He finally pulls the hand between my legs free and then presses those fingers to my lips. “Open.” I open and taste myself—rich, creamy—and then I suck his fingers clean, like I know he wants. His blue eyes are nearly black in the shadows of the church as he watches. “Turn around,” he says. His voice is rough. Dangerous. Ten minutes between my legs and the wayward angel has fallen even further into hell. “Elbows on the ledge, knees apart. I want to see what I can fuck.”
