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The man groans. Letting out a vibrating, feeble whimper as Elliot digs the thick bone of his shoulder into his back. He holds it there. Pressing the mass of his worthless body to the wall, pinning it between the hard tile behind the urinal and the muscle of his chest.
When Elliot finally releases him, grout lines will have imprinted into his pale, clammy cheeks, stamping the skin. Beneath one eye, a vertical divot running down to his jawbone, following the path a tear might travel, and pressed so deep into his skin it will take hours to fade.
He smells like clove cigarettes and liquor.
The residual scent of closing time at a dive bar seeping through his pores, rising up from the collar of his jacket as Elliot fists the fabric in his hands.
God, what he would give to have her permission to take it further, to chip the bastard's teeth or drive his fists into his ribs, blow after blow, treating his body like the shredded punching bag that used to hang in the garage of his home as a kid.
How he’d love to break a bone. To hear a satisfying, hearty snap. The hollow ricochet of a femur or tibia echoing off the tiled walls, amplified by the bathroom’s acoustics and bouncing off the door.
As a child, he found himself haunted by the same recurring dream. Every few months he’d jolt awake in a panic, his hand flying to his face instantly to check that his teeth were still nestled neatly in his skull, after another vivid dream of them crumbling to dust. Hearing the dull grind of a jaw followed by them falling out one by one, a fine luminescent powder pouring from his mouth and into his open hands. It happened so often he was intimately familiar with how the dream would unfold.
Anxiety, his mother had declared.
Her official diagnosis, as she flipped through a thick dusty dream journal; an affordable substitute for the out of budget psychologist his father had suggested in mumbles under his breath. He’d held the feeling tight, letting it cool itself under his skin, burrowing into his fists and dwelling there until his hands grew too heavy with the weight; and the turbulent energy spilled out onto a bully at school who had long earned it, or erupted in an altercation with one of his brothers, a brawl that had begun as a playful fist fight and tousled hair.
Lingering on it a second too long will shake the heavy, suffocating lump that has lived in his throat the last month loose.
He moves on from the thought quickly.
The sound in his dream was abrasive. A high pitched screech, like fingernails on a chalkboard that made the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand straight up.
Now, there would be no sweeter sound than crumbling enamel, the prick's coffee-stained teeth under the heel of his boots on the tacky bathroom floor.
Instead, he settles for this.
The deep dip of his bent arm, the snarl of his teeth and his breath hot against the man’s neck as he growls out his malicious promise; to rip him limb from limb, to violently dissect him if he comes anywhere near her, his friend or her son again. Spits it viciously, right into his ear so there is no mistake.
She’d let him off the leash.
This time, there was no hesitation. She didn’t dismiss or deflect, didn’t plant her feet firmly on the familiar ground of stubborn pride. There were no utterances of ‘I can handle it on my own’ or ‘I knew you’d try to protect me’. She didn’t place her body between his fury and a man who by all accounts, deserved to feel the brunt of it, without a second thought.
She had summoned him. Fired off a hurried text message that he responded to like it had been a high-pitched, barrier breaking dog whistle that only he could hear, reverberating down the winding marble halls.
There had been details of the man’s appearance. His height, hair and weight outlined inside the same dull gray bubble, but he didn’t require it — Elliot already had that face memorized and his entire professional history in a zip file sitting in his email — he’d studied the lines of Mueller Hayes face, and his missteps and bad decisions while Olivia was in the shower that morning, washing away the saliva from her between her legs, wetness created from his proficient tongue and the flat pad of his thumb, circling gentle pressure on her clit. His neglected cock heavy as he caught glimpses of her in the mirror, looking up from his phone briefly but ultimately denying himself for the greater good.
The verbose description she provides of his jacket and shoes seems absorbed almost by osmosis, as Elliot’s eyes are pulled like a magnet to only three words.
I need you.
He responds quickly, it’s reflexive.
Single syllables on a screen which carry the same urgency as if Olivia were standing before him, barking commands and moving her hands in authoritative directives, telling him to sit, stay or beg. His feet are already in motion, fingers fumbling over sweaty tempered glass as he sends a hurried, misspelled reply.
He arrives quickly, too quickly really to pretend he’d been anywhere else — not on the other side of town, where he really should be. Keeping a healthy distance to maintain the facade. Instead he’s here, behind the pillars of the courthouse catching a whiff of second-hand smoke, vexatiously exhaled by a man in an oversized suit, standing upwind of him.
He takes the steps inside two at a time, flashing his badge at security to skip the long, winding snake-like line of people emptying their pockets and placing their handbags in small white trays to pass through metal detectors.
He moves fast.
Through hallways and elevators, he eyes any man that stands at 5’11” and sports an enviously thick head of brown hair. In his search, he grabs more than one by the arm mistakenly, mumbling half-hearted apologies when he spins them around to find the wrong face staring back at him with concern. Leaving them confused and frozen as he hurries down the hallway, his boots screeching on the floor.
He loses track of time though he feels like it’s barely passing, maybe one minute, maybe seven, lurking the halls and focusing his predatory glare on the backs of strangers' heads.
Then, he sees it, sees him, that brown suede jacket and the unmistakable thick head of wavy hair, his easy swagger and his wide gait casually slinking into a bathroom across from a closed court door.
He waits, assesses, letting a few perfunctory seconds tick by before he follows, pushing his palm against the heavy door until it opens and he walks through the frame.
He has him now. Alone.
Mirroring his casual amble, Elliot moves across the room, celebrating with a carefree whistle, and a low hum as he lines himself up in front of the porcelain of the urinal.
He unzips his jeans, tries to relax enough to piss, relieves himself as he clears his throat, his tone casual but his message loaded. As he introduces himself, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, suppressed rage and pumping adrenaline underneath the detached deadpan tone of his voice.
“You might not know me, but I know you,”
It all happens quickly. Tense words becoming hands gripping that caramel suede, his bent elbow digging into the man’s spine.
It’s hard to hold back, to bare his teeth rather than sink them in, to fight off the territorial impulses that used to end at a terse word or a grab of the collar. Those scuffles and punches seem so tame now upon studious reflection, compared to the savage instincts that circled now, a blood lust and desire to go in for the kill, to fight to the death, now that he had shared her bed, now he felt as though he belonged to her, like she owned him now.
His fingers had run over the shallow dimple in her leg, right above her knee, as he’d parted her legs, his hands had gripped the hard bones of her hips, holding them tightly as she perched above him, riding his face until he made her cum until she cried, his lips had moved along the tiny, fine white scar on her neck, sucking pink and purple hues over the broken white dashes, signing his name on the line and pledging himself to her.
He knew all of her now, the way he’d wanted to since the beginning. Since they stood in the pouring rain, baseball caps soaked through, NYPD issued wet cotton sitting slick against their foreheads in an impromptu baptism, since the splintered edges of their desks sat pushed together like bookends.
It awakened something in him, knowing her body. It stirred an instinctual drive that he had locked in a cage a decade prior, feelings that would hiss, burn, and on occasion explode with untamed ferocity, like a feral dog breaking loose off a metal chain, past the bounds of any reasonable and rational reaction of a man defending his partner.
He’d known then, for years he’d known, but he’d fought it off. Pushed it down and down and down; till there was no deeper left for it to sink, heeding the sagacious advice of his Priest, and the standard penance handed down for coveting a woman that wasn’t your wife. Atonement in the form of repeated prayers that rapidly multiplied, reaching their zenith when she had become all buoyant breasts and bangs.
He can fight this off too, can obey her — those unwritten rules he knows are in place — but still manage to get a few hard jabs in, his closed fist pummelling into suede, thumping repeatedly into soft tissue until he misses, his knuckles connecting with tile, leaving his skin smarting, and the weathered man against the wall winded and gasping for air.
With a gulp, and a deep wounded grunt, Elliot releases him with a hard shove, leaving him rattled and gasping, but warned.
Stay away.
He doesn’t need praise, not a pat on the head or words of thanks, that wasn’t what drove him. It was enough for her to know, just to feel it, how far he would go for her. With a click of her fingers or a single word command he’d be there, fierce and ready, offer up his meaty sinew and his teeth and his heart on a silver platter if that’s what she needed.
The door creaks shut behind him and he steps back into the hallway. His steeled eyes as hard as his fists, that remain curled, tight and angry at his sides, knuckles red and raw. His nails biting into the flesh of his hand, the pressure of them leaving marks behind but still he keeps them clenched, the adrenaline rushing through him making it impossible to unfurl them.
Rounding the corner fast, in just a few strides he keeps his shoulders down, puffing out breaths he tries in vain to steady.
She’s there, waiting. Leaning with her shoulder pressed to the wall, her posture casual but the tension she’s feeling is evident in her jaw, and her furrowed brow.
For a split second, he panics. Worried the look on her face might be regret — regret in calling him. That her mind has wandered down the road of him having taken things too far, to a body with a fading pulse left on the bathroom floor, bracing herself for the heavy static of a security guard’s radio to sound and crime scene tape to be erected around the second-floor bathroom.
As he walks toward her, his steps remain even and quick, so purposeful they practically swallow the ground. His head stays low until he’s close, lifting it to greet her at the last possible moment.
Olivia’s eyes drop instantly, drawn to his clenched fists, tight and trembling with adrenaline. To the abrasions lining his knuckles and to the fresh, cherry-red, wet smear he hadn’t even noticed.
“Liv”
When he says her name it’s much louder than necessary, drowning out the low drum of the other conversations in the hallway, the strategic gameplay and jargon of lawyers and the clack of heels whose price he would guffaw at.
She opens her mouth to speak, her concern obvious, to him at least, the man who knows her so well.
“El,”
Pausing, her eyes crinkling as they narrow, fixed on that smeared blood on his fist, peeking out from the sleeves of his jacket. Her voice is soft. Much softer than his had been, a whisper barely audible despite the echo of the hall.
It doesn’t seem like enough, but she says it anyway.
“Thank you.”
He nods in acknowledgement, his shoulder lightly bumping into hers as he steps a little closer, then brushes by, to take up the space in front of her. He mirrors her stance, his own side now pressed to the wall.
Exhaling, her body relaxes with him there, her rigid spine collapsing, just a little, enough to feel comfortable.
It had always been like this. In his presence, whatever she was carrying on her shoulders was suddenly cut in half, sliced right down the middle and the other half of whatever had been plaguing her resting upon the broad expanse of his.
Instinctively, she reaches for his hand, forgetting for a minute the state of it, until her thumb runs over the rough, raw line of broken skin across his knuckles.
It stings, sufficient enough for him to notice now. It's sharp, but he doesn’t bat an eye.
“Are you—”
He’s almost too quick to answer, eager to alleviate her worry, to ease the stress that had been evident on her face since the second he’d locked eyes on her.
“I’m fine, Liv.”
She wants to thank him again, say it louder, say it intimately, slide in close and whisper it in his ear, but no words would be able to express it, the immense relief she feels, the gratitude.
He’d wave it off, tell her not to worry about it, emphatically assert in that gravelled tone of his that this is what a man does for his woman — dismissing it entirely like it wasn’t worthy of her praise, as though he wasn’t standing here with his skin bruised and throbbing, all simply because she’d asked him to come.
Looking back down at his hands, her thumbs curl more tightly around his fingers. She wants to raise his hands to her mouth, run messy wet lips over the split skin and ease the racing pulse she can feel under her fingertips, still pressed there.
But there are eyes, judgemental ones cast over thick-rimmed black glasses, that side-eye them, reminding her where they were, of who they are. It’s not the wrong moment, to take his hand in hers, to press her lips to his face, just the wrong place.
“Walk with me?”
She doesn’t wait for a response, just issues the command, disguised as a question and turns on her heel.
He follows behind.
Outside the air is crisp. The buoyant, fluffy white clouds that had been present all week now stretched across the sky, in long fading streaks, a slate like grey that always seemed to precipitate rain in the city.
They’d walked back through security, his hand grazing the small of her back once he’d caught up with her, having initially trailed behind. She’d felt it there, sliding over the brushed wool, half-focused on the warmth of his hand and a passing thought to whether the blood had dried on his fingers, or if he was leaving behind faint smears of red on her coat, a trail that would reveal just how low his hand had dipped as they stood alone, side by side in the elevator.
They walked down Greenwich, 6th then Canal, and straight past the coffee shop he’d mentioned a block earlier.
“Best coffee I’ve had,” he’d said while pointing at the smudged window, stopping short of mentioning the coffee he’d grown accustomed to and its origins.
A wise decision.
Olivia was still refusing to use the espresso machine at his apartment. On principle he suspected, the same reason she’d switched their reservation last week from the new Italian bistro in his neighborhood that the impossible to please food critic in the Post was raving about, for a noisy and crowded hibachi restaurant where the chef threw food at their faces, half of which ended up down his open collar. But she remained resolute, quietly committed to boycotting Italy and all of its exports.
She’d slipped her arm through his, nudged him along, and they’d continued on.
They pass a woman talking loudly, balancing her cell phone between her ear and her shoulder, pushing a stroller — a pair of little blue shoes poking out from inside — while herding a small gaggle of older children like ducklings down the street. Their small voices fade as they turn the corner.
He doesn’t ask Olivia where they’re going. He’s not sure if she knows, her stride was determined, faster than a leisurely stroll, but they had changed course several times already, her eyes scanning the street while he lamented on the star dishes at the eateries they passed, longingly looking in the windows then back at her, hoping something looked good to her soon.
When they hit the next block her pace drops, but they continue on.
There’s a black iron fence on one side of the street with spade-like pointed peaks. Behind it, a small green garden, slightly unkempt, and a path, leading up to a stone church, that towers over them both, casting a shadow onto the street below. Elliot looks at her, puzzled, but she slips her arm away, stepping closer to the space where the gate opens, slinking through, pausing there to wait for him to follow.
He doesn’t understand. She’s noticed the caution tape, they both have, sunshine yellow shiny plastic erected across the garden gate, not department issue but more likely from a Halloween store. Regardless, it sent a very clear message.
He stares blankly at her. Their eye contact is only broken by the couple who stroll past, right between them, a woman with copper red hair and the man’s thin salt-and-pepper, hidden under a wool cap which he tips at them both, casting a side eye to the church before he moves on. Elliot pondered purchasing one, but he’s sure Randall’s jibes when he saw the twill on his otherwise bare head wouldn’t be worth the warmth. Then again, they could use some levity these days, a heavy pull sitting over the entire family, but through the grief she’d held him steady.
He doesn’t ask her why they’re stopped here, but steps across the sidewalk, over the deep fractures cracks in the cement and into the plume of old spice that the man who had walked by had left in his wake.
Once he’s close enough, he wraps an arm around her, snakes it around the small of her back, pulling her in with the intention of kissing her, just because he can, because they are far enough away from the part of town they had to be wary of public displays. It wasn’t that they weren’t certain, that their caution in revealing their relationship should be interpreted as any shred of doubt, but rather the desire to keep something theirs, this sacred little thing that would be revealed to the world soon enough but for now existed in the bubble.
She feels the stubbled hairs above his lip against her, but she tilts her head away, instead bringing her mouth to his ear.
Gently, she murmurs something into it, words for lovers only that make his hairs stand on end, that makes his cock twitch in his jeans, right there on the street.
He struggles to match her pace, as he feels her tug on his hand, swiftly pulling him along behind her, as she begins to walk towards the church.
The door was unlocked, a handwritten hasty sign tacked to it about the building being closed for repairs, reopening Sunday the following week, but Olivia had pushed her way through, leaving him no choice but to follow.
Despite her words in his ear and her outstretched hands on his chest, Elliot doesn’t fully comprehend what’s happening until his back hits the limestone pillar just inside the church door.
He’d said her name, every single syllable of it, swirled it around in his mouth and chewed on it, drawing it out in hopes of her responding, giving him an explanation, something to ease his hesitancy.
Olivia’s long pointed nails rake against the back of his neck, pulling him into her, kissing him as she grips him fiercely.
She makes the sweetest sound, somewhere between a sigh and a hum, and breathes it into his mouth while her tongue seeks his. Her weight pushes him back, allowing for some friction, as much as is physically possible through the various layers of clothing they each have on, the thick winter coats that had become necessary recently as the temperature in the city sank, a cold front coming in from the west.
She grinds against him, rutting leisurely, her soft thighs parted, the thick pillar of his sandwiched between. Lingering for just a moment, her teeth sink into her lower lip as she pulls back, briefly surveying the church in all its emptiness before she casts her eyes to the altar.
Hands reaching inside his coat, she fists the soft fabric of his shirt in her hands, smiling through another quick kiss, encouraging him with that same firm grip to follow her further inside the church.
The space inside is small, more confined than the exterior portrays, though had every seat been occupied, and an audience present as she pressed her pelvis into his against the cool stone, he is certain it wouldn’t feel like a modest congregation.
The pews that line the aisle are coated with thick, wet varnish that permeates the air, replacing the usual one of pungent perfume blotted on by the well dressed women who occupied the space, hands crossed and in their Sunday best.
But it’s just them there now, absolute silence and not a soul in sight.
Up two steps, and three more forward across the red low-pile carpet, one patch worn further down than the rest, and they’re behind the altar. Looking past him, Olivia turns her attention toward the nave, eyes on the door they had come through, it’s a cursory glance really, because her mind is already made up, had been since she had seen the blood on his knuckles, since she had felt her blood rush and her heartbeat hammering inside the depths of her quaking cunt.
Her release won’t be satisfied, not here. She won’t throw his body down on the altar, strip down so she was as naked as she came while she rides him mercilessly, let his cock slide in and out of her, thrust and explode till her cunt quivers and gushes, it’s just too much to presume to get away with here, but fuck she wants him.
She wants to taste him, thank him, erase a little of each of their pain and have it all feel better, even if it’s fleeting, a band-aid for the bullet wounds that were the genesis of their floundering.
As Elliot’s spine presses against the thick edge of the altar, her hand moves between his legs, cupping him through his jeans, and instantly he is caught between the instincts. The one to gently move her hand away, let good sense and air fill his lungs and tell her they can’t, not here, that he’ll make it up to her back at her place, and the instinct to hold her hand there, push it firmly into him as hard as he could, and thrust himself into it.
Even with the denim still buttoned, his throbbing cock within the confines of his old jeans, it is the most underdressed he’d ever been in a church, usually persuaded by the women in his life to pick out one of the five dress shirts in his rotation, and maybe don a tie.
By the time her fingers undo the button on his jeans, and her nails drag along the stiff silver zip, there are eager beads of moisture on his tip. His body filled with anticipatory vibration, at her hand wrapping around him, yet he can’t help but hesitate, his awareness at where they are, the trajectory they’re on growing as fast as his arousal.
“Liv,”
He mumbles, trying, genuinely, to gather words, but it all seems to be getting lost in the way she is touching him, her lips and teeth nipping at his neck make him forget everything else. His name, his rank, the ability to mirandize and the limited and broken Italian that had taken him years to retain, gone.
“Olivia—”
Her lips are wet on his neck, muffling her response.
It's unclear exactly what this is about. It could be nothing, as simple as a thank you that she didn’t owe him, or maybe something messier, something heavy.
She’d read the email this morning.
The one with the date and address, and perfunctory unsentimental words from the department. telling anyone who wished to pay their respects that the service would be starting at eleven. The email with a picture of Maria, eager eyed and with a wide, stretched smile above the phone numbers to the department shrink.
It might explain her capriciousness, the stress and the grief and the guilt, the tangled mess of it all too dense to begin to untangle. He knows better than to bring it up, if she wanted to talk about it, she would.
He didn’t like talking about it either.
The last month had passed in a blur, of too many beers after dinner, sixty minute appointments in cold offices and of frenzied fucking and slow lovemaking. Whatever it took to get him through, until his body gave out and he could drop his stoic defences, walls that would only crumble when his body was at rest. Involuntary, moist puddles on his pillow that would dry by morning.
She never spoke about it, but was just there, every night she could be, holding him through it.
As she lowers herself to her knees, she feels the small, oval outline that is tucked deep into the well of his pocket, the faint ridges of the medallion that Joey had been wearing when he passed.
Elliot had carried it with him every day since.
She lingers for a moment, but then continues, her hands moving away. Let them pretend, rewrite what being in a church meant for them lately. Replace the memory of the heady weight with lightness and lust, and the beginnings of something rather than solemn, momentous loss.
It’s what they both need.
Slowly, Olivia lowers his briefs just enough to be able to free him. Running her thumb over him, she wipes the moisture on his tip away with a gentle swipe, raising it to her mouth and dipping it inside her parted lips, deep enough to be able to suck the salty droplets away, swallowing hard with a gulp.
Good God.
He attempts to focus, but everything seems so far away now, so secondary and unimportant, this, her, right here on her knees at his feet is the only thing that matters.
“What if —” he begins, trying in vain to be reasonable, logical, at least for a moment.
Far from the midnight hour, but she was going to take him there.
Humming dismissively, she wraps her hand around him, slowly stroking him as he wrestles with his moral quagmire.
She’d never been religious. If belief were a spectrum, like sexuality, she would say she leaned atheistic, but had definitely been curious, dabbling with the existence of a higher being throughout her four years at Siena.
The closest she’d come to a relationship with God were the nights she’d spent fantasising about biting into the cross on Elliot’s arm, of feeling the cool silver cross on the delicate chain that hung from his neck, swaying into her face, tapping against her teeth as she gave thanks for her active imagination and wandering mind.
Thank God indeed.
Thank God they had abstained.
Thank God that when she finally had him, she felt him, and didn’t have to watch as he rolled a condom over himself that he’d bought from the machine in the men’s room with loose change, those thick veins and ridges obscured by the jaundice yellow latex of a studded Rough Rider, that stretched over his swollen head.
He groans, stutters.
“What if, someone comes?”
She avoids the obvious, bawdy joke.
They were well concealed here, only Elliot’s frame in view, hers completely obscured by the altar's height. Should anyone enter, it would appear he was here alone, a solitary man, albeit slightly disheveled, at the foot of the crucifix, experiencing some kind of crisis of faith, pleading with the Lord for a sign.
She looks up at him, both knees bent in genuflection and a shaft of soft light filtering through the stained glass windows from outside, and a subtle smile gracing her face.
“Tell them I’m praying,”
And with that, she focuses her attention back on him, wrapping her lips around the halo of his cock. The waiting heat of her mouth warm and slick, she takes him in.
Cold hands on his hip, her fingers lightly brush the hairs on his upper thigh. Steadying himself, his elbow falls behind him to rest on the altar, he leans back, letting the ceremonial table support him, as she begins to move up and down the length of his cock slowly.
The stoic, granite faced nuns at his childhood parish would have called it sin. Accuse him of desecrating something holy, but this was holy. Them together like this, after so much lost time. They would quote scripture, some dusty bible passage at him which referenced sins of the flesh and carnal desire, their angry faces scowling behind their stiff habits, as they told him all about where this would send him.
Maybe they were right, but would it really be hell if she were there burning alongside him.
High on the wall there hangs a large crucifix, ornate and heavy, that hovers over the altar, usually bearing witness to weekly hymns, On Eagles Wings, sung passionately although wildly off key.
Today, it’s just them, the only sounds carrying through the church at present Olivia’s light hums, the rumbles vibrating against him as she rolls her tongue.
As she alternates between taking him into the shallows of her mouth, and letting him sink into the depths of her throat, he makes eye contact with Christ, quickly averting his eyes when she takes him so deep that she begins to choke and he can swear the stone statue winks at him.
He curses under his breath in response, and though they’re no longer locking eyes he feels the deities gaze on him still.
If it was wrong, truly wrong, he decided, the ink black eyes tattooed on his arm would burn through his skin, and right now, the only thing he could feel was her tongue, soft and slick as she dragged it back over his tip.
He grunts. A deep, unintentional, hearty grunt, that she replies to with rhythmic sucks, turning her hand around his girth in a circular twist, her lips kissing her own fist as she bobs her head and gargles.
It’s loud, messy and uninhibited. Not a polite gentle suck, but a messy, dripping, stentorian slurp, the kind of noise you only make in a locked bedroom, behind a thick door, in an empty house, of squelching saliva and his cock popping loudly in and out of her open mouth.
It’s never been like this.
“Oh — fuck. Jesus Christ”
Her soulful sucks make him dizzy, make his head spin like he’s ridden the seaglass carousel for an hour, watching as iridescent fish drift by, his legs weak when he disembarks.
Soon, his sounds accompany hers. Angelic and appreciative hums that shoot straight to her core making her throb. Guttural groans that start in his throat and fall down to his chest, to the pit of his stomach and build a hot pressure, one that winds tightly inside her, pulsating and screaming for attention.
He’d make those same sounds in bed, inside her, that mouth of his dropping to her ear, whispering when they had to, soft and sweet, loudly exclaiming when circumstance allowed, as she lay bare under him, all his cumbersome muscle.
Her tongue runs along every delicious vein, swirls over his head and sucks, a sweet saltiness spreading over her tongue, just a few droplets but enough to really taste him.
It’s not necessary for him to tell her when he’s about to come, she feels his body tense and his balls tighten, his hand sink into her hair and spread over her scalp. There’s a hearty shake in his thighs and a churning gargle of pleasure in his throat. He pulls back before he pushes himself deeper into her mouth, burying himself there, his wet and warm sanctuary, thrusting his hips forward enough to satisfy the urge but not so hard, so forceful, that it sends tears streaming down her face.
Looking down, he focuses intently on her face, her closer eyes and mouth open, himself disappearing inside her parted lips and reappearing glistening
“Oh fuck, look at you,”
His voice is raspy, breaking like it’s wearing thin, struggling to hold on, enduring but desperate, gluttonous, but desperate for gratification.
Olivia moans, she moans, letting him sink in, sliding himself deep into her mouth.
That moan, that’s the end of him.
The sounds he makes are disjointed, a garbled mess of hollow noise, pleasure rushing through him, seemingly endless as his release fills her mouth and runs down her throat.
One hand knotted in her hair, he shakes, his hips continuing to buck idly, until she slowly eases him from her mouth, lips trailing over him messily as they part.
Olivia can taste the notes of him, her tongue slicked with saltiness as she swallows, thirsty and possessing the eagerness of a sinner drinking sacramental wine promised to heal.
Raising herself to her feet, her hands graze the contours of the medallion again, Saint Christopher lightly jangling in Elliot’s pocket as he tucks his cock away and zips himself up.
They pass a flickering candle. The last one alight behind rows of red glass encased votives, its delicate flame still burning despite all the others having been snuffed out.
They don't kneel, or stop to press their palms together, content to leave without a prayer, at least not the kind of praise or devotion that was ritually practiced within these walls.
Almost at the door, she hears his footsteps behind her stop.
“Liv, wait”
His voice is low, appropriate and pleasant, and the kind she expects he uses when he attends Sunday mass with his mother, the diametric opposite to the pleasurable growls and groans he had been emitting moments ago, as he emptied himself into her mouth.
Catching her arm quickly, he holds her firm, stopping her movements as she steps closer toward the door.
Once she is steady, her feet planted still, he loosens his grip. The same hand that had caught her arm now moving toward the wall at their left, and the small tarnished basin affixed to the brick wall.
Swiftly, Elliot dips his fingers into the font.
When he withdraws them they glisten. His fingertips now wet, anointed with holy water.
She expects him to bless himself. To raise his hand, and to make the sign of the cross over his chest in an effort to repent, leave damp fingerprints on the shoulders of his shirt and the deep lines on his forehead.
Instead, he turns his hand to her. His thumb, coated in moisture from the font, drags slowly across her bottom lip. Silently, he wipes the corner of her mouth, removing the traces of himself from her skin, then, presses his lips there, back to that same place.