No human can do that. Not even the strong ones. Her mind burned me like holy fire.
I laugh, bitter and broken, too sharp to be sane. “Your dreams have changed,” I say, voice jagged from the effort of control.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Last night… it was you.”
I pull my cock free and wrap my hand around it.
“And what happened in the dream?”
“I woke up before the end.”
Of course she did. Denial is her shield. Her cross.
I stroke myself slowly, eyes trained on her silhouette through the lattice. She’s stiff, trying to hide the tremble. Knees lockedtogether, hands folded too tight in her lap. As if she’s trying to protect something sacred.
She is.
“Why are you denying yourself?” I ask.
“I… I’m saving myself. For marriage.”
Of course she is. Of course.
“Because it’s what I was taught,” she adds. “God wants us to wait.”
I laugh again. Low this time. Dark. “Do you really believe that?”
A beat of silence. Then—“I don’t know.”
There it is. The crack in the stained glass.
“Little lamb,” I murmur, voice like silk over a knife’s edge, “does it feel like sin when you touch yourself?”
“I… I try not to.”
But she does. And when she does, she cries. And when she cries, it’s not out of shame—it’s out of longing.
“Touch yourself,” I say.
Her breath snags. “What?”
“Touch yourself. Here. In the confessional.”
She’s frozen. But the need is there. It’s eating her alive.
“No one will know. No one but you… me… and your God.”
She gasps softly. Her fingers twitch in her lap.
“Do it,” I command.
And she does.
Her hand slips beneath her skirt, and the jolt that goes through her is almost visible. She moans, low and shameful. Her breath comes quicker, in shudders. Her arousal is a song—pure, primal. I match her pace, stroking myself slowly, savoring it. Savoring her.
Her scent shifts again—ripe and dangerous.
She moans my name. “Deimos.”
