Page 60 of Of Heathens & Havoc

“This is my favorite sin,” Heath says, irreverent as always.

“Gluttony is mine,” I say. “Master, may I?”

“You may clean her up,” the Master says. “I would hate for her sacrifice to go to waste.”

I lick my lips and step in close, undoing one of the rosaries tied around her ankles while the Master releases her other foot. She curls in on herself, whimpering.

“I won’t hurt you,” I promise her. “This will make it all better. Trust me?”

I lift my mask and search her eyes, and she must see the sincerity there, the one that made her trust me to get thorns and splinters from her toes and bandage her knees when we were all barefoot heathens running through the woods, climbing fences into places where we didn’t belong, exploring abandoned houses. Now I slide her off one side of the cross, raise her ivory thighs to my tattooed shoulders and sink tongue into her fresh, bloody cunt. She lets out a shriek, jerking at her arms, which are still over her head.

“Please,” she cries. “Saint, untie me.”

“But you took our sins so well,” Saint taunts, smirking down at her. “Now take his tongue, little sister. Do you like the feeling of it fucking your uptight little cunt?”

I close my eyes and inhale, losing myself in her, this dream I never thought possible. I lick and suck, caressing her folds, soothing her stretched entrance, drawing first whimpers and then desperate pleas from her lips.

Heath leans down over her, sucking greedily at her tits, smearing his cum over her skin, defiling her body the same way I’m corrupting her soul.

“Angel,” she gasps. “Stop, please, I can’t—”

She breaks off with a scream of pleasure as I begin to suckle her clit. Her slick coats my tongue, and I cover her entire pussy with my mouth, glutting myself on the blood of her virginity. I don’t stop until I’ve sucked up every drop; until her cries of helpless bliss and shame echo through the church andher cunt quivers and flutters and finally pulses out her orgasm around my tongue; until she gives herself to me completely, surrendering her innocence with a final, heart wrenching sob.

I soothe her with gentler strokes then, lapping at her stretched opening, slurping up the rest of her juices.

“I think she’s sacrificed enough for tonight,” the Master says gently, prying me from between her quaking thighs. I fight the urge to argue, reminding myself this is a ritual and not a fuck-fest. I’ll eat her again pussy later. After all, it’sourpussy now. We’ve claimed it as our own, and we can do what we want with it.

twenty-one

The Merciful

Angel carries me home this time, laying me down and carefully tucking me into bed with my clothes still on. He sinks onto the edge of the twin bed and strokes my hair back. I catch the briefest glimpse of his tan palm, the white scars that match mine still visible.

“You okay?” he asks, his eyes kind and sympathetic.

“A little sore,” I admit. “But I’ve been worse.”

“Stay right there,” he says, standing and going to my desk. He opens the drawer, and my heart jolts, but he only pulls out my bottle of ibuprofen and comes back. He hands me a couple and a glass of water, his strong hand propping my head up while I drink.

I sink back onto the pillows and look up at him. “What does it all mean?” I whisper, hoping that he’s the one who will tell me the truth, now that I have him alone. He was always the sweet one, a regular little boy, the jokester despite his tough world.

He shakes his head. “I wish I knew, lamb.”

“What are you going to do to me?” I press.

His lips tighten. “I’m going to protect you,” he says. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. My eyes fall closed, my cheeks heating as I remember where that mouth has been, what it did to me. I can smell myself on him, my shame still lingering on his lips.

“Promise?” I whisper, gripping the edge of the afghan.

“I promise,” he says, dropping his forehead against mine. “But I lied about one thing.”

“What?” I whisper, my voice barely a breath.

“Gluttony isn’t my favorite sin,” he murmurs, stroking the strawberry blonde locks spilling over the white pillowcase. “You are. You’re my favorite sin, Mercy Soules.”

A tremor goes through me, but I can’t speak. My throat is too tight, my head spinning too fast.

After a long moment, he stands, tucks the sheet tightly under my chin, and switches off the light. The door opens, and for a moment, his large frame is silhouetted there, my protective, avenging angel. Then the door swings closed, and I hear it lock. My heart flips. He has the key. That’s how they’ve gotten in all these times.

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