Page 46

Cathy

I sit on the edge of the counter in the women’s bathroom and wait while Heathcliff pees, strips, and washes up.

I’m swinging my legs, trying to dispel some of my nervous energy, while wetness squishes from my pussy onto the counter.

I’m getting more desperate by the second, which means somebody’s going to die soon.

Today or tomorrow, I think, and it feels like more than one person, but I can’t be sure. It’s like the future isn’t settled yet.

My fingernails drum rapidly against the faux marble surface, and I squirm, pressing my legs together.

My back arches at the familiar, uncomfortable sensation of many-legged things slithering up my spine.

I don’t think Cernunnos likes the feeling; he keeps sending tight, anxious pulses of energy through my bones, like he’s trying to counter the banshee effect.

When I was trying to convince Heathcliff to fuck me, Cernunnos reacted with interest. What you feel, I will feel. I hope he’s a skilled lover.

Since then he has been silent, neither approving nor disapproving. I try not to think about the fact that in doing this, we’re essentially engaging in a weird spiritual threesome.

Nope, not going to think about it. I’m going to think about Heathcliff, who is standing next to me wiping himself down with paper towels.

Fully naked, Heathcliff is a glorious sight. The cheekbones of a prince. Thick, sensual lips. Brown skin laced with tattoos, muscle and sinew packing every inch of his body.

He pitches the paper towels in the trash, picks me up, and shoulders his way out of the women’s bathroom, heading straight for the sanctuary.

With me in his arms he strides down the center aisle, toward the pulpit, toward the great, ancient tapestry looming over us from its place on the wall.

The dimmed lights and crimson carpet give the room a red-gold cast, gleaming off the wooden pews, shining in the droplets clinging to Heathcliff’s damp black hair.

He sets me down on the platform’s edge, with my back against the front of the pulpit and my feet on the steps.

When he moves back and takes a moment to just look at me, I feel like an entirely different kind of sacrifice…

something beautiful and precious. A grateful sob hitches in my throat, and I reach for him because I can’t bear his body being separate from mine any longer.

I need him inside me, deep and firm and warm—I need his strength countering the unfamiliar power flowing through my limbs.

I need him to make me believe that I’m still myself .

Heathcliff drops to his knees. Crawls up the steps and pushes my legs apart like he did in the truck. Then he buries his beautiful mouth and his thick, warm tongue in my pussy.

It’s instant relief, and it’s exquisite torture. Everything else is wiped from my mind as Heathcliff coaxes my clit to a frenzy of need, licking it delicately, then plucking it with his teeth, then stroking my folds with long sweeps of his tongue.

My hands reach above my head, fumbling for something to hold on to, and they find the edges of the thick wooden cross nailed to the front of the pulpit.

I dig my nails into it, gripping it for leverage.

Heathcliff lifts his head, his lips and jaw damp from my wetness.

He grins. “God, you look beautiful right now. Can I try something?”

I’m not sure what he has in mind, but I’m in a wild mood, so I nod.

Rising quickly, he runs up onto the platform, out of my line of sight. I wait, my pussy quivering, every puff of air against it feeling like a cold gust of wind. I need him to kiss me there, devour me, swallow me and claim me before the god can.

Heathcliff returns with one of the gold cords they use to tie back the curtains for the baptistry.

Bundling my wrists together in one hand, he pins them against the decorative cross, wraps the gold cord across them, and then winds the cord around the pulpit and knots it before kneeling in his place again.

I’m bound to the pulpit, staring out at the wooden pews, the dull white walls, and the ceiling beams of the sanctuary.

I never see the church from this angle—no one does.

The pastor is always standing on the platform, higher than everyone else, while the people are below, gazing upward.

I’m hovering between the two, suspended in the heated haze of lust, with my hands tied to the cross and my legs splayed in the most profligate way.

There’s a god in my head and a beautiful man kneeling between my thighs, and I am suspended between both of them.

I need Heathcliff to touch me, to tether me, to ground me.

I lurch toward him, but the cord keeps my hands in place above my head.

“That’s it,” Heathcliff says, gazing at me. “I wish I could take a photo of you like this. You look like a goddamn saint. The profane kind.”

“Gloriously profane.” I smile at him, and he gives me one of his warm grins, the kind that’s usually tinged with sardonic humor—but this time I sense the pain at the edges.

“Be still for me, Cathy,” Heathcliff murmurs, lowering his face to my sex.

I understand now why he bound me. With my arms tethered like this, I’m even more at his mercy, and everything is heightened. Each heated puff of his breath, the sliver of space between his mouth and my clit—it’s intense, exquisite, overwhelming.

Heathcliff seems intent on making this the best orgasm I’ve ever had. He’s building toward it carefully, adding the restraints, teasing me with his breath, torturing me with tiny flicks of his tongue.

“God, just… please ,” I whimper.

He releases a shuddering breath, as if he’s exhaling the last of his restraint. Then I squeal breathlessly as he tucks both hands under me, lifts my ass several inches off the platform, and sinks his face into my pussy again with a contented rumble of pleasure.

My entire existence narrows to the space between my legs where he’s doing the Lord’s work, creating a storm of explosive sensation. My eyes roll back and I arch in his hands, my head tilting back against the pulpit. “Ah…ah…Heathcliff…oh shit…”

Inside me, the god is writhing, climbing, urging, almost pleading.

He wants to come—to connect—as badly as I do.

I ignore him as best I can and give myself over to Heathcliff, who is humming between my thighs now, causing a delicious vibration while his tongue drives through my folds, over and over, lashing my clit with every pass.

With a wriggle and sharp scream, I come. My body jerks and my thighs shake, but Heathcliff holds me, steadies me, soothes me with his mouth.

There’s a jolt of bright energy in my mind during the orgasm—the deity inside me sharing the effect of Heathcliff’s clever tongue.

It’s almost like having sex in public while someone else jerks off to the sight of me and my partner.

I’ve had sex in a bunch of places, and though I’ve never been caught, I’ve always liked knowing it could happen.

This is next-level naughty and erotic, not to mention weird and terrifying, but I refuse to let myself think too hard about the god’s presence and what it’s stealing from me.

Nothing exists except me and Heathcliff. Right here. Right now.

“Untie me,” I gasp, wrenching against the cord. “Untie me, I need to touch you, I need—”

He obeys immediately, setting my ass down and loosening the knot. I tackle him onto the platform, flinging myself on top of him and smothering his startled exclamation with my mouth.

“Kiss me like I’m dying,” I whisper.

“Fuck, Cathy, don’t say that.” His hands tighten on my body with possessive force, almost enough to bruise. But I want his bruises. I want his fingerprints on my bones, his breath in my throat, his blood under my nails.

“Tear me apart.” My voice is harsh, wretched. “Fuck me until I beg for mercy, please, please… I need this. I’m strong now, like you. I can take it.”

I finish the plea with a crush of my mouth against his, and I bite his lower lip until I taste blood.

He responds with a great surge of his muscles, heaving himself up and rolling us both over. He’s ruthless when he shoves inside me, not giving me a second’s warning or a moment to adjust.

Yes, yes —this is the brutality I crave. I want to be fucked out of myself, out of this nightmare.

His body hangs low and heavy over mine, a wall of muscle that could crush me if he let it. He braces one forearm right above my head. His profile hovers above my face, his rough breath gusting across my lips.

“Catherine.” His voice is sharp, commanding. “I’m not just your escape from the things you find uncomfortable. I’ll be that for you, but I am more .”

“Not just more,” I grit out, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. “You are everything.”

His eyes flame at the echo of what he once told me.

A darkly triumphant grin and then he’s kissing me, kissing my forehead, cheeks, and mouth while he thrusts inside me.

I wrap my legs around him, locking my ankles above the curves of his muscular ass, and I give myself to the ecstasy, to the surge of his skin and the flow of his strength, to the hot brush of his lips and the scent of his sweat.

My fingers find the edges of his biceps, the beads of his nipples, the slanted muscles above his hips, the expanse of his back.

All of his rough The silken heat of his skin is mine, and the soft curls of hair coating his chest, and his thick, strong fingers with their calluses—they are mine.

The glossy black tangle of his hair is mine.

His dark-lashed eyes are mine, and his tongue teasing the inside of my mouth is mine.

All of him is mine, no matter what happens.

Death couldn’t keep us apart, and nothing else will either.

“I’m going to love you after I’m dead,” I pant in his ear, my voice shaken by his fierce thrusts. “Promise you’ll do the same.”

“Easiest thing I’ve ever promised.”