Costumes - Chapter 8: Clean

"Very clever," he allowed. "Let me make you breakfast."

A smile tugged at Fleabag's lips. "Before or after we shower?"

The Priest's eyes lit up. "Together?"

"Of fucking course," she confirmed with a playful grin.

"After, then. Definitely after."

She slipped out from underneath his weight and stood, stretching her naked body. She pivoted and sauntered to the bathroom, throwing a flirtatious look over her shoulder. "Coming?"

He admired her for a moment and followed suit, trailing behind her.

—

The shower was warm and inviting, enveloping them in a comforting layer of steam that both cleansed their sticky, sweaty skin and smoothed leftover tension and angst from their muscles.

He watched her affectionately as she rinsed conditioner from her hair, water streaming down between her breasts as she worked her fingers through her locks.

She caught him staring and quirked her lips salaciously. "Naughty."

"Oh, yes," he agreed, reaching out to trace one of her nipples with a finger.

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you feeling dirty, Father?"

"Very," he confirmed, eyes sparkling as he palmed her breast.

"Let's see what we can do about that," Fleabag mused, reaching for her loofa. She grabbed a bottle of body wash and worked up a lather. As she leaned in to kiss his lips, she rubbed the loofa sensually across his chest, down his arms, and back up to his chest. She reached around him to trail it along the muscles of his back and shoulders.

The Priest smiled serenely against her lips at her attentions, eyes closed. When he felt her pull away from the kiss, his eyes drifted open and focused on her.

His peaceful smile broke as he registered the expression on her face. Her eyes were suddenly dark, full of promises of pleasure and release. A heavy moment passed between them, mixing with the thick vapour of the shower, rich and intoxicating.

She held his gaze as she sank to her knees before him. His already hardening cock thickened and lengthened at the lust evident in her stare. She dotingly ran the loofa along his belly, down the outsides of his legs, then back up his thighs.

Fleabag dropped the loofa and studied his face meaningfully. "May I?"

The Priest could barely speak around the lump that had formed in his throat. Seeing her there, on her knees, flooded him with memories of pulling back the confessional curtain—of witnessing her, kneeling, vulnerable and open, looking up at him, begging to worship him.

Only this time, he would not run from her. "Yes," he finally managed weakly.

She smiled coyly and dipped her head forward, pressing a kiss to the tip of his throbbing cock. When he moaned in response, she wrapped her hand around his shaft and squeezed, drawing her hand up and down, letting her fingers drag underneath. She licked around the head experimentally, tasting him, paying close attention to the sensitive nerves beneath the tip.

"Fuck," The Priest groaned. "Flea." His hips bucked unconsciously, and he straightened slightly, attempting control.

Encouraged, she pouted her lips and let the head of his cock push between them, taking him into her warm mouth.

He let out a low growl as she committed to a rhythm of sucking, pulling, and licking. It was getting increasingly difficult to hold himself back, not to let his body respond to the intense feelings of pleasure she drew from him. His arms hung awkwardly at his sides, his fingers clenched in tight fists.

Fleabag reached for his hands and roughly shoved them into her hair, tightening her fingers over his in a silent plea to pull her hair. To let go. To abandon his careful restraint. To take from her mouth.

The Priest's wild eyes found hers, seeking permission. She released his hands and slipped her own around him to forcefully grip his arse, pushing him further into her mouth, taking all of him, encouraging him to take control and fuck her at his own pace.

He stared down at her, watched her throat bob as he filled it, watched a tear build in the corner of her eye as she moaned around him. He let out his own moan, tugging on her hair and pulling her closer, ever closer, until he was nearing the edge. He felt her run her teeth lightly over the head of his cock, and his hips stuttered for a moment as he groaned in pleasure and surprise. Her hand skillfully pumped his shaft while her other hand teased his balls, finding a sensitive spot and rubbing expertly until his knees began to shake. He felt his orgasm build, and he panicked, pulling her hair to move her off him.

"Flea, I'm going to—"

She grabbed his hips, pushed him into her mouth, held him there, and sucked hard.

"Fuck," he cried, spilling into her mouth and throat. "Jesus Christ."

She drew back when he was finished, holding his gaze as she swallowed.

He blinked down at her. She stared up at him, an impish smile playing across her swollen lips. After a moment of silence, she said, "Aren't you going to help me up?"

"What?" He shook his head, looking bewildered. "Oh, right, sorry." He took her hands and hauled her to her feet.

Fleabag opened her mouth then, probably to say something funny, but The Priest didn't wait to find out. His mouth was on hers then, tasting her, tasting himself. He kissed her passionately with a bit of leftover roughness from their play. His hands tangled in her hair again, crushing her face to his. He sucked her tongue and nipped at her bottom lip. She hummed appreciatively against his mouth, kissing him back just as thoroughly.

She broke away. "How long do you need?"

He chuckled. "How am I supposed to know? I'm a bit out of practice." He paused, feeling his cock twitch. "I suspect not long, though."

He kissed her again, tenderly this time. Taking his time, he brushed his lips against hers, relishing the light friction of their mouths and the mingling of their breath, steamy in the mist of the shower. "Let's get out of here"—he pressed a kiss behind her ear—"actually eat some breakfast"—he trailed warm kisses down the column of her throat—"and go back to bed."