives — all of them just beyond that door — sent a forbidden thrill through me. I rocked against his hand, the lace scratching deliciously against my skin.
But suddenly, he withdrew his hand, leaving me aching. I should have felt shame, spread open on his desk like this, but all I felt was want — raw and undeniable.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
I did.
He lined himself up and pushed forward in one smooth motion, filling me completely. This was nothing like our first time. The sudden fullness forced a gasp from my lips that he caught with his mouth.
The desk creaked beneath us, a rhythmic accusation.
His hands found the collar at my throat, fingers tracing its path down between my breasts as he thrust deeper.
The sensation of the red lace trapped between our bodies, the bite of the garter straps against my thighs, the weight of his body pressing me into the mahogany desk — it was all too much.
“Pray,” he growled against my ear. I wasn’t sure whether he was telling me to say my grievances to the Lord or whether he had just declared me his victim. The words sounded the same.
“Our Father who art in heaven,” he began, slamming into me so hard that the mahogany desk moved.
I gasped, throwing my head back.
The garter straps bit into my thighs as he gripped them, using them to pull me harder against him.
“Say it, Mercy. Our Father—”
“Our Father who art in heaven,” I repeated, breathless, eyes closed.
“Hallowed be thy name,” he continued, his voice a dark benediction against my ear.
The blasphemy of it should have stopped me. Instead, it pushed me closer to the edge.
“Thy kingdom come,” I gasped, barely able to form the words as he hit that perfect spot inside me. Again and again.
“Thy will be done,” he replied.
The door remained closed. I could hear footsteps in the hallway, voices murmuring, the distant sound of a hymnal being practiced on the piano downstairs.
“On earth as it is in heaven,” he growled, his rhythm faltering as he neared his own release.
I bit down on my lip to stifle a cry as he thrust deeper, but it came out anyway. The pressure was building inside me.
Fuck.
“Give us this day,” he commanded, his voice hoarse. “Mercy, say it.”
“Our daily bread,” I whispered back, the words barely audible as my body tightened around him.
He slipped his hand between us, finding where the red lace had been pushed aside, his thumb pressing against my clit. The pleasure was immediate — too much and not enough all at once.
“And forgive us our trespasses,” he continued, his eyes never straying.
“As we forgive those who trespass against us,” I gasped. “Judah, shit—”
“Lead us not into temptation,” he whispered against my lips, his movements growing more urgent, more desperate.
The irony wasn't lost on me, but I couldn't find words to acknowledge it. I was beyond speech, beyond thought, beyond anything but the sensation of his cock inside me and the forbidden nature of where we were and what we were doing.
“But deliver us from evil,” I managed, wrapping my arm around his shoulders, my voice breaking on the last word.
I couldn’t hold it anymore. My body clenched around him as the orgasm hit, the rapture so intense it bordered on pain.
I buried my face against his shoulder to muffle the sounds I couldn't control, my nails digging his back.
“Amen.” He exhaled against my neck as he came, his body shuddering against mine.
We both were trembling, breaths ragged. The prayer hung between us, blasphemous and sacred all at once. My legs were still wrapped around him, the red lace now damp and twisted between us, the collar at my throat suddenly feeling too tight.
His eyes met mine. And he smiled, and said “such a good Christian girl,” again.