The comfortable silence that fell between them dragged on until the last glimmer of dusk was swallowed by the night. The moon watched unashamed and Margaret wondered what would happen to it when He came. Would it still be there, or would its wicked pull and maddening shine be cast out of the sky? She hoped not. She’d always liked the moon, liked how its light felt on her skin, how it seemed to turn her to warm mist, and sometimes, when she’d stared at it on long summer nights, she felt its touch in her most private parts. She never told anyone about the odd tightness in her center or the warm wetness between her legs, but she wanted to tell Robert now.
“Sh-should we pray, Robert?” He shifted some, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer to him as he braced his feet to hold them in the narrow valley where the gable and the roof met.
“Quietly, I guess. Wouldn’t want to wake the neighbors.” The laughter came again, not so deep nor so long, and they grew quiet, lying face-to-face, close enough now for her to see his eyes, like lakes with the rising moon reflected.
He leaned close and whispered against her ear, his lips warm. “Our Father, who art…”
Margaret closed her eyes and echoed his words in hushed whispers. She felt the feather of his breath on her cheek, and then their noses bumped, and she felt his breath on her lips, the prayers almost silent, because her breath was gone.
Her heart pounded as Robert’s mouth closed over hers, firm, moist; he pressed against her, not the chaste peck of Brother and Sister, but a kiss….
Her lips parted, welcoming him, her arms circling him as she felt the first delicious stroke of his tongue along hers. A giddy feeling bolted through her and for a moment, she knew the sense of certain damnation.
Then her arms wrapped around his chest, her fingers grew lost in his hair, and a groan of desire, the most joyous “Amen” Margaret had ever heard, filled her ears.
His hands found her breast under the thin Ascension robe and the shift she wore beneath it. Wetness returned between her legs, along with surging heat and as the moon glittered in the sky, Margaret felt herself under its spell.
She pressed hard against him, their robes tangling. His hands caressed her back, one slipping down over her bottom, impatient with the pale wool. The heat of his palm burned through her linen shift as he worked the dress up her calf, then her thigh. The kiss never relaxed, never ceased to demand and give.
His hellfire hand ran up the bare skin of her leg, lingering at the knee, then climbing, fast and certain, up her thigh to the place no man had ever touched before, but where she had stroked sometimes on the most lunatic of nights.
Read all of “Rapture” in Orgasmic: Erotica for Women.
Winner, 2011 Gold IPPY (Independent Publisher) Award for Erotica!
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