Gentle and invasive all at once, the bold tip of my cock kisses against Zenny’s womb, and I nearly stagger with the feeling and with the idea, and all that’s left to me are smashcuts of sensation—
her pussy in a wet, unrelenting squeeze
and
the hidden corrugations and patterns of her body, all soft, all tight, all wet
and
the plump rub of her clit above my cock
and
silk everywhere, her frothy skirt overflowing my arms and rustling and waving and the lush mounds of her breasts heaving under the silk bodice.
“Does it feel good?” I say huskily, looking up into her face as she looks down into mine with a faint red hue to her cheeks and her mouth parted. “Did you need to ride on my cock, baby?”
“Yes,” she pants out, her hips moving with me, angling and squirming. “God. I needed it so much.”
“Why?”
“I needed to be full—fuck yes God—you make me so full.”
“Shit,” I groan, flexing my cock inside her just to feel the stretch and hug of her tight body. “Shit yeah, I do.”
She squirms in my arms again, seeking, seeking, her head falling back and exposing a slender, delicate throat.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” I encourage her, watching with fascination as that delicate throat flutters with her lust-frenzied pulse. “Take what you need. Use my cock to make yourself feel all nice and good again.”
Her mouth opens once more, a silent cry, and she’s a writhing angel in my arms, falling from heaven and touching ecstasy all at once, and she sobs out a broken I love you as her body flings itself right into the mouth of hell, shuddering with illicit sin in the arms of a sinner, right in the very dress she wore to meet God.
Did I say I was reformed earlier?
I lied.
I’m about to fill up a nun with a week’s worth of pain and anger and loneliness. I’m going to put the tip of my cock right to the firmness of her womb and claim her from the inside out. I’m going to fuck her in this wedding dress that’s not meant for me, and fuck her until we’re sweaty and desperate and spent.
And I do.
I bounce her hard on my cock, I stretch that pussy around my thick, heavy erection until she’s shaking in my arms with her third climax, and then I let it go, all of it.
I let go of the loneliness and the loss.
I let go of the control and the chaos.
And with a juddering moan, I spend into her with several long, hot pulses, an entire week’s worth saved up for her. There’s enough that I feel it leaving me, that I feel it smearing between us, and I imagine the crudest, crudest things: making her drip with me, making her pregnant. It’s awful, but it’s all I can think of as I throb and release deep into her belly. It’s all that crowds my mind—that and the rose-scent of her throat, where my face is buried.
It ended too fast, I realize unhappily. My last intimate moments with Zenny, and they passed faster than I could grab at them, slipping right through my fingers.
Zenny seems to think this too, clinging tight to me, her hands twisting in my shirt and her heels still locked against my back. And we come down together like this, wet and shaky and temporarily whole. I could cry with the unfairness of it.
“It’s time, baby,” I reluctantly murmur, helping her to her feet. It’s heaven to hold her, but she has a different heaven waiting for her and I can’t be the one who ruins it.
I help her clean up with some Kleenex, and I help her rearrange her panties, her dress, her hair, until the only evidence of what just happened is the barely perceptible blush on her cheeks and chest, and the spill of me inside her, invisible to everyone except God.
And then there are no more excuses. It’s time for her to go to her vows, and it’s time for me to leave.
I give her a final kiss, long and lingering, her soft lips yielding under mine and then I straighten up. “I love you,” I tell her. “I’ll always love you.”
“You’re not staying?” she asks, her lips trembling. “You won’t stay?”
“I think I’ve been very patient, all things considering,” I say. “But watch you forswear your love for me and pledge your heart to another? Even if that other person is God? I can’t bear it, Zenny. I can’t do it.”
A tear spills over, followed by another and another. “I haven’t been good to you, have I?”
I look away. “You’ve been very good—”
She shakes her head, forcing a rueful smile through her tears. “No. I haven’t. I don’t know if I can say sorry for all of the times—I don’t believe they were wrong—but I know sometimes I was…deeply inconsistent. Hot and cold.”
“You had reasons to be wary,” I say tiredly. “You wanted something transactional between us, and I broke that.”
“But I broke it too,” she confesses. “I couldn’t tell you because I was terrified of feeding it…this fire inside my chest. But, oh Sean, every time you said one of those things—”
“Things?”
She waves a hand. “You know what I mean. Or whenever your voice would get low and rough, or whenever your eyes would get so big and open, like a sky after rain… Every time, I would feel that fire trying to burn and claw its way free. You do that to me. You tear me open and it was all I could do to hold on to the edges of my soul as you did. I loved you and I was scared, and if I had been honest…well.” She sucks in a deep breath and takes my hand in hers, pressing it to her heart. “Maybe this wouldn’t hurt so much.”
Her heart thumps quietly inside her chest, a tired and mournful bird, and I can’t help it, just one more kiss, one final brush of lips and one final taste of her.
“It was always going to hurt, Zenny-bug,” I whisper against her lips. “Always.”
I soak in a last vision—dark, shining eyes and a tart little nose and a sweep of lush, ticklish curls—and then I surrender her to the hands of God and her sisters. I close the door to the waiting room behind me, effectively slicing our love apart for good, and as I do, my heart breaks
one
last
time.
Chapter 34
I can’t get out of the monastery fast enough, half-running through the central hallway to the front door and pushing through that as if I were running out of air.
I am. I am running out. I’m choking on my own pain, my own bittersweet regrets. And I can’t even summon the strength to listen to the singing and praying echoing from inside; I hurl myself down the stairs and onto the old, broken sidewalk, willing the city noise of traffic and wind to drown out the melody of Zenny’s marriage to Christ.
Why did you do this to me? I demand of God. What possible reason could there be for this?
There’s no answer, and of course there’s not. If there’s anything I’ve learned during my detente with God this week it’s that He very rarely answers fussy prayers right away.
Although He better get used to them. I’m much more Jacob than I am Abraham, ready to fight and wrestle with God at a moment’s notice; I’m much more Jonah with his dead plant and his surly I’m so angry I wish I were dead. But I’m beginning to think that’s okay now. That honesty and angst and rage and all the other messy human feelings are preferable to lifeless piety.