She shouldn’ be here.

Jac knew better'an anyone else that the sanctuary was off limits after hours. It wasn' like before, when the Sanctuary meant what it was: a place for refuge; of safety.

It had been a long time now since it meant anything like that, but she couldn' stop herself from comin' down and sittin' between the pews, lookin' up at the stained glass of her heavenly father's story.

‘Specially when her earthly father had ‘nough drink to poison a rattler.

It was the only place he wouldn' go when he was drunk.

Now, she didn' know if that was outta guilt or divine intervention but Jac liked to think no matter what it was, that she was safe here. Safe from her papa, from the town, from all the whispers and sympathetic eyes.

She was a pity project and she knew it. Hated that they all knew it too.

It didn' matter, not anymore. Soon she would have enough money to leave this town, to go further south, leave Georgia even and find a small little slice of heaven on the beaches of Florida. People thought it improper, a girl like her workin' so much when she had a father to take care of her but she wasn' ‘bout to let herself be behold'n to him-not any man.

One more month.

A creak came from behind her head where it rested on the softly worn-in wood of the pews.

It was heavy, a drawn out sound like the grindin' of a monster's bones, groaning with somethin' akin to pleasure at the suckin' marrow of somethin' far smaller and sweeter. Similar, she imagined, to that of the giant in the sky who claimed to smell the blood of men.

It was late, far too late for the congregation and it sure as shit wasn't her father-she was confident, at least, for a while still. He'd been too fumblin' and too drunk to figure out the chair under the door, to have moved both it and the dresser.

She shivered at that, at the idea that there was somethin' looming in the darkness waiting to eat her up, just a few steps away that she didn't know how to prepare for.

The chapel door opened up slowly, skimmin' across the deep wooden grooves created by years of openin' and closin'. Jac's body slunk down the pew, fear and somethin' else minglin' together to make a heady cocktail of explosive color that clutched at her throat with one hand and held her spine in the other.

It lapped at her toes, made them curl in her boots and her nipples tightened. A painful sign of her sinful, treacherous body. It wasn't her fault, she nearly sobbed. It wasn't her fault that fear felt like liquid between her hip bones and ran down to her toes.

It always had.

A draft swept through the hall, makin' the candles flicker, snappin' the life outta some of ‘em while others grew, their burn becomin' little fountains of fire. Rumors swirled through her head, soft whispers of the burning man come to raze all the churches in the south, leaving them nothing but ash and desecration.

Jac pushed the thoughts aside with a rough shove and let her body fall to the floor, quiet as a mouse. She was well practiced in the art of moving quietly, never looking at another person for too long. Jac knew how to make herself as small as a thimble when she needed, nothin but a ping in the silence. One you mighta thought was just your imagination.

She wasn' so lucky tonight.

Her skirts tangled in her legs, makin' her fumble. The noise of her sticky palms skidded ‘cross the weather treated floorboards. Five months ago they'd been bare. Five months ago she'd have had splinters through her palms and pain she could bite back.

Pain wouldn'ave made a sound, not from her.

Her body laid itself out flat as far as she could get it, but she was endowed like her mama, which meant she had more softness than sleekness and that didn' allow for her to crawl under the pews as she had hoped.

She'd done it once, a few summers ago, tryna catch one of the little ones running ‘bout and she'd been amazed at the space underneath that allowed the child to hide just perfectly without capture.

But she was not a child, not anymore and could feel every thirty years of it in her bones. Felt that she was ‘bout to be caught if she didn' think of somethin' soon.

Footsteps ricocheted off the walls and maybe they weren't meant to be heavy thuddin' but they sounded like thunder rollin' ‘cross the ceiling, cracklin' high in the sky. She shimmied herself along the floor and tried to breathe through a half-open mouth.

She got as far as the end of the pew ‘fore her dress was caught.

Her heart beat pounded in her chest, dipped down to her toes and caught back up again on its way through her body. It settled somewhere stuck into her throat. When she turned to look over her shoulder, it was with the trepidation of a frightened kitten left in the rain, shakin' and fumblin' to find a well worn dress shoe laying across the ends of Jac's skirts.

Her eyes followed the long leg that shoe belonged to and then followed some'ore, ‘cause it wasn't just the man's legs that were long, but his arms too, and his torso, which was taller'an a bean pole. Her eyes lingered on the veins in his hands, the way they shifted as he did, moving under his skin like snakes underwater.

He held that hand out to her, fingers long, stretched wide as if he meant to pull her up. But he was still stepping on her dress, a dark blue number with white flower silhouettes and delicate little brass buttons that flickered with the candlelight. And she was still on her hands and knees, her ass to his view-not that he minded.

In fact, he thought, she looked mighty delicious like this, all hands and knees, with a pretty flush across her cinnamon sprinkled cheeks. Her curls draped ‘cross her shoulders. He thought ‘bout how he might have spared a few dozen churches if they'd have given him such a welcomin'.

She turned wide, soft hazel eyes on him, the smell of something else under her fear, something tantalizing. It smelled like coconut cream frosting, decadent and delicate, under the sharp, bitter taste of spice. Fear and desire smelled good on her; good like berry cheesecake, tart and sweet, meltin' in the back of his mouth ‘til he had to grit his teeth to keep a moan from escapin' or his eyes rollin' in the back of his head.

He thought it might be a blessin' to hear such noises comin' from her mouth, to see her eyes flutterin' in pleasure-his thoughts felt wild at her scent, at the look of her, at the way she was down on the floor and he was so tall above her.

"Whatcha doin' here, little mouse? A little late for you to be out and about, ain't it?"

He knew she might not like to be referred to as such, but she looked it. Small, skittish, like she could bite yah at any minute or run away quicker'n you'd be able to catch her but she didn'. Instead she stared at him, looked ‘im up and down and damn if it didn' make him a little hard at the way her jaw clenched tight; like she was gearin' up for a fight.

Maybe not a mouse then.

A spitfire.

He hadn't had much for company in the many years since he'd started his business, his nightly routines. Now, most churches emptied at night, the congregation not willin' to attempt to save ‘em anymore. Rumors ‘bout the burnin' man, who would come and wash away your church in an ocean of fire, had spread far and wide and he knew he'd done his job well.

The Devil was very pleased with his work.

Yes, it was very rare he'd see someone anymore, not this late an hour. Any other time, he'd've lit the church ablaze anyway, but this time, in this church, with the spitfire on her hands and knees? There was never more of a time he wished he could skip a town. Wished he might be able to turn his pockets out and lift his hands, smirk at the ready and say, "Sorry, Mr. Devil-Man, ain't got nothin' for yah today."

She trembled; trembled like a tumbleweed carried on the wind in a town filled with ghosts. A town like this one where the doors were locked and the curtains were drawn, but no one seemed to be home.

A dead town.

No morals to be found anywhere in towns like these-no standin'.

"Who are you?" She asked, voice soft as his held rasp, a little low for most girls, like she mighta spent her time in old dodgy bars with too much smoke.

Lookin' at her, he knew that wasn' true though.

"Well, now I asked you a question first, darlin'. Don' you think it's mighty impolite to ask another and leave me hangin'?" He wiggled his fingers at her again, wishin' she'd take them so he could see if her hand felt as soft as it fuckin' looked, as soft as the skin of her cheek seemed.

She didn', just stared up at him with a sneer, or what mighta been one if he couldn' see the shakin' of her shoulders just as well as he could see the way her throat gulped.

He smirked down at her. Let her see all the things he wished he could do to her, and kicked his brow up like he might be able to change her mind on the whole not touchin' ‘im business.

To Jac, his voice was like iron wrought gates closin' in at night, gratin' against the rubble. The smile, or well, she guessed it was more of a smirk bordered on indecent. It was wide, grand in the way smiles aren't made anymore, with chandelier lines that pulled into the corner of his cheeks. Shinin' eyes zoned in on her like she wasn' on the dusty floor of a church but rather sprawled across somethin' more intimate, maybe a little less dressed.

She couldn' help the shudder that ran straight through her, but she could control her breathin'-well, for the most part-and she could control the fence holdin' up her words.

"This is my home," she said, and it was true, if home was where you were supposed to feel safest.

If it was where you were supposed to get the most rest.

"Church?" His laugh was too present, felt to her like a stab to the throat. She clutched at the lance of pain that centered there, a rock formin'.

"Yes," she snapped.

So what if this was her home, she thought, she ain't got nothin' to be ashamed of. It was a pretty church, bright white outside, decorative doors and window stains that beamed through the whole buildin' when the sun hit it. A highly respected place, as it should be to her thinkin'. In other towns it was, and maybe this wasn' always a holy place but it was respectable ‘nough even if her father didn' know how to run it so.

"And is the big ol' man in the sky yo' daddy?" He was teasin' her now, he knew, just like he knew he shouldn' but he couldn' help himself when she was lookin' up at him with those wide, angry puppy dog eyes.

"My heavenly father?" she asked. He found it sorta awe-inspirin' how she looked as if she might sneeze down at him from her place on the floor, what with the way she was lookin' at him. Such disdain it felt like fire-kinda like his fire, the kind that burned from the Devil and called Hell its home. "Yes, but my daddy's also the preacher here. If you know what's good for you, you'll make your way."

"Is he now?"

"He is." Jac made a move to stand, realizin' her skirts were still twisted up, caught under his foot, sendin' him a glare that mighta burned the skin off a lesser man. If he'd been alive anymore, he mighta felt it down to his core. Instead, he felt himself get harder'n he already was.

He bowed his head, obviously amused as he made a show of pullin' his boot off her skirt and steppin' back, adjustin' his shirt cuffs, rollin' ‘em up.

Her eyes tracked over his movements, the way his fingers made easy work of his sleeves. He drug the movements out, his head tippin' to the side as he watched her watch him in rapturous fascination. His cough, a pointed, scaldin' sound that said he ain't never found better entertainment brought a stain to her chest, blossomin' up her neck and cheeks.

Well, fine, Jac sniffed. He could be amused all he liked, damn him and she didn' even feel bad ‘bout thinkin' it in the Lord's house.

"Now I answered your question, sir-who are you?"

"Well, if you'd've asked me two seconds ago I mighta given you a different answer there, pretty darlin' but now you're askin' a man that's seen an angel." He pulled his hat off his head, placed it to his chest, and bent at the waist, his green eyes glitterin' as he held his free hand out to her. She hesitated, but took it nevertheless. She thought she might at the very least get on even ground with the man, if he wasn' here to kill her as she'd feared. Electric heat coursed through her fingertips, zinged her ‘till she felt it in her toes as he spoke, low and teasin', "I might have'ta amend my business. Go another road, as it were."

Her blush was a fire engine red, sirens wailin' in her head, fillin' it with so much cotton she was a little light headed. She didn' know whether or not she wanted to giggle or snort, but it bubbled up inside her anyway, tryin'a force its way out.

"Your original answer will do, sir."

He bit his lip at that, full, at the way her words came out breathy and her chest rose and fell as if she'd been runnin' from one end of the street to the next. He made a sound Jac had only thought about in her dreams late at night when she was alone and she knew her father was too deep into drunken sleep that no little noises she made would make a difference to ‘im. The sound reverberated off the empty pews and caught up in the rafters, rainin' back down on them in soft tones that caught in her own throat.

"Makes me feel like a real man when you call me Sir."

"Ain't you?" She laughed, tried to pretend it meant nothin' the way he was lookin' at her, but she could barely pull the string of words together let alone know if they were proper or kind.

The blush crept down her chest, heatin' her skin in ways she knew was sinful, but how delicious it felt when he looked at her with his dark brown hair curlin' ‘round his ears and his tongue stuck in the hollow of his cheek.

"Ain't I?" he asked, not truly confused by any stretch of the imagination, but askin' her to repeat herself, to explain her meaning just cause he wanted to hear her voice again. His gaze roamed all over every available inch of her; where her belly rounded and her thighs fought each other for space. He could tell she might fit right at his shoulders if he pulled her real close.

"A real man?"

"You askin'?" he laughed, but this time it was a soft, grazing sound, something that crawled up her back and nestled in the crook of her shoulder, croonin' in her ear, "I'm a sinner, baby." There were his eyes, hookin' straight in to her throat, at the way she couldn' breathe anymore. "Bet you ain't never been this close to a sinner man, huh?"

"All men are sinners," Jac shrugged, or maybe it was a sway, a swoon, like the girls in movies did. "S'what daddy says, anyway. What our heavenly father knows, too."

"That right?" He licked his lips.

He thought he might not have needed to even touch her to taste her, she was meltin' so hard across the floor, he'd just lick her scent off the pine.

"It is." She said it firmer now and with some sass that spilled straight down his spine. "Ain't that why you come to church? For Salvation?"

He thought ‘bout that. Thought about what he was really doin' when he came here, when he burned everythin' to the ground and left without a trace.

"I thought I was comin' to make amends."

Her eyes lit up, his ribs pressin' tight against his heart, constrictin' em. They lit up like she could hear the admission behind his tongue, the one that always wanted to topple down whenever he thought too hard ‘bout how he'd gotten here to this place.

Not this place, of course, but the other place. The figurative essence of this place. The place where men came and burned their hate into other people's skin and fed themselves off the ashes of their ruin.

"And now?"

"And now. . ." He shook his head, lip caught between his teeth. He knew he shouldn' say it, but he wanted to. He almost couldn' help himself, so he did in the same way a man like him-a man with nothin' to lose-says everythin' and nothin' all in the same breath.

He looked her in the eye, took a step closer to her and could taste the way her blood jumped, just a little. It made him ravenous, that little hitch in her breath, made him think he might really be feelin' hunger for the first time in a hundred years. "Now I know I was comin' to be Saved."

Jac couldn't breathe.

She couldn't breathe but she knew if she turned away she might die from it. Somehow, she felt that keepin' his gaze was the only thing keepin' her tethered to this earth and she didn't know how or when that had happened, but she thought it might be the closest thing she'd gotten to the devil.

Because somethin' like this, with the way her thighs trembled, and her tummy flipped, the fire in this man's eyes, it couldn't be anythin' Holy.

"I don't think we mean that in the same way." Her voice was barely a whisper when she said it.

She tried to step back, she really did, to look away and avoid the sharp, keen eyes that told her they knew somethin' ‘bout her that she didn' want him to know but there was no way he was goin' to let her get very far, not when he could smell her cunt drippin' the way it was.

"No?" He had to bend to see her clearly, to catch her gaze so she would know he wasn't lookin' anywhere but her as she tried to move away from ‘im. "Don' we?"

"No." She swallowed and the backs of her thighs hit the pew. She nearly tumbled into the seat, gave a little laugh and shook her head, not sure if she was still answering him or instead maybe tryin' to shake him out of her thoughts.

"And why's that?" He came closer, breathed her in, but she leaned back, tryin' to create space between them.

Things were different now though, she could feel his warmth and smell his whisky and smoke. It smelled forbidden, the way she thought a demon might smell, but demons couldn' come on consecrated ground, ‘else she might have worried he truly was the Devil's handyman.

Her voice turned a little husky, like she'd downed a glass of scotch, maybe two, or his favorite, a whisky neat, no frills, just the burn of a good drink.

When she answered him it was a mixture of melting resolve and burning desire for something she ain't never had before. The two clamored up her throat, fighting one another for space, making the words shaky and rough. "You say ‘savin' like you mean somethin' different is all."

"And what do you mean," he asked, standin' over her where she sat down, one hand grippin' her own throat, clutchin' it like she could keep ‘im out. He knew it wasn' damn near as tight as he would ‘ave, as he wanted to but it was tight enough to appease the beast roilin' inside him. He watched her, watched where her free hand held onto the pew so hard her knuckles were white. "What do you mean, when you say Salvation?"

"I mean," she cleared her throat, tryin' to bat away the feeling of slickness between her thighs. "I mean the feelin' of bein' loved on. Of God's grace enterin' you and fillin' you up."

She knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment the words left her lips.

She knew then that he must have been the Devil, damn him, ‘cause the husky sound at the back of his throat made her grip the pew so hard she thought she was gonna get blisters.

His Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed and his jaw ticked. She could hear his teeth grindin' as he placed a hand on either side of her, could'a sworn the wood groaned too but maybe that was just her.

He leaned in so close she could hear his heartbeat, so unlike hers-strong, steady, pulsin' like it knew where it was in the world.

"You like bein'... full, pretty darlin'?"

She knew she should slap him.

She knew he was not speakin' about God's love or the pure white light of the Divine, but she couldn't breathe nothin' in but his scent. He was leanin' his big body down ‘round hers, his shaggy, unkempt hair spillin' ‘cross her cheeks and she thought her heart was gonna burst out her chest. She thought it might rip through her rib cage and run off to the nearest farm house nearly a mile away.

The stranger licked his own lips, as if he was tastin' her naked skin. It was strange that she was desperate to see it again, to watch his tongue flick out, see where he would put it. Strange that she wanted to grip his hair in her fingers and pull him over her until she felt smothered by him; could taste herself on his lips.

He breathed in her arousal through a sharp inhale. It floated on the air, teasin' the back of his throat, coatin' his brain, the part more animal than was ever human, with its sweetness-his pretty little flame with her bright red hair and pink cheeks.

He could smell how badly she wanted him and he didn' even know if she knew it herself. He thought ‘bout kissin' her, leanin' down and grippin' her throat the way his palm burned to, makin' her look him in the eyes before he ravaged her mouth like a starvin' animal.

But he could be kind when he wanted to, so he did her one better.

His knee came up between her legs, legs she hadn't yet realized were on either side of his, not if her sharp gasp at his movement was any indication and he pressed it just hard enough she would feel the friction.

There was nothin' sweeter than the strangled sound of pleasure that left her lips.

Jac's hands flew to his stomach, like she might press him back, maybe she meant to push him away, to push him off of her but the movement made her slip further down the seat.

It made fireworks pop and sizzle across her skin.

Jac had touched herself before. She knew how to give herself pleasure and knew how long it would take before her body would tighten. She even knew how many times she could make herself pant and shake before she couldn' anymore.

What Jac didn't know was that there was bioluminescence runnin' through her veins. She hadn' known the kaleidoscope of color that existed until the moment that her hips shifted-of their own accord mind you.

She knew she never would have done somethin' so wanton or… brazenly delicious. She was not a catholic, but Jac knew the art of self denial and the restriction of worldly pleasures for religious compunction.

None of that would have prepared her for this.

This was a goddamn religious experience. This was what people meant when they said they'd found God. This was heaven on earth.

Her nails dug into his shirt, scratched at the hard, lean muscle there and shuddered at the feel of him. He groaned, her heat so close yet so far away, the linen fabric a barrier that seemed to take on miles of road and mountains of space.

He didn' wanna scare her, not really, though he didn' mind when she tasted of both fear and lust, but he chanced it anyway, curlin' his body over hers where she was cornered at the end of the pew.

He liked her like this, caged under him, nowhere to go.

Fuck, it had been years. A damn near century since he'd felt the call of another person's body but it blazed through him now, as if the dry spell was in preparation for the monsoon he would experience here with her.

His forehead touched hers, and her skin, god her fuckin' skin, was softer than he could ‘ave hoped for. So soft he thought he was meltin' into her.

"Please," she breathed, if one could call it breathin'.

His lips grazed the shell of her ear, his groan bringin' goosebumps across her arms and legs. It sent sparks of lightnin' down her back, made her arch into him with a pained sound of tantalizing anguish.

He was nothin' if not an opportunist.

A gambler.

Ain't that what got him here in the first place?

But all that fire, all that pain was worth it to be here, right now. His lips trailed down her neck. He brushed her hair back, thick calloused fingers grippin' it at the base, right above her spine. The wild motley of curls that spread from the summer heat, even this late at night, or maybe it was early in the mornin' now, she couldn't say.

All she knew was she wanted her skin touchin' his, that she thought she might well and truly have died and gone to some blasphemous place caught between heaven and hell.

She thought she would never let a man hold her like this, tangle his hands in her hair. She would kill ‘em before she let ‘em.

Ain't that what she'd thought so many times when her father had ripped her head back usin' those same curls?

But now she wanted to beg him to pull tighter, to grip harder.

She moved her hips up and he took the invitation to crowd her in further, ‘till she was sittin' on his leg, humpin' him like a bitch in heat.

"Fuck, darlin'. The way you move," he groaned, loud and long. It bounced ‘round the pews, tuckin' in the corners. Secrets that would be kept for years to come, "It's fuckin' heaven right there."

She should be ashamed. Mortified.

There wasn' any room for Jac to feel anythin' but the strong cords of muscle between her thighs and the grip at the forearms of the man draggin' his tongue along the seam of her bodice.

He stared at her, popped those little brass buttons with one hand, his eyes on hers. The whole while Jac had to remind herself to breathe.

Then his tongue touched her skin.

His tongue touched her skin and by God it was like the sun breakin' through the clouds in the middle of July. Like cherry phosphate soda, tiny little bubbles that filled your belly. It wasn' long before his lips were plastering hot, wet kisses down bare breasts.

Jac's eyes crossed. Her gaze raised to the ceilin', took in the intricate design of wood crossin' before she had to close them against the feelin' of sharp pleasure as roughened hands tweaked her nipple.

Her body moved in ways she had thought might have needed to be taught, guided by the hand of her future husband on their wedding night, but this?

My God, this was natural, the feeling of his thumb scrapin' against tender flesh. She looked down between them, saw tanned, soot covered hands leave markin's across her breasts, and gasped.

He stared at her, eyes like fire, true fire not the heated green she'd seen before, or metaphorically speakin' but red, orange-gold flames trapped in the dark ring of his irises. His other hand gripped her thigh squeezing her as if to warn her, to tell her there was nowhere for her to run, not now.

She was trapped between the heat of this man and the wood of her holy house at her back.

She wasn' given enough time to dwell on that particular thought. He dragged her leg further ‘round him, made her hook it over his hips. She had to use both else she might have fallen clear off the other side of the pew.

He let her think that. He watched her hands grip the tops of the worn white wood behind her until her knuckles were shakin.' He liked the way she bent her body back for him. He liked the idea it might even be a little uncomfortable to hold herself up, that she was sacrificin' somethin' small for ‘im.

He liked that the motion made her chest heave and that it gave him enough purchase to rip the belt from its buckle at his hips.

"I haven't-"

"I know," he cut her off.

He could smell her lack of experience, even if he hadn't been able to sense it. Another gift from the Devil. He could tell when someone had been with another before, not because it was inherently evil but because of the guilt.

We are all guilty of something.

Except her.

She had not a trace of the blackberry bramble smell, not the taste, no-she was all sweet strawberries and coconut cream, the kind that's been burned at the top to give it a little color-that was her.

His little spitfire.

Pretty sun kissed skin and red flames for hair, spun gold like the fire he knew she would have been able to see in his eyes. He knew how it felt when his face began to change to suit his Devil's work.

He held onto that thought, to the knowledge he let his mask slip even if just for a moment. It was all he could do to keep his head on straight.

He'd never been aroused like this, rock hard and achin' to slip inside someone he wanted to know more than he knew his own self, not even when he'd been alive.

He'd thought she might push him away for real then, scream into the ether and cry at the sight-a real demon in her own church, come to claw her innocence from her hot little hands.

He had not anticipated how the spiced scent between her legs had strengthened. He let it wash over him like the baptismal waters in the corner pool. Like her arousal would coat his length between her thighs. Like the cleansing hailstorm of his power all concentrated on this one moment standin' on the precipice and ready to crack.

If it were paper it would have burned. Instead, it was singed into the gutter of his mind, the cesspool of dark, carnal thoughts about what they would be like together if they had time on their side and he was still his own man.

He wanted to taste her and fuck her at the same time. Wanted to feel her bleed over his cock and whimper in his mouth until he couldn' feel the burnin' ache inside his stomach that had started the moment he smelled her outside the church doors.

God tests his creatures.

So too does the Devil.

Because there was no way this wasn' a test, no way no higher power put this perfect little lamb of his to slaughter if it wasn' for some greater lesson. Some damning prophecy.

It didn' matter, he realized, not really.

The minute he'd caught a taste of that candy coated cunt in the air, all tart berries and tangy sweetness he had been shackled to this fate.

A fate he would die over and over again, be burned back on that damn pyre that was his first time meeting' the great beyond. He would make more deals with more demons, gamble his soul away over and over, if it meant he could be right here.

It was with that thought that he pulled her head back. She gasped, a vision of flutterin' eyes and parted lips that he claimed with a kiss as he aligned their bodies. He was careful as he pushed her panties aside.

"I'll be slow," he said, his voice like gravel, so low she shivered. So inhuman she thought he might grow a tail and horns. "This time."

"Please-" Jac didn' know if she was thankin' him or beggin' him not to.

Slowly, so fuckin' slowly he rocked his body into hers.

It was too much-not enough-too big-she needed more-it was everything and nothin' she could've imagined. Jac wasn' sure if she'd even known what pleasure was ‘til this moment. When she gripped ‘im, it was with hands that clutched, greedy hands and teeth that dug small little half round moons into his neck that filled with sweat and spit where she licked up his body.

Claimin' in her own way.

Her cries were like hot honey butter on his tongue, so thick and rich it slid down his throat and coated his insides. Every part of his skin that touched her seared like tender flesh to a griddle. He hissed at the burn, watched his fingertips and the way they dimpled her hips, made sure they weren't changin' her color with his fire.

He could feel it, smolderin' inside of him. He wondered if she could feel it too, or if she thought all men were this warm-

He had to stop that thought in its tracks. His chest crushed in, the idea of her with another man. He had to lock that door-tuck it away from all his senses to keep his movements agonizingly controlled as he fully seated himself inside of her. His knees locked tight against the back of the pew, her ass settlin' in his lap.

He was the Devil's right hand, an animal to call and do His bidding, but he would give her this one time of sweetness.

By God, he would try. It was all he could do now. The next time she wouldn' be so lucky. The next time, he would devour her.

Jac had never felt the desire to be naked, not until this moment. But with her buttons undone and her thighs bare, she still somehow felt like she didn' have enough of herself touchin' him. He had too many clothes on. So did she.

She'd never used more than what god had given her to pleasure herself with, which was short arms and stubby fingers that never seemed to do much more than frustrate the hell out of her, so she'd always stuck to closin' her eyes and circlin' her clit.

She couldn' have closed her eyes if she tried now.

He was there, lookin' into her soul, his breathin' labored and sharp. She wanted to move her hands, to grip his hair and ride ‘im like this, sittin' in her favorite pew so every sunday she would be able to sit right back here and feel her cunt spasm at the memory of him.

She'd heard so many stories of women's first times, but none of them could have prepared her for the pleasure that was havin' her body split open, pushin' at the seams of her sanity.

Nothing could have adequately equipped her for the feel of the sweat drippin' down her neck or the fullness, the completion that was this joining.

"Fuck," his voice was gone now, just the tones of fire and smoke, hot and overwhelming. Jac felt she should be terrified, truly'n utterly, but it only spiraled to her toes and leaked out between her thighs, "You were made for this. Your cunt was made for me."

She couldn't see them joined together, not over her belly, but he could. He looked down, his breathin' heavy, eyes locked and loaded on the space between them-what little of it there was.

He growled.

A goddamn animal sound rumbled in his chest and sent the hairs on her arms up and away.

He growled at the sight of them together, of himself inside her.

It was as if somethin' inside of his brain had been triggered, a switch flipped. He leaned his large, long shoulders back, leaned against the pew behind him and shifted his knees.

If Jac hadn' already been holding onto somethin' behind her she would'ave been lost to the storm that was his hips. They snapped up at the same time he pulled her down and she needn't have worried about whether or not she knew what she was doin' since he didn' let her move without his direction in the first place.

He was losin' it.

Control.

It was slippin' away faster than he could grab at it, faster than he could thrust and with each perfect squeeze of her cunt he felt it run farther and farther from him.

This was Heaven.

It was true then, that you had to go through Hell before you could enter the pearly gates. Well, he'd walked through fire every day for the better part of a hundred years and here was his reward. His pretty darlin's Salvation, right here between her thighs.

From her lips spilled a choir of music, whimpers and moans that were runnin' down his back to wash the floor in her essence.

This church would smell like them for days.

Weeks, if he fucked her hard enough.

If he made her cum.

"You ever make yourself cum before, darlin'?" Her sob was all the answer he needed, "You're gonna do it for me now, right here."

"I can't." She shook her head. Sweat dripped down her neck into the hollow of her throat.

It took every ounce of willpower not to follow it with his tongue, not to bite down on the tender flesh at her rebellion.

"You can." He nodded, his thrusts slowin' just long enough to slip his arms under her legs to give her a better position, but panic gripped Jac's throat.

"I will!" She hurried, "I will, please don't stop."

"Atta girl." His smile was the poppin' embers in a blazin' inferno. So what if she thought he would stop. He knew the truth, and if it got her fingers down touchin' her clit, well-a healthy dose of fear never hurt anyone. "Go on."

Her fingers were light, and maybe she wasn't fully able to circle her clit the way she mighta when she was by herself but the way he filled her and the rhythmic pressure of her clit between two fingers made her knees shake and her toes curl.

Her screams were the closest thing he thought he might ever hear to an angel singing. They were the trumpet soundin' at the end of the world. It all began and ended here between her lips.

He wanted to drown in it, thought he might already have as the room slowly filled with an orange glow. He thought, for just a moment, that he'd let loose too soon and lit the whole damn church on fire with them inside it. He would survive, of course, but she wouldn' and he couldn' have that, not when he'd just found her.

But it was only the mornin' light driftin' in, crestin' through the stained glass. People would be here soon, he knew. Sunday service started bright and early for small towns like this one.

The thought of this whole godless town seein' him fuck his little spitfire sent him into a tail spin; danced electricity up his spine as he filled her with his cum and he knew.

Knew he was gonna burn this church ‘round their ears before he left, this whole damn town if he had to, but he sure as shit was gonna take this woman with him.

His woman.

Kickn'n and screamin' need be.

"I'm gonna fuckin' breed my scent into your bones, spitfire, hear me?" Jac's body turned into a shower of sparks that rained over them both as he whispered in her ear, barely comprehensible. He ground his hips into hers, the coarse abrasions of the hair between his legs dragged ‘cross her clit. "An' you're gonna paint over the Devil's mark with your cum."

It wasn' a question of whether or not she'd ever be with another man, cause he'd damn sure kill anyone who tried.

He would embed himself so far inside of her veins that not even death couldn' keep ‘em apart.

And she was gonna relish every second, whether she wanted to or not.