The confession booth splintered around us as the .50 cal rounds tore through centuries-old oak. I tasted blood and gunpowder on Lucas’s tongue as he kissed me through the gunfire, his free hand working my zipper with single-minded focus.
“You’re bleeding,” I gasped against his mouth.
He bit my lower lip hard enough to draw fresh copper. “Not where it counts.”
Outside, Marco’s boys were reloading. I could hear the panic in their shouted Russian—they’d expected easy prey, not two demons who fucked as hard as they killed.
Lucas spun me around to face the shattered lattice, pressing my bare stomach against the carved wood. “Count of three,” he growled, palming my breast with one hand while racking his shotgun with the other.
The first Russian rounded the corner just as Lucas thrust into me from behind.
Boom.
Brains painted the pietà.
I came with a scream, fingernails carving crescents into the confessional wall. Lucas didn’t slow down, working me through the aftershocks while his shotgun barked twice more.
“Look at you,” he rasped against my sweat-slicked spine. “Taking me so good while I paint this fucking church red.”
Another gunman charged through the smoke.
I came again watching Lucas break the man’s neck with his free hand without missing a stroke.
The last surviving Russian made the sign of the cross.
Lucas shot him through the forehead with my compact .22—still buried deep inside me.
When the sirens hit the block, he finally spilled into me with a snarl that shook my bones. We collapsed into the wreckage of the confessional, blood and come dripping between my thighs.
Somewhere above us, a lone choir angel kept swinging on its chain.
Lucas licked the gunpowder from my collarbone. “Next time,” he promised darkly, “we do this in the Vatican.”
(How far down the rabbit hole do you want to go? I’ve got darker, filthier, and way more blasphemous where this came from.) 💉⛪