SACRILEGIOUS 2

Agnes pov

He let out a harsh, broken laugh. "Penance?" He took a step toward me, and I instinctively took one back, until my hips hit the edge of his heavy desk. "No penance in the world could wash this clean."

He was on me then, his hands grabbing my face, holding it still. His thumbs brushed over my cheekbones, and I could feel the tremor in them. 

He leaned in, his face so close to mine I could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the wine on it. "Those thoughts," he growled, his eyes boring into mine. "The ones about being taken. Against a wall." 

His gaze flickered to the wall behind me, then back to my face. "Did you mean them?"

My mind went blank with fear and a terrifying, electric excitement. I couldn't speak. I just nodded, a tiny, jerky motion.

A groan tore from his throat. It was a sound of pain, of utter desperation, and then his mouth crashed down on mine.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a violation, a branding. His lips were harsh, demanding, forcing mine apart. 

His tongue plunged into my mouth, claiming every inch of me. It was nothing like the chaste, familial pecks I'd received from relatives as a girl, this was hungry, filthy, and it tasted of wine and sin. 

I moaned into his mouth, my hands coming up to clutch at the front of his cassock, the black wool rough against my palms.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing against mine with every word. "You have no idea," he panted, "how long I've wanted to do this. How many times I've heard you in there, your sweet, pure voice, and imagined it crying out my name instead of prayers."

His hands left my face and moved down, grabbing the heavy fabric of my habit at the neck. With a rough tug, he pulled, tearing the thick wool. 

The sound of it ripping was loud in the quiet room. Cool air hit my skin as the fabric was pulled down, baring my shoulders, my collarbones, the simple white cotton shift I wore underneath.

"Father!" I gasped, but the word was more of a plea and not a protest.

"Don't," he snarled, his hands now fumbling with the knot of the rope cincture around my waist. "Don't call me that. Not now." 

I snapped my mouth shut as per his command, my heart thrumming in my chest.

He pulled the rope free and let it drop to the floor with a soft thud. "Tonight, I'm not a priest. And you," he yanked the habit down my body, letting it pool around my ankles, "are not a nun."

He stared at me, at the plain white shift that was all that covered me. His eyes were black in the dim light, burning. "I've dreamt of what's under there," he whispered, more to himself than to me. "Every night."

With another rough movement, he grabbed the hem of my shift and pulled it over my head. I was before him in my underwear.

 The cool air of the room pebbled my skin and made my nipples harden into tight buds. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and more alive than I had ever felt in my life. I didn't try to cover myself, I let him look, let his hungry eyes roam my smooth skin.

He made a choked sound that sounded more like a pained grunt. "God help me," he breathed, and then he was on his knees.

I gasped as he pressed his face against my stomach, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. He inhaled deeply, like he was trying to breathe me in, to consume me. 

His breath was hot and damp through the thin fabric of my panties. He looked up at me, his face shadowed, but I could see the raw, desperate need in his eyes.

"You smell like heaven," he groaned. "And I want to drag you straight to hell with me."

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my simple cotton panties and pulled them down, slowly, reverently–lifting one of my feet, then the other, tossing the small piece of fabric aside. 

Now I was completely bare, nude before him. He leaned forward, and I felt the first hot, wet stroke of his tongue against my most private flesh.

I cried out, my hands flying to his hair, my knees buckling. His tongue was relentless, exploring, tasting, thrusting. 

His tongue found my clit, circling it, sucking it into his mouth, and I was lost. All my prayers, all my vows, all my life, dissolved into this single, searing point of pleasure.

"Father… oh, father…" I chanted, the words meaningless, just sounds torn from my throat.

He growled against me, the vibrations sending shockwaves through my body. He pulled away for a second, his chin wet with my feminine juices, his lips pink and swollen. "Michael," he rasped. "Say my name."

"Michael," I whimpered, my hips bucking, searching for his expert lips again.

He gave me what I wanted, devouring me with a desperate hunger that mirrored my own. He pushed two fingers inside me, curling them, stroking a place deep inside that made stars explode behind my eyes.

I was grinding against his face, shameless, lost to it. The coiling tension in my belly was unbearable, a sweet agony that demanded release.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice muffled against my flesh. "Come on my tongue. Let me taste your sin."

That was it. That was the permission I needed.

The world shattered. A cry tore from my lungs as the orgasm crashed over me, violent and overwhelming. My body convulsed, my legs shaking, my fingers tangled so tight in his hair that it must have hurt.

He held me through it, his mouth and fingers working me, drawing out every last drop of pleasure until I was a limp, panting mess, leaning against the desk for support.

He rose slowly to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at me, sprawled naked and trembling on his desk, and the look on his face was triumphant. Terrifyingly so.

He grabbed my arm and spun me around, bending me over the desk. My cheek pressed against the cool, polished wood, scattering papers and a heavy leather-bound book. 

I heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of a zipper and my heart leaped into my throat.

 This was it. 

This was the thing I had fantasized about, the thing I had confessed in a whispered, shame-filled rush.