He prowled in after me, the heat in his eyes feeding the physical chemistry we shared.
The instant the doors shut, he surged forward. I stumbled back, colliding with the wall. He kept coming, and the weight of his body bore down upon me. Then his mouth was on my lips. His hands on my face, in my hair, and still on the move, frantic in his quest to touch every part of me.
As the elevator shot upward, he lifted me up the wall and wrapped my legs around his hips. Our lips fused, tongues rubbing together in the updrafts of our hunger, spiraling, soaring, two sinners in love, reaching for heaven.
“Forgive me, Father,” I gasped against his mouth, “for I have sinned.”
His fingers slipped beneath my panties and found me wet.
I moaned. “It’s been six months since my last confession.”
“Tell me.” He licked my tongue as his hand glided along my drenched heat.
“I’ve had my fingers in my pussy for six months while fantasizing about my favorite priest.”
A long, deep groan resounded in his chest. “Killing me.”
“What’s my penance?”
“A lifetime with me.”
“Fine. I’ll stay with you for an eternity and not a day more.”
He angled his head, devouring my lips while sinking his fingers between my legs. Pleasure ignited. Passion blazed. The hard length of him strained behind his trousers, pressing against my core, desperate to get out.
When the elevator arrived at the top floor, he carried me out without separating our lips. I caught glimpses of a penthouse—dark woods, crystal sconces, velvet fabrics. I didn’t give a fuck about the luxurious space, only about the man who occupied it.
He had to put me down to strip our clothes. We did it in record time, stumbling toward the master suite, bumping into walls, never losing eye contact or breaking our kiss.
Then we stood beside the bed, both naked and panting. And in my veins, I felt only love. Scorching, savage, immeasurable love.
Our six-month separation hadn’t just made our hearts grow fonder. It had stress-tested our connection and forged our bond in hardship. I felt the flames of that fusion as we stepped forward together, our bodies sliding, arms clinging, lips joining, and heartbeats falling in sync.
He spread me out on the bed and took his time reacquainting his mouth with every inch of me. He was gentle at first. Patient. Loving. Then his true nature took over.
His kisses turned to bites, his caresses to stinging slaps and bruises. By the time he bent me over his lap and rained open-palmed strikes upon my ass, he was groaning, rabid, and harder than steel.
I thrashed and moaned, fighting to escape the ungodly burn. And I loved it. I’d missed it. Nothing matched this man’s voracious intensity, passion, and stamina.
For the next hour, he edged us toward release over and over and over again. When he finally tossed me onto the bed and pressed himself against my pussy, I was shivering, gasping, clawing at the claw marks I’d painted across his chest.
“Magnus.” I bucked, clutching his rock-hard buttocks, trying to work him into my body. “You hateful son of a bitch. Fuck me. Please, give me your cock.”
He thrust, and we groaned as one. Then he moved, plunging, claiming, owning. He fucked me like a beast, primal and unhinged. Then he made love to me like a defender, attentive and tender.
He gave me the teacher and the priest, the sinner and the sadist, the greatest of lovers and the staunch protector.
Our bond was eternal, and that was the grand prize, the best gift this universe had to offer.
He was my freedom.
My journey.
My destination.
My one great passion.
My choice.
My love.
My lessons in sin.
EPILOGUE
MAGNUS
Two years later…
She was late.
Again.
I paced the kitchen in the cabin, watching the windows and growing more impatient by the second. I made Tinsley breakfast every Sunday morning after church. Today’s feast included eggs, grilled ham, and buttermilk pancakes bursting with Maine blueberries.
She attended Mass with me as neither a believer nor a nonbeliever. She went as my supporter, my companion, because we did everything together.
Most things. When we returned from church, she went on a hike while I made breakfast.
I glanced at my watch and gritted my teeth.
The food was ready, but it would have to wait while I dealt with this.
Slipping on my hiking boots, I set out into the woods.
It was summertime in the mountains, and the loamy air strummed with a chorus of birds and winged insects. I followed the pebbled path through the trees, listening for my infuriating wife.
The property looked different than the first time she’d come here. Small buildings and aviaries scattered the hillside. From the day we moved here two years ago, she’d been rescuing wild animals. Bats, raccoons, falcons, foxes, deer, opossums—she took in every size and species, predator and prey.
I started building sanctuaries for her. She hired and contracted veterinarians and wildlife experts to tend to the sick and injured animals, and soon, everyone in the White Mountains knew to bring all the unwell critters here.