Confessions of the flesh
My back arches into him.
My hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in, desperate.
I’m already throbbing, already soaked, my thighs pressing together as if it could stop what’s happening. It can’t.
His hand slides down, gripping my hip, possessive and sure, like he already knows every sound he can drag from me.
“You taste like heaven’s last mistake,” he growls against my neck.
My breath hitches—a helpless whimper that tastes like sin.
And then—
The door slams open.
“Get away from her.”
The voice. His voice.
Rough. Torn. Furious.
And that’s where it should’ve stopped.
That’s where I should’ve been saved.
But I wasn’t.
How did I even end up here?
It started with a church.
A friend’s promise.
A dress that was supposed to be “holy.”
---
Visiting the church isn’t something I look forward to.
This town is new. Strange. Unfriendly. And I hate it.
Back home, I knew every cracked corner—the church, the cafés, the streets—like the back of my hand. Here? Everything feels off.
The cafés are stale, the stores dusty, like no one gives a damn. I don’t expect the church to be any different.
I would’ve skipped it altogether… if it weren’t for Layla. She promised me something “delicious.” Whatever the hell that meant.
So, I got ready. It is my first time visiting the church here, and honestly? I am not the devout type to begin with. If it wasn’t for the banquet afterward—and, of course, Layla’s “delicious” surprise—I’d still be tangled in sheets.
I compromise. Slipping on a dress that clings to my hips just right—knee-length, neckline dipping low enough to burn… but still holy.
I am adding the last swipe of gloss when the sharp honk outside cuts through the quiet.
Layla is here.
The church… surprised me.
People aren’t stiff like I expected. They move in loose clusters, murmuring, smiling—warm light spilling through stained glass like molten color. It isn’t suffocating. Not at all.
But I am not here for ambiance.
“I told you there’s something delicious waiting for you.” Layla’s eyes sparkle with mischief.
“Better be worth it,” I mutter, biting back a yawn. “I gave up sleep for this.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just smirks—and points toward the altar.
I follow her gaze, and my breath catches like a hand tightening around my throat.
He stands at the front, half-bathed in sunlight.
The priest.
Tall. Straight-backed.
Short hair the color of soft copper—like fire had kissed him, leaving behind only the gentlest embers.
And those eyes—God, those eyes.
Warm. Kind. But beneath the surface… something flickers. Something sharp and dangerous, hiding behind that gentle gaze.
His lips curve into a smile as he speaks to a woman in front of him.
Kind. Gentle. Genuine.
I watch that smile curl and bloom—and feel a sharp, bitter pang twist deep in my stomach.
How can he look at her like that?
“Worth it?” Layla murmurs beside me.
“You’re the best,” I whisper back, my eyes refusing to leave him.
We slip quietly into a pew.
The event starts.
But I can't tear my eyes away—not for a single second.
He keeps talking. Preaching about grace, goodness—some other holy bullshit I can't bring myself to care about.
Because all I can do is watch his lips—slow, deliberate—savoring every syllable like it was a sin pressed to his tongue.
His tongue darts out every so often, wetting his bottom lip, and every time it does… my thighs clench tighter.
I am in a church.
Surrounded by faith and purity.
And my thoughts? Anything but holy.
Then—his eyes landed on mine.
He looked at me.
His mouth froze mid-sentence.
The air thinned, the room folding in on the single thread between us. I felt the weight of his gaze settle on my skin like heat through glass.
His gaze didn’t just glance.
It lingered.
It traced me slow—my face, my throat, the delicate line of my collarbone—before sinking lower to the dip between my breasts, as if each stop was a silent touch.
I watched his throat bob.
Or maybe I imagined it.
But it felt so real—like he was swallowing something fierce inside.
And then—just as quickly—he pulled back, as if someone had yanked a rope inside his skull.
His face reset, smooth and unreadable.
He dragged his gaze away, jaw tight, like the act itself took effort.
But the damage was done.
He kept preaching.
The sermon dragged on.
But I felt it—every time his eyes drifted back to me.
Quiet. Hungry.
Like he was checking if I was still there.
Or if I’d already stripped myself bare just by staring right back.
And finally—mercifully—the event ended.
The banquet started.
---
I was hungry—but not for food.
Layla fluttered around, greeting people, her social battery shining bright and full.
I, on the other hand, was bored out of my mind.
He’d vanished after the sermon—gone somewhere—and my eyes had been scanning the crowd, hunting for him ever since.
I was about to snap at Layla—tell her to hurry the hell up—when I saw him.
Weaving through the crowd, parting people with gentle nods and soft smiles. The holy smiles.
Then his eyes landed on us.
On me.
He stopped.
“Hello, Miss Layla, and…” His gaze shifted, settling on me.
“Shaina,” I filled in, trying to keep my voice steady and not show the heat it carried.
“Father.” I added, the word tasting like sin on my tongue.
His eyes traced my lips as I said it.
He cleared his throat—subtle, but not subtle enough.
“Shaina,” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the name.
“I haven’t seen you around. Are you new here?”
“Yes, Father,” Layla answered cheerfully, saving me. “She recently moved in.”
He smiled.
“Oh. Welcome then, Miss Shaina. I hope you like it here.”
He offered his hand.
I took it.
His hand was warm.
Soft, yet commanding.
So much bigger than mine.
And all I could think about were those fingers—
what they’d feel like pressed deep inside me.
My breath hitched, my lips parting before I could stop them, pulse tapping hard in my throat.
Get a grip, I scolded myself silently.
His handshake lingered—maybe longer than it should have.
“Be careful, though,” he said, eyes still locked on mine.
“Some things here are a little… wild.”
A warning?
Or a challenge?
I couldn’t tell.
He stepped past, but not before his hand brushed my hip.
Accidentally. I presumed.
But my skin burned where he touched—barely registered to anyone else, but to me, it seared. Fierce. Alive. The ghost of his hand staying long after he’d passed.
---
I can’t stop thinking about him.
Two days have passed since I saw the priest, but somehow—he’s still lodged deep in my mind.
His eyes.
His hands.
That phantom touch on my hip, stubborn as a ghost, refusing to fade.
I shake myself out of it.
I’m late.
Way later than usual.
Almost midnight.
I usually get home by nine.
Tonight, I decided overtime was a good idea.
Stupid.
The streets are empty.
Not just empty—abandoned.
The whole town ghosted itself.
Silent. Still.
If I’d known the town turned this dead at night, I never would’ve stayed so late.
Something about it feels…
wrong.
Like the air itself is holding its breath.
Like the shadows are listening.
My steps quicken.
I don’t like this.
But my thoughts keep slipping—
Back to him.
To home.
To work.
To the way his hand brushed my hip like it had no business doing it.
And then I feel it.
Eyes.
Watching.
Peeling me apart.
The hair on my nape bristles, sharp and alive.
My pulse skips.
My feet move faster.
Stop being paranoid, I tell myself.
I really need to stop watching those damn horror shows at night.
But even as I think it, I turn the corner near my home, my eyes darting wildly, scanning the shadows.
And then I see them.
Two glowing eyes.
Red.
Sharp as rubies.
My breath hitches, freezing in my throat, the world narrowing to those two points of light.
Watching me.
Scanning me.
A shriek tears from my throat.
I run.
The slap of my shoes on the pavement is the only sound, each one a desperate heartbeat hammering against the night.
Whatever it is—I can feel it.
The breath on my neck.
The cold, unnatural draft curling and twisting around me.
I run faster, legs burning, lungs clawing for air.
I reach my front door, fumbling with the keys, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop them.
And the lock clicks.
Granting me mercy.
I stumble inside, slam the door behind me.
Safe. For now.
My back presses to the door, nails digging into the wood as if I could hold it shut with sheer will.
I’m never going out late again.
Never.
It takes me an hour to settle, dinner barely making it past my throat.
The run has left my body buzzing, my heart refusing to calm.
I crawl into bed, pulling the blanket tight around me.
Maybe I should visit the priest again.
Just to talk.
Strictly to talk.
About what happened.
---
I’m almost ready to visit the priest.
The neckline is a little lower, the dress a little shorter—pure coincidence, of course.
The soft pink on my lips? Also coincidence.
Catching the perfect amount of attention?
Absolutely not intentional.
I reach the church with flowers in hand.
Why flowers?
I don’t know. Maybe to look wholesome. Maybe to distract from the fact that I want him to look at me.
And then there he is again.
All beautiful hair, soft lips, and fuckab—
…I mean, nice hands.
The air in my lungs stalls, catching against the sudden weight in my chest.
“Father,” I call, and his head turns.
His eyes sweep over me—face, legs, the little extra curve of exposed cleavage.
He clears his throat.
“Miss Shaina. What brings you here today?”
“I—something happened.” My voice comes out breathier than I mean it to.
His brows furrow, his hand hovering like he might touch me but isn’t sure if he should.
I solve the problem for him.
I reach out and clutch his hand.
Warmth bleeds into me instantly, and for one dangerous second, I imagine those fingers curling into the softest, most forbidden parts of me, my mind spiraling exactly where it shouldn’t.
“I was coming back late last night,” I begin, “and something strange happened.
It felt like everything had stopped. The town somehow felt dead.
And then I saw them—eyes. Red, glowing eyes in the shadows.
I ran—safe, thankfully—but those eyes still haunt me.”
Something shifts in his expression, like he recognizes the danger.
“What time was this, Sh—Miss Shaina?” he asks, catching himself.
“Almost midnight.”
He sighs. “You have to be careful. You shouldn’t be out at night. I warned you.”
“What was it?” I press, my voice trembling more than before.
His hand lands on my shoulder, rubbing softly—meant to comfort, but it makes my knees go weaker.
The action does anything but comfort.
“Don’t worry,” he says then.
“I’m here for you.”
He steps toward the altar, picks up a small chain from the side table, and returns to press it into my hand.
The cool metal slides against my palm, a shiver following the trail it burns into my skin.
“Keep this with you. You’ll be safe.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
I remember the flowers.
I hand them to him—our fingers brushing again—and turn to go.
But even as I leave, I feel his eyes still on me.
That lingering gaze.
And the heat between my legs?
Pure coincidence.
Obviously.
---
I come home early that night.
No way am I risking those eyes again.
The small chain lies cool against my skin—always there since he pressed it into my palm.
Him.
Just thinking of him makes my thighs press together, the ache curling deep in my core.
Every part of me wants the taste of that holy mouth, the weight of him pinning me, the heat hidden under black robes.
I shouldn’t think like this.
He’s the priest.
You don’t dream about fucking the priest, I tell myself.
I slide into bed, the chain on the pillow beside me.
Lights dimmed. Sleep closing in, slow and heavy—
And then—
In the corner—
Two points of burning red.
The same ruby eyes.
I gasp—sharp, startled—the start of a scream—
but the sound barely leaves me before a hand, cold as a corpse and hard as stone, crashes over my mouth.
The pressure is brutal, sealing me in silence.
My breath slams against his palm in short, frantic bursts—hot, damp, trapped—while his chill seeps into my skin, into my blood.
My lungs seize. My heartbeat is a wild, pounding animal, thrashing in my chest, rattling my ribs, hammering so hard I feel it in my jaw, my skull, everywhere.
“Hello, pretty little thing.”
The words slither into me—low, velvet rubbed the wrong way, smooth laced with something jagged.
A predator’s greeting—velvet dragged over a blade.
It’s not just sound. It’s touch. It vibrates through my bones, crawls under my skin, plants itself deep in my gut.
A shiver carves its way down my spine, leaving my muscles strung tight, trembling—
all except for the deep, traitorous throb between my legs, the heat pooling there a filthy mirror to the cold terror in my veins.
I look at him.
Too close.
In the dim light, his beauty is almost violent—something that shouldn’t exist in this world. Hair black as midnight rain, thick and glossy like it drinks the light instead of reflecting it. Skin pale, flawless, the kind of pale that isn’t weakness but warning—like moonlight sharpened into a blade.
And his eyes—red like molten garnets, so deep they look carved from some ancient gemstone, each flicker of light trapped inside them as if he owns it.
Looking into them feels like staring into the heart of a fire that wants to burn you alive.
His mouth is the worst of all—full, sin-soft lips that promise sweetness while hiding the gleam of fangs, a deadly truth peeking through temptation.
Not human.
Vampire.
The word rattles through me like a prayer turned curse.
He isn’t much taller than a man, but the space he takes up swallows the air around us. His presence presses into my ribs, my throat, my skin—an invisible weight I can feel in my bones.
And there’s something else, something impossible—like gravity itself has shifted to center on him.
My pulse hammers faster not in fear alone, but because some part of me is leaning forward, aching closer, as if the air between us is a rope he’s already wrapped around my body and begun to pull.
The air itself feels thicker.
Harder to breathe.
“I saw you in the dark,” he murmurs, his words sliding over my cheek like steel. “Little. Sweet. Tasty.”
My pulse thrashes in my throat, wild and useless.
The heat between my thighs turns slick, shameful.
My breath comes too fast, too shallow.
He feels it.
“Aw… don’t be scared, little thing.” His tone is sugar poured over a blade. “We’re going to have fun. I’m going to have fun.”
I stay frozen.
My chest aches from holding the air in.
He leans closer, his nose barely brushing the edge of my cheekbone.
He inhales slowly—so slow I feel the air move over my skin—until his chest expands against mine.
He shudders, like my scent just unraveled him.
When he exhales, it ghosts cold over my ear.
“So fucking addictive.” His voice drops to a growl.
And I hate that it does something to me.
His other hand comes to my throat, grazing in a slow, lazy stroke, fingertips trailing over the frantic jump of my pulse.
Lower.
Past the hollow at the base of my neck.
Drifting over the soft valley of my breasts, a touch so faint it makes my nipples harden under my shirt.
His palm sweeps across my stomach—then lower still—until it hovers at the hem of my shorts.
A pause.
The pause of a predator tasting the moment before the bite.
And then—slow, deliberate—his hand slides inside.
A single fingertip strokes my slit, dragging from the aching entrance all the way to the tender peak of my clit.
My back arches instinctively before I can think.
A sound claws up my throat but is swallowed under his cold palm.
When his finger comes away slick, I feel his chuckle against my cheek.
“You’re soaked, little thing.” His voice is velvet mockery, smooth and merciless. “Did I do that to you?”
I can’t answer.
My tongue is useless, my mind a mess of fear knotted with heat.
He cups me fully then—palm pressing into the heat between my thighs—spreading my wetness over his skin.
He kisses my cheek, almost tender.
Then his gaze shifts—up, away from me—landing on the chain beside us.
The chain.
The one the priest had pressed into my palm.
The one meant to keep him away.
His hand tightens where he cups me, making a sharp, helpless sound catch in my throat.
“Is this for me, pretty thing?” His cold breath brushes my ear.
His palm stays rooted at my heat, but his other hand moves from my mouth.
He wants an answer.
I shake my head, not trusting my voice.
“Tch. Lie.” His tone hardens, deepens. “I hate liars.”
One finger plunges into me—deep, unyielding, punishing—thrusting in hard enough to bow my back off the bed.
A moan breaks from me before I can stop it.
“You think that little trinket will protect you?”
His finger stays buried, unmoving, the stretch throbbing. “Save you from me?”
He leans in until his lips almost brush mine.
“I’ll tell you what happens now. Tomorrow, I’ll come again. I’ll claim you. Make you mine. If you think you can stop me with your cute little chain…” his smirk cuts across my skin like a blade, “…then try.”
He pulls his finger out slowly then, leaving me empty, aching.
The whimper that escapes feels like betrayal—whether from relief or loss, I don’t know.
Before I can breathe, he catches my wrist, smearing my slickness across the skin, marking it.
And then—
Fangs.
A sharp, tearing heat as they break my skin.
I scream, pain and shock exploding white-hot.
He pulls back just enough to lap at the wound, his tongue tasting me—blood and arousal mingling on his tongue.
A groan shudders through him.
The bleeding stops instantly under his mouth.
“You are delicious, little thing. Better than I imagined.” His eyes are heavy, drunk on me.
He lets my wrist fall, my body still trembling.
“Tomorrow then,” he murmurs. “Be ready.”
A rush of air—and he’s gone.
The room feels cold without him but somehow felt colder with him.
Trembling. Soaked. Marked.
Tomorrow, I might save myself.
Or I might be claimed.
His.
---
The next morning comes, and with it, no peace.
I haven’t slept.
How could I?
A creature that shouldn’t exist has bitten me… fingered me… whispered a promise to claim me.
I need the church.
I need the priest.
I need to tell him what happened—ask why the protection failed.
Or… ask if I failed.
I dress deliberately filthy for the visit. A mockery of Sunday modesty. I don’t care.
The morning light is too bright, too clean, slicing through my mind like glass.
The chain presses cold against my chest, hidden beneath the neckline of a dress far too tight, far too short for anything righteous.
A reminder.
A weight.
Let them judge.
Let him judge.
I just want answers.
…Or maybe I just want him.
The man who gave me this chain.
The man whose fingers I imagined last night while another’s still lingered on my skin.
The walk to the church feels like both a walk of shame and a march to war.
Shame because of what I want.
War because I refuse to repent for it.
The church is nearly empty. Silence pools in the pews.
He sits near the altar, reading, but looks up before I speak—my footsteps give me away.
His gaze sweeps over me. Slowly. Thoroughly.
Like he could take me right there on the altar and call it salvation.
“Father,” I say, clearing my throat.
“Miss Shaina.” His voice softens my name. “Did something happen? You look… rattled.”
“He came,” I confess. “Red eyes. Cold hands. Sharp fangs.”
My knees wobble—whether from memory or the way the priest looks at me, I can’t tell.
Part of me wants to run from the bite still tingling on my wrist.
The other part? The stupid, aching part?
Wants to be hunted again. To be fucked to the unholy by him, to be chased by him.
The priest’s eyes flick down my body—only for a breath—but in that single heartbeat, they devour the shape of me, the outline of my thighs, the faint swell beneath the hem of that unforgivable dress.
His fingers twitch.
I notice.
He reads my eyes. The heat in my breath. The echo of last night’s touch.
He rises, slow and composed, though the faint clench of his jaw betrays him.
“Where?” he asks quietly. “Where did he touch you?”
I hesitate. My hand lifts—without permission—to my wrist.
The bite. Faint now, sealed. But still there.
“Here,” I whisper. “And… lower.”
His breath catches.
The priest’s holy façade cracks just a little.
He steps forward and takes my wrist gently, brushing his thumb over the bite.
“Did he say anything?” His voice is tighter now, laced with something dangerous.
“He said he’ll come again tonight. That he’ll claim me.”
The air between us thickens.
His grip on my wrist tightens. His gaze burns into mine—hungry, conflicted, possessive.
“Then he’ll have to take you from me.” He whispers through clenched teeth.
“What?”
His eyes flicker, and the mask slips back on. “From God,” he corrects.
“Oh. Thank you, Father.” I take his hand with both of mine, my thoughts anything but holy.
It’s a split-second decision—my arms wrap around his neck, my chest pressing to his.
He freezes.
His breath hitches against my hair, and I feel the tremble he tries to hide—right beneath his ribs, right where my breasts press into him.
His hands hover in the air, caught between wanting and refusing.
Then, slowly, carefully, his palms find my back.
Holy hands. Unholy touch.
“You shouldn’t,” he whispers, but he doesn’t let go.
“I know.” My lips brush the air by his throat, close enough to feel the throb of his pulse. “But I don’t care.”
A beat of silence. Two.
His fingers flex slightly, pulling me closer than before.
And there it is—the guilt in his touch, the hunger behind it.
“I can feel your heartbeat, Father.”
He lets out a ragged breath, and I know—I have him.
When I pull back, his eyes are wild. Possessive. A little scared.
“Shaina…” My name is both prayer and warning.
And I want to sin right there, in his arms.
His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than necessary.
As if he’s not sure letting me go, even for the day, is wise.
As if something in him is still warring—between desire and duty, between keeping me safe and keeping me close.
But he lets me go.
I leave the church with the ghost of his touch still pressed into my spine.
The rest of the day is a blur.
I can’t focus.
Every time I try to read, or eat, or even shower, I keep thinking about him.
And the other one.
Two men, worlds apart—one cloaked in God, the other in hunger.
And I’m the rope pulled taut between them.
---
Evening falls fast. The light bleeds from the sky like something dying, and when I step outside again, the world feels too quiet. I walk quickly.
This time, the town isn’t empty—but it might as well have been.
People are out. But no one looks at me. No one sees me.
Like I have already slipped into some other realm. One where only they can see me.
The church doors are open when I arrive. He is waiting.
He stands in the middle of the pews, candlelight haloing his frame, robes looser now, collar slightly open, shadows catching in the hollow of his throat.
“Welcome,” he says softly.
We sit in one of the pews and talk for hours—about nothing, about everything. Share a quiet meal in flickering light.
The whole time, I feel the heat coming off him like sunlight through stained glass. The way his jaw flexes when he chews. The curl of his lips when he smiles. The way his hands hover, almost touching me, then retreating—as if afraid of himself.
My body is lit, aching. Craving him like a moth to flame.
We stay on the pew. He’d offered his room, but I wasn’t sure I’d survive being alone with him there—not without unraveling completely. It was already too much.
He was mid-story, talking, his mouth moving, hands gesturing—something about fire—when his hand brushed my breast.
He freezes.
So do I.
The touch was light, but my nipple stiffened instantly, shameless and hungry. The air locks in my throat, my body betrays me.
And I break—shattering.
I surge forward, lips crashing into his—rough, denied, desperate.
And he didn’t hesitate.
Whatever thread had held us back finally snapped.
He kisses like a man starved, all restraint gone. One arm locked tight around my waist, the other roaming my side, my hip, my ribs—everywhere he’d wanted to touch all along.
Every inch of me that had been begging for this.
We are not gentle.
We are not holy.
And the church watches silently as we begin to fall.
His mouth devours mine, our breaths hot and tangled, his scent all warm spice and something darker.
I feel the way he wants me—through the press of his body, the grip of his hand tightening at my waist, the low, helpless sound that slips from his throat when I bite his lip.
I climb onto him, straddling him right there on the pew. His hands slide down to my thighs, fingers digging in, robes wrinkling, the edge of my dress creeping up as if even gravity conspires to strip us bare.
But then—he pauses.
His lips go still.
Breath caught.
Eyes wild. Dark. Terrified.
“No,” he whispers, more to himself than me.
And suddenly, his hands are gone.
He pushes me back—not hard, but fast, desperate—like he’s just realized what he’s doing, who he’s doing it with, where we are.
“I—” His voice breaks, guilt crashing in like a tide. “I need a moment. To think.”
He stands too quickly, robes disheveled, lips swollen. Wrecked. Beautiful. Ruined.
“I shouldn’t—” He runs a hand through his hair, backing away from me like I’d burned him. “I can’t—Shaina, I’m sorry.”
“Wait—” I stand, reaching for him, but he is already at the doors.
“I’ll be outside,” he says without turning. “Just… stay here. Please.”
Then he is gone—storming into the night like a man fleeing the scene of a crime.
And I am left in the pew, heart pounding, lips tingling, thighs pressed tight with want.
Alone in the church.
But not alone in my thoughts.
Not even close.
I sit there, pulse still rattling, trying to breathe through the wreckage he left in me, when I hear it—
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Echoing down the aisle.
I turn, stupid hope sparking that it’s him—composed now, but desperate, ready to fall again.
But it isn’t him.
No.
It’s him.
The vampire.
Ruby eyes. Smile sharp as a blade. Hunger coiled in every line of his body. His gait is unhurried, but it’s not laziness—it’s possession.
Each step is a promise that he will reach me, no matter what I do.
My breath catches. My shoulders draw tight.
“This is holy ground,” I whisper, though the conviction has already bled out of my voice.
His grin is slow, mocking. “Is it?”
He turns in a lazy circle, arms spread like a mock blessing. “Strange… I don’t see your priest here to protect you, little thing.”
I step back without meaning to.
His gaze follows like a predator humoring the prey’s fantasy of escape.
“You came dressed for me tonight,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over the short hem of my dress, the chain resting at my throat.
“Tell me… was it for him?” A flash of fang as his tongue slides over his lip. “Or for me?”
“I—” My throat tightens, the words fraying. “You shouldn’t… be able to do anything here.”
His laugh is low, thick, rolling through the air like a shadow stretching across the floor. “You think stones and sermons will stop me, pretty thing?”
He takes a step closer. “I’m not bound by God’s walls. Only by invitation.”
And I hate—God, I hate—how my body answers.
Heat tightening low, memory flashing of the way his finger had filled me before.
“So…” His eyes pin me where I stand. “Invite me.”
He stops just short of touching me.
Close enough that I feel his breath ghost across my lips.
Close enough for my pulse to hammer against my skin like it’s trying to break free.
“Invite me to claim what’s already mine.”
“No.”
It’s barely a breath.
And then I turn and run.
I don’t think. I don’t look back.
My feet slap against the wooden aisle, but the air shifts—cold, slicing through the heat like a knife.
And he’s there.
In front of me.
Like the space between us never existed.
Smiling like he just won a game I don’t even realize we are playing.
“You really thought you could outrun a vampire, little thing?” His voice is silk dragged over steel.
I freeze, every nerve strung tight. My body trembles with fear.
But between my thighs… is another story.
His nostrils flare, eyes half-lidding in pleasure as if he’s inhaling my shame.
“I can smell you,” he murmurs, stepping closer.
“The sweet ache between your thighs. Your blood, singing under your skin. It drives me insane, pretty thing.” A low, animal growl rumbles from his chest.
I back into a pew.
He doesn’t follow right away—he doesn’t have to.
His words pin me harder than his hands could.
“You can run,” he says softly, “you can cry… but your body won’t lie. Not to me.”
His hand rises, slow, deliberate—giving me one last chance to stop him.
I don’t.
It hovers an inch from my throat.
I feel it anyway.
“All you have to do is ask,” he says. “Invite me.”
I should scream.
I should run.
Instead, my body… my traitorous, starving body... leans in.
His hand didn’t even touch me yet, but I feel him—the weight of his hunger, the promise dripping from his voice like honey laced with venom.
“Invite me, little thing,” he murmurs again. “Just a whisper. That’s all I need.”
My lips part but no sound comes from them.
The air between us pulses, thick and heavy, as if my silence is permission enough.
His lips curve in a slow, knowing smile.
His fingers trace my pulse, follow it down my neck, slip beneath my dress to hook the chain nestled between my breasts.
The cold metal scrapes my skin as he tugs it, the movement almost tender in its mockery.
“You’re mine now.”
Before I can breathe, his mouth is on my neck.
Not a kiss—a claim.
His tongue drags slow and hot over my skin, tasting me, savoring me. He doesn’t bite. Not yet.
The threat lives in the scrape of his fangs against the tender spot over my pulse. He wants me to feel every agonizing second of this.
And I do.
My back arches into him before I can stop it. My fingers curl into his shoulders. My thighs press together against the surge of heat.
His hand slides down, gripping my hip—possessive, sure—like he already knows every sound he can pull from me.
“You taste like heaven’s last mistake,” he growls, low and rough against my skin.
My breath hitches—a soft, helpless whimper.
And then—
The door slams open.
“Get away from her.”
That voice. His voice.
Rough. Torn. Furious.
The vampire doesn’t move. His tongue flicks lazily over my skin again, slow, taunting, before he lifts his gaze with a wicked smile.
“Well, well. Father’s back.”
The priest stands there, fists clenched, his chest rising fast. His gaze locks on me, tracing where the vampire’s mouth still marks my neck, where my hands clench the vampire’s shoulders, and his eyes darken with something dangerous.
“Let her go,” he orders.
The vampire’s grin widens. “ Or what? You should’ve claimed her when you had the chance, holy man.”
The priest storms forward, dragging me behind him. “She’s under my protection. You will not touch her.”
The vampire’s chuckle is deep, knowing. It circles us like a wolf. “Protection? You can’t even look at her without sinning. You think your prayers will keep her safe when she’s begging to be claimed?”
The priest’s fists clench tighter, nails digging into his palms.
He says nothing.
Fear twists inside me. I stir, moving between them, shaking.
“Stop,” I rasp.
They both turn to me—and the vampire smiles.
He spins me around, pressing my back flush against his chest. His mouth descends on my neck again, hot and demanding.
His hand squeezes my right breast, and a moan escapes me before I can stop it.
My back arches into him, hands reaching out for something solid—landing on the priest’s chest.
Before I can recover, the priest stumbles onto me, knocked forward as if by some invisible force.
His hands rise to steady himself on my waist, fingers tightening.
His breath hitches, lips hovering inches from mine.
The vampire’s hand still cups my breast, possessive—squeezing, rolling my nipple between his fingers.
The vampire leans in, his voice a velvet lash. “Feel her, Father. She’s trembling for us. Think you can save her now?”
I see his jaw tighten, his grip on my waist sharpens further, and for a second, I feel it—he's going to shove the vampire off again, he is going to pull me off again.
But then my hips, my traitorous hips, shift, grind against the priest’s thigh as if seeking, as if starving.
I can't control it. I need the friction, the pool between my legs growing, soaking.
Fuck it, I decide then.
I grab the priest's hand and drag it to my left breast, his breath hitches.
I hold it there and I feel his hand squeeze once, restrained, reluctant.
Another moan bursts out of me, my body arches more, chest pressing into the priest's and the vampire doesn't like that.
He growls on my skin, dragging me back to his chest.
“Don’t get greedy, Father,” he purrs, his hand sliding down my belly, dangerously close to slipping beneath the fabric.
“She’s still mine to claim.”
My body—their body now—is already a battlefield.
My arms are lock around the priest’s neck, my hips grind against his thigh with abandon, and yet I am still pressed into the vampire’s chest, his hand possessively splayed across my stomach, teasing the hem of my dress.
The priest grunts, hand tightening at my breast, control fraying.
And that’s the moment.
I feel the vampire’s hand seize my waist, tearing me from the priest's grip with a growl.
He turns me to face him, and lifts me—arms beneath my thighs, fingers digging in, his lips never leaving my throat as he carries me through the sanctuary of sin.
The vampire’s grip is iron. His fingers bite into my thighs as he spreads them, lays me open on the altar like an offering.
His mouth descends on my skin, not to kiss, but to taste—his tongue dragging a slow, sinful line from my knee to the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. My panties soaked.
His breath is cool, his lips soft, but the scrape of his fangs is a threat beneath every touch.
I see the priest through the haze—standing at the foot of the altar, his fists clenched, his jaw rigid.
He steps forward, grabbing the vampire by the shoulder.
“Enough.” He growls.
Their stares clash like swords—one possessive, one protective, both trembling.
And me?
I’m trembling between them, aching, wanting to be ruined.
“Yes, Father. Enough. You know I can tear through you—kill you—right here, right now.”
The vampire’s smile fades, serious now.
The priest’s hand tightens on the vampire’s shoulder, knuckles whitening.
“I don’t doubt that,” he says, voice rough, trembling—but not with fear. With fury. Something darker.
“But you won’t.”
The vampire tilts his head, amused, fangs catching candlelight like knives. His fingers spread wider across my thighs, parting me further—exposing me, daring the priest to fight for me.
“And why is that, Father?” he murmurs, lips brushing my skin, hot breath fanning over my soaked panties.
“Because you’re her holy savior?” His tongue flicks, grazing the fabric, and I gasp.
“Or because you want to taste her just as much as I do?”
The priest’s jaw locks. Breath ragged. His body hums with restraint so taut it might shatter.
“I won’t let you ruin her,” he snarls.
The vampire’s smirk sharpens to a razor’s edge.
“Too late.”
His fingers hook the edge of my panties, sliding them down slow and deliberate, baring me to the cool air that instantly licks across my heat.
My body arches without permission, aching and desperate.
The priest’s gaze drops, breath hitching, a stutter in his chest.
The vampire leans closer to him, voice a venomous purr slicing through the charged air:
“Go on then, Father. Save her. Touch her. Stop me.”
The priest’s hands tremble, fists clenching tight as his restraint begins to fracture.
Then, with a guttural growl, he seizes me—pulling me free from beneath the vampire’s hands, pressing my back flush against his chest, shielding me in a fierce embrace.
Yet even as he holds me, his palms roam my bare skin, and the hard, furious press of his cock grinds into my ass.
The vampire laughs, triumphant and dark.
“You think this is saving her? You’re already sinning, holy man.”
The priest’s mouth drops to my ear, breath hot and heavy—a prayer and a curse all at once.
“I don’t care.”
And all hell breaks loose.
He lays me at the altar again, parting my thighs with urgent hands, his mouth descending to my core.
His tongue plunges deep and desperate, relentless in its pursuit—drowning himself in my taste. There’s no hesitation, no restraint now—only a savage devotion as he devours me, punishing and worshiping all at once.
My hands dive into the copper strands of his hair, fingers tangling desperately as a raw cry tears free from my throat.
My back arches off the altar, vulnerable and wild.
He groans low, the vibration shaking through me from the inside out, his grip on my thighs fierce—bordering on bruising.
Above us, the vampire watches, his hand stroking slowly through his pants, the dark smirk on his lips dripping with satisfaction.
“Look at you, Father,” he murmurs, sin dripping from every word. “Praying with your tongue now?”
But the priest doesn’t pause.
He sucks hard on my clit, and I scream, hips bucking uncontrollably against his mouth. His growl rumbles through my body like thunder, merciless and fast, erasing every trace of the vampire’s touch—marking me with his mouth alone.
But the vampire isn’t content to watch from the sidelines.
He kneels beside me, hand slipping to my breast, fingers rolling my nipple with teasing precision as his lips brush against my ear.
“Let him have his little moment,” he purrs, voice low and dangerous. “Because when he’s done… it’s my turn.”
His teeth graze my earlobe, sending shivers down my spine. His other hand slides down my stomach, tracing the path the priest’s mouth just claimed.
I’m caught—trapped between them—drenched, quivering.
A battlefield where both fight, and both win.
The priest’s mouth breaks from me, face glistening, breath ragged and wrecked. His eyes lock with mine—dark, undone.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasps.
I can’t.
I won’t.
Instead, I yank him up by his collar, crashing my lips against his.
I taste myself on his tongue—desperate, starving—and moan deep into him.
Behind him, the vampire’s low, dangerous laugh coils through the air. “Confession can wait, Father.”
The soft clink of his belt hitting the floor cuts through the charged silence like a knife.
His cock, thick and flushed, springs free, stroking lazily in his hand as predatory eyes devour me.
“Since Father’s already sinned,” he drawls, “might as well go all the way.”
The priest’s hand is tangled in my hair, breath mingling with mine, cock straining hard beneath his robes.
Torn between duty and desire, he claws for release.
The vampire shoves him aside and drags me forward.
His hands tear away the last scraps of my dress, exposing me—vulnerable and raw.
He hauls me upright by my arms as the priest settles behind me, hands steady on my waist, anchoring me.
The priest’s breath ghosts my throat, his palm spreading across my belly just as the vampire’s finger slides slow and deliberate at my entrance.
His finger glides through my slick folds, savoring the proof of my ruin. His smirk is dark, but it’s his eyes—hungry, feral—that drink me in, tasting me with a primal hunger.
Behind me, the priest’s hand presses firmer, steadying. His lips brush my ear, whispering,
“Breathe, Shaina.”
But his breath trembles—restraint fraying, breaking.
The vampire plunges a finger deep, curling inside me just right.
My hips jerk forward, a moan tearing free, but the priest’s arms hold me firm—his chest a trembling wall against my back.
“You feel that, Father?” the vampire murmurs, finger pumping slow, relentless. “Feel how she clenches? That’s sin, holy man. That’s her body begging for more.”
The priest growls low—a guttural sound vibrating through my spine.
His hand leaves my belly, sliding up to cup my breast, kneading hard as his thumb flicks my nipple with fierce precision.
I gasp, arching between them—pinned and unraveling.
The vampire adds a second finger, stretching me wider. My body tightens instinctively around him, a raw cry slipping from my lips as his thumb presses hard to my clit, circling, tormenting.
The priest’s mouth finds my throat, kissing and nipping—every touch a battleground between worship and desecration.
“You want to save her, Father?” the vampire taunts, fingers thrusting deeper, faster.
“Then save her like this.”
The priest’s teeth graze my pulse, and I almost break—almost surrender—but the vampire’s fingers vanish.
I whimper, grinding my hips, desperate for friction, but I am empty—no fingers inside me anymore.
The vampire drags his fingers along my neck, smearing it with my slickness.
The priest’s lips seal around my throat, tongue lapping where the vampire’s fingers had marked me.
His groan rumbles deep and sinful against my skin, making my knees weaken, hips grinding into air, aching for contact.
“Tastes good, doesn’t it, Father?” the vampire purrs, lips curling as he watches the priest lose himself.
His fingers trace the inside of my thigh, featherlight, teasing us both.
“You’ll never forget it now.”
The priest’s hands stop trembling. They claim. One slides up to cradle my jaw, tilting my face toward him.
His eyes blaze—dark, wrecked, furious.
At me.
At the vampire.
At himself.
When his mouth crashes to mine, it’s a confession. A surrender. A demand.
His kiss is rough, desperate, tongue invading, tasting me—tasting the ruin I’ve become.
His cock, trapped beneath his robes, grinds hot and throbbing against the curve of my ass.
The vampire’s hand slips back between my legs, fingers pressing hard to my clit, circling with slow, punishing rhythm.
“You’ll save her with this too, Father?” he snarls, impatience bleeding beneath the words.
The priest pulls back, lips swollen, breath wrecked.
His hands roam down my sides to my hips, gripping hard, lifting me just enough to align me with the thick, aching length beneath his robes.
“This is salvation, you bastard,” he growls, voice raw.
With a fierce thrust, he buries himself inside me—holy vows breaking as he rips me open on the altar.
I cry out, arching hard—every nerve ablaze, every inch stretched to the brink.
Too much. Not enough. Salvation and sin tearing through me at once.
The vampire’s grin sharpens, eyes dark and hungry as they drop to the sight of me impaled on the priest’s cock.
“Finally,” he murmurs, fingers never ceasing their torment on my clit.
“Now we can begin.”
The priest’s hips pull back and slam into me again—deeper, rougher—every thrust an act of defiance.
He’s hot, thick, throbbing inside me, stretching me with every stroke. My moans spill out, ragged and helpless, as he drives into me without mercy.
His palm presses hard against my lower belly, pinning me in place and making it hit harder and harder.
Every plunge into my cunt, every drag of the vampire’s touch on my clit, winds the coil inside me tighter and tighter until I’m shaking, gasping, clawing at the priest’s arms just to keep from unraveling.
My walls clutch at him, desperate, greedy, refusing to let him go—pulling him deeper, demanding more.
The priest groans into my shoulder, his rhythm faltering, hips jerking like my body is wringing the control out of him, milking him toward the edge.
The vampire watches, lips parted, his hand still circling my clit with cruel precision—agonizingly slow, unbearably perfect.
“Feel that, Father?” he purrs, thumb pressing harder, syncing with the priest’s savage thrusts. “She’s about to break. You’re going to feel her come apart on your cock.”
I cry out, hips jerking, spine bowing between them, desperate and wild.
“Give it to her,” the vampire snarls, voice like a lash. “Fuck her through it. Make her scream.”
The priest growls low, hands biting into my hips as he drives into me—deep, punishing, every stroke harder, faster, knocking the breath from my lungs.
The altar shudders beneath us, every quake a blasphemy.
And I shatter.
The orgasm tears through me, violent and unyielding, leaving me sobbing as my cunt clamps down on him, milking him in spasms.
His groan is deep and broken, hips stuttering as he spills into me, flooding me with heat.
But the vampire isn’t done.
He releases my clit, his fingers slick, and brings them to my lips.
“Open, little thing,” he commands, voice dark and edged with hunger.
I part my lips, obedient, sucking his fingers greedily, tasting myself.
He laughs low, the sound vibrating against my bones, his cold touch making me tremble through the aftershocks.
The vampire doesn’t give me time to recover—lifting my hips, aligning me to him.
I feel him before he’s even inside. My body protests, swollen from the priest, but he presses in, thick and impossibly cold.
The chill making me ache sharper than the heat.
A cry slips from me, breath catching as he pushes deeper.
He pulls out almost completely, then slides back in slow, deliberate, inch by inch, stretching me wider, claiming every part of me the priest hasn’t already ruined.
He starts thrusting—deep, slow, deliberate—as if each movement is designed to test how much sin my body can endure.
My back arches off the altar, fingers clawing at the cold stone as his cock drags against every sensitive spot inside me.
A brutal, relentless rhythm that leaves no mercy.
I’m close. Too close.
But then—he stops.
Buried deep. Unmoving.
A strangled whimper rips from my throat as I writhe beneath him, chasing friction, but his hands clamp down on my hips, pinning me in place.
“Oh no, little thing,” he purrs darkly, a grin slicing across his face. “Not yet.”
With effortless strength, he flips me—rolling us until I’m straddling him, my knees on either side of his hips, his cock still lodged deep inside me.
He lays back on the altar like a king on his throne, watching me with predatory delight.
I try to move, to ride him, but his hands tighten around my waist, holding me still, making me feel every inch of him without the relief of motion.
“Father,” the vampire calls, voice dripping with mockery and hunger, “come claim what you’ve been dying to.”
The meaning of his words dawns on me. I whimper, already full, already raw. But his hand leaves my waist and presses against my back, forcing me down over him, my chest flush to his, my ass lifted—exposed.
The priest is already there. Kneeling behind me, his hands land on my ass, spreading me open.
His breath is ragged, his hands tremble, but his resolve is steel.
He lines himself up, his tip pressing against the tight ring of muscle, slick fingers guiding, coaxing. The stretch is sharp, relentless, and I gasp, my body straining to take him.
“Relax, Shaina,” the priest whispers, his lips brushing my shoulder as he pushes in—breaching inch by inch, claiming me in the most forbidden way.
I’m trapped between them.
The vampire’s cock buried cold in my cunt, the priest’s cock forcing fire into my ass. The contrast is maddening—one freezing me from the inside out, the other burning me alive, overwhelming me.
It makes me dizzy: the vampire’s shaft slick and unyielding, every thrust chilling like ice sliding through my veins, while the priest’s cock blazes with heat, ridged and veined, every inch scorching me raw.
My body doesn’t know whether to shiver or sweat, torn apart by opposites—two extremes clashing inside the same trembling vessel.
A helpless moan rips from me as my muscles clamp tight, gripping them both. The vampire’s chill makes me ache, the priest’s heat makes me throb.
The reality of where the priest is strikes me—where he’s chosen to take me.
Not the cunt meant for sin, but the tight forbidden hole the church itself damns. The holiest man splitting me open in the most unholy way. Heaven and hell colliding inside me, the altar they shatter upon.
Once the priest is fully sheathed, his hands lock onto my hips, and together they move in me.
Up.
Down.
The vampire thrusts up into me as the priest pulls out, then they switch—perfect, devastating rhythm.
Every time one withdraws, the other fills me, cold replacing fire, fire replacing cold, leaving me gasping at the whiplash of sensation.
My body trembles, wrecked, drowning in sensation, every nerve ending set ablaze as they use me in tandem.
“Look at her, Father,” the vampire growls, head tipped back, eyes dark with hunger. “She was made for this. Made to be filled.”
I can’t speak. I can’t think. My body arches, writhes, caught between salvation and sin.
The vampire’s hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back, and his fangs sink into my neck.
The pain is sharp, white-hot—but it melts instantly into a wave of ecstasy as he feeds, drinking me in, marking me as his.
They drive into me, deep and unrelenting, as if trying to carve themselves into my body.
Each roll, each thrust of their hips pulls a breathless moan from my lips, the friction raw, maddening.
I’m too full, too stretched.
One thrusts fast and rough, the other slow and deep—they switch without warning, driving me wild.
The vampire’s mouth stays latched to my throat, one hand gripping my breast as it jolts with every slam, the other still tangled in my hair, forcing my head back.
Then the priest moves one hand from my hip to my clit, rubbing tight, punishing circles.
It’s too much.
My walls seize around both of them, the orgasm ripping through me, my scream breaking in the vampire’s mouth.
The priest’s thrusts grow brutal, erratic—his groan low and wrecked as he buries himself deep, hips slamming against my ass, his release hot as it fills me.
The vampire’s growl vibrates against my throat as he drinks, hips jerking, cock throbbing inside me as he spills his release—cold as his flesh, a cruel contrast to the priest’s heat still flooding me.
They don’t stop moving until I’m nothing but trembling flesh between them—marked, filled, utterly ruined.
Fucked on the altar where I was meant to be saved.
Fucked by the one who hunted me and the one who swore to save me.
And I have never felt so holy… or so unholy.
As the candles gutter and the air falls silent, I know—
I will never leave this church.
I will never want to.
Because tonight, salvation didn’t save me.
Sin did.
---
Author's Note:
So… you survived the altar. Barely. 😌
This one was pure indulgence—fangs, faith, and filthy confessions. If you squirmed, if you gasped, if you whispered “I shouldn’t like this but I do”—then it did its job.
Leave me a sign below, tell me if you’d kneel for a priest… or a vampire. Or both.
And if you’re still hungry for more? Check out the other story on my page—if horror erotica is your sin, you’ll definitely love it.
—Your sweet little author 🐣
