Page 94 of Unholy Obsession

I bend over her, elbows on either side of her face, gaze locking as we fuck frantically. Her legs squeeze my hips, and then?—

Oh fuck.

She digs her fingernails into my shoulder blades and scratches them ruthlessly down my back.

At the same time, she arches up and bites deep into the muscle between my neck and shoulder, right above my collarbone.

Her cunt starts clenching and shuddering around my cock, tightening even further than I thought possible.

The spikes of pain mingled with the wild pleasure of fucking her on the altar while she comes shuddering around me?—

Pleasure more intense than any I’ve ever felt in my fucking life hits like a goddamn spike at the base of my spine, and?—

I release a feral roar as I come, clutching Moira to me as tight as humanly possible. Her teeth dig in as she bites down even harder, and I empty everything in my body and soul into her clenching cunt.

My second salvation.

THIRTY-SIX

Christmas Morning

MOIRA

I wake up to a scream.

Not the fun kind. Not the kind that says, “Moira, you’re so good at this, I might actually see God.”

No, this is high-pitched, horrified, and laced with the kind of indignation that means someone’s about to start throwing hands—or hymnals.

I jolt upright so fast my skull nearly detaches from my spine. My heart is doing its best impression of a tap dancer on cocaine, and it takes a solid three seconds before I register where I am. Which is a problem because I’m still on the altar.

The altar. Of the church. Where Bane works.

Oh. Oh no.

Ohhhhh fuu?—

“Father Blackwood, howcouldyou?!”

I know that voice. It belongs to Agnes, the most dedicated of Bane’s parishioners and quite possibly the most terrifying oldlady in existence. I swear she could strangle a man with her rosary beads and walk away without a wrinkle in her cardigan.

I do the only rational thing available to me—I let out a strangled yelp and roll off the altar, hitting the floor with a breath-stealingthud.

Beside me, Bane moves with infuriating grace, leaping down and landing in a crouch like some brooding, muscle-bound Batman. Except instead of a cape, he’s got the altar cloth in front of him covering his nethers. I, meanwhile, am still tangled in the damn thing, looking like a sacrilegious burrito.

“Agnes,” he says smoothly as if he’s greeting her at the church bake sale instead of standing mostly naked behind the Lord’s table. “This is my wife, Moira.”

Hiswhat?

I whip my head toward him so fast I give myself whiplash.

“Your what?!” Agnes chokes, echoing my own internal meltdown.

Bane has the audacity to hold my gaze, utterly calm, as he snatches up his pants and starts stepping into them. “I understand if you want to tell the council and the bishop,” he continues because, apparently, he has completely lost his damn mind. “I take full responsibility for this… lapse in judgment.”

A lapse in judgment? Oh no, Bane. Last night was the best kind of holy experience, and I think I saw the face of God at least twice.

Wrapped in the altar cloth like some kind of makeshift toga, I peek up over the edge of the altar and give Agnes a small wave. She does not wave back. Her mouth is hanging wide open.

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