I don't know what compelled me to write this but well, here we are.
He is ashamed.
He is ashamed for many, many reasons.
For breaking the faith engrained into the crevices and curves of his brain; for breaking a bond between a womam with dark hair he left long ago; for betraying his faith, the family that didn't know him and for breaking promise after promise.
He is ashamed...because she tastes just that good.
She started it, with the side glances and chatter in the elevator. She started it, with the subtle flash of her thigh when she'd come in from her night -it was always night in the city - shift. She started it, with the half smiles and kind eyes, the way she didn't look away when he despaired for eye contact.
She's young - early twenties - and tastes so unlike the city. She is vain and tastes like old gum, her lips and tongue does anyway. Her hair is soft as he grips it at the base of her skull, tugging just enough to elicit a small gasp, an arch and roll of the spine. Its been years since he has done this, and yet it seems so natural; instinct, he supposes.
He remembers their time so innocent, from when she first moved in and got so flustered because she bumped him stumbling into the elevator, to when she began to show interest. He may have sworn to celebacy but every nerve in his body said go for it. The Clergy did not care for his abstaining anymore, they didn't care about him at all - so why should he ca - oh look at that flash of skin.
Her shirt has ridden up, clinging around her navel, exposing a faint curve to her belly.
Pregnant.
"Please," she whispers as he pulls away, his robes hiding her from passerby's; it looks as though he is simply having an intense, manic, conversation with the space between their doors. "Please don't stop this again."
He keeps his eyes closed and shakes his head. "I cannot," he murmurs.
She furrows her brow and turns the corners of her mouth to sorrow. He says that every time - he has said it four times - but comes back for more. She is patient but he almost looks like he is in pain from holding back; her tongue hesitates around parted lips, hands shaking around his face before she drops her arms and leans against the wall.
"It's okay," its not, she wants him - all of him - but he can't give; though, not for the reason she believes. "I...I understand."
He doesn't want her to understand.
He opens his eyes, ice blue trailing over the right curve of her jaw where she has craned her neck away from him, looking to the left. He reaches forward to run a hand up her throat, sees her tense, and studies the scar running from under her right ear lobe to her clavicle. Her eyes sway to him - moss green, maybe darker - and she sees the hatred there.
She almost died that night.
"Hey," she reaches up and grips his wrist, pulling his attention back to the present. "You okay?"
He hesitates. "No," he admits. "I am never...okay around you," he runs a hand down the side of her face. "I...you make me question my faith. And that confuses me."
She smiles a little. "Wow," she murmurs."I can make a Priest question his whole world," she smiles a little wider. "I sure must be somethin'."
He chuckles then, lifting the mood, and leans in to breathe against her lips. "You are..."
I have no idea where any of this came from.