thighs together, a tiny noise coming from somewhere in the back of her throat.
I stopped seeing a penitent.
I stopped seeing a child of God.
I stopped seeing a lost lamb in need of a shepherd.
I saw only a woman in need—ripe, delicious need.
I stepped back, drawing a deep breath, some valiant part of my conscience trying to flicker back online, and she took a tentative step out of the booth, her eyes still pinned to mine. I let her walk past me, but it wasn’t because I wanted her to leave or because I wanted this temptation to end. No, it was more like I was giving her one last chance to escape, and if she didn’t then Jesus help her, because I had to touch her, I had to taste her and it had to be right the fuck now.
She backed up a few paces until she bumped against the baby grand piano set below the choir platform. She still didn’t speak, but she didn’t have to, because I could read every tremble of hers, every breath, every goose bump. Her teeth still bit her bottom lip and I wanted to bite that lip, bite it so hard that she would squeal.
I advanced on her, and she watched every step of mine with a hunger that was beyond palpable, it was oppressive, it was ferocious.
“Turn around,” I ordered her, and fuck if she didn’t comply right away, turning and bracing her hands against the edge of the black wood. She was still rubbing her thighs together when I reached the piano and stood directly behind her. I ran my index finger from her hand to her shoulder, feeling every pebbled inch of skin on her arm. “Now what were you going to say in the booth?” I asked her in a low voice. “And remember that lying is a sin.”
She shivered. “I can’t say it. Not here. Not to you.”
My hand reached her shoulder. She’d worn her hair up in a loose twist, exposing the ivory nape of her neck, and I caressed it now, wanting to devour every shudder, every hitched breath. And then I placed the flat of my palm in the space between her shoulder blades and pushed her down against the piano, so that she was bent over, the side of her face pressed against the glossy wood. She was so petite that she had to stand on tiptoe, her leather ballet flats tugging free of her heels, her calf muscles bunching into tight balls.
She’d worn a high-waisted pencil skirt, and once she was bent over, the slit rose high enough to expose a narrow glimpse of pink flesh.
“Poppy,” I said dangerously, “did you come here without underwear?”
My hand was still on her back, my fingers resting against her neck, and she nodded.
“Was that on purpose?”
A pause. Then another nod.
The crack resounded through the sanctuary, and she jumped at the feeling of my hand smacking her ass. Then she moaned and pushed her ass up farther.
I didn’t spank her again, although Lord knows I wanted to. Instead I ran my hand from her shoulder to her hip, feeling the curve of her breast where it was pressed against the piano, the dip of her waist, the firm swell of her ass. And then I repeated the action with both hands this time, letting my hands drift down to the hem of her skirt. She drew in a breath, and then I abruptly yanked it up to her waist.
I knelt down behind her and spread her legs, spread them so that her cunt was gloriously bared to me. “My little lamb,” I whispered. “You are so very, very wet right now.”
She was, wetness slicking almost every part of her. Her pussy wasn’t just wet either—it was fucking quivering , pink and soft and quivering right in front of my face.
I grabbed her ass in my hands and dug my fingers in, leaning forward so that my breath tickled her sensitive flesh.
She whimpered.
“This is so wrong,” I said, moving my mouth even closer. I could smell her, and she smelled like heaven, like soap and skin and the delicate female scent that every man hungered for. “But just one taste,” I murmured, talking more to myself than to her now. “God wouldn’t punish me for just one taste.”
I traced my
I stopped seeing a penitent.
I stopped seeing a child of God.
I stopped seeing a lost lamb in need of a shepherd.
I saw only a woman in need—ripe, delicious need.
I stepped back, drawing a deep breath, some valiant part of my conscience trying to flicker back online, and she took a tentative step out of the booth, her eyes still pinned to mine. I let her walk past me, but it wasn’t because I wanted her to leave or because I wanted this temptation to end. No, it was more like I was giving her one last chance to escape, and if she didn’t then Jesus help her, because I had to touch her, I had to taste her and it had to be right the fuck now.
She backed up a few paces until she bumped against the baby grand piano set below the choir platform. She still didn’t speak, but she didn’t have to, because I could read every tremble of hers, every breath, every goose bump. Her teeth still bit her bottom lip and I wanted to bite that lip, bite it so hard that she would squeal.
I advanced on her, and she watched every step of mine with a hunger that was beyond palpable, it was oppressive, it was ferocious.
“Turn around,” I ordered her, and fuck if she didn’t comply right away, turning and bracing her hands against the edge of the black wood. She was still rubbing her thighs together when I reached the piano and stood directly behind her. I ran my index finger from her hand to her shoulder, feeling every pebbled inch of skin on her arm. “Now what were you going to say in the booth?” I asked her in a low voice. “And remember that lying is a sin.”
She shivered. “I can’t say it. Not here. Not to you.”
My hand reached her shoulder. She’d worn her hair up in a loose twist, exposing the ivory nape of her neck, and I caressed it now, wanting to devour every shudder, every hitched breath. And then I placed the flat of my palm in the space between her shoulder blades and pushed her down against the piano, so that she was bent over, the side of her face pressed against the glossy wood. She was so petite that she had to stand on tiptoe, her leather ballet flats tugging free of her heels, her calf muscles bunching into tight balls.
She’d worn a high-waisted pencil skirt, and once she was bent over, the slit rose high enough to expose a narrow glimpse of pink flesh.
“Poppy,” I said dangerously, “did you come here without underwear?”
My hand was still on her back, my fingers resting against her neck, and she nodded.
“Was that on purpose?”
A pause. Then another nod.
The crack resounded through the sanctuary, and she jumped at the feeling of my hand smacking her ass. Then she moaned and pushed her ass up farther.
I didn’t spank her again, although Lord knows I wanted to. Instead I ran my hand from her shoulder to her hip, feeling the curve of her breast where it was pressed against the piano, the dip of her waist, the firm swell of her ass. And then I repeated the action with both hands this time, letting my hands drift down to the hem of her skirt. She drew in a breath, and then I abruptly yanked it up to her waist.
I knelt down behind her and spread her legs, spread them so that her cunt was gloriously bared to me. “My little lamb,” I whispered. “You are so very, very wet right now.”
She was, wetness slicking almost every part of her. Her pussy wasn’t just wet either—it was fucking quivering , pink and soft and quivering right in front of my face.
I grabbed her ass in my hands and dug my fingers in, leaning forward so that my breath tickled her sensitive flesh.
She whimpered.
“This is so wrong,” I said, moving my mouth even closer. I could smell her, and she smelled like heaven, like soap and skin and the delicate female scent that every man hungered for. “But just one taste,” I murmured, talking more to myself than to her now. “God wouldn’t punish me for just one taste.”
I traced my
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