I sank my teeth into his shoulder, telling him to be quiet without words.
Mine, I thought, and the possessiveness that came with it was new and fierce and utterly foreign to a man who'd been taught that wanting anything for myself was the ultimate selfishness.
Not the Church's, not my father's legacy, not some vessel for their violence. Mine. My choice.
My hand kept working his cock while my other hand wandered over his skin, spreading pre-cum across every inch I could reach. Lorenzo's breathing had gone ragged, and his hips were moving now, thrusting into my fist. Watching him come undone because of my touch made something primal wake up in me that I hadn't known existed.
My teeth found his neck, his shoulder, and each bite drew a sound from him that went straight to my cock, and I was getting hard again, which seemed impossible, but my body was making up for lost time with a vengeance.
He bit out a curse, and his whole body went taut as his cock pulsed in my hand. Cum spilled hot and thick over my fingers, adding to the mess already coating us both. I kept stroking him through it because I wanted to wring every second of pleasure from him, wanted to be the reason he fell apart like this.
When he finally went limp, I brought my hand up to look at it. My palm was covered in him, in me, in us mixed together. The sight made my throat tight.
I brought my hand to my mouth and tasted us, groaning. The transgression made my cock twitch against his ass.
Lorenzo groaned, and I sank my teeth into the junction of his neck and shoulder, harder this time. Lorenzo gasped and arched into it, and blood welled hot under my mouth. I licked it clean, tasting him properly for the first time, and the copper tang mixed with everything else was communion in a way the Eucharist had never been.
The barrier of our sweatpants was suddenly too much. I wanted skin against skin. I yanked his pants down and my cock was hard again, thick and aching and demanding more despite having just come.
"Fuck," Lorenzo managed, reaching back to pull my hips firmer against him. "You're really pent-up."
"Shut up." I bit him again, and he shuddered. "I'm not done with you."
I found more cum coating his stomach and gathered it, bringing it to his mouth and smeared it across his lips.
"Open," I demanded, and when he did, I pushed my fingers into his mouth. His tongue slid against them and I immediately imagined my cock in their place, wondered what it would be like to feel that wet heat around me. But I didn't know how to ask for that. I didn't know how any of this worked beyond the desperate need driving me forward.
I pulled my fingers free and used the wetness to mark his face, his throat, claiming him in ways that would have horrified me yesterday but today felt like the only honest thing I'd ever done.
My rhythm turned brutal as I rutted against him, all desperation and hunger, like I could somehow get inside him through pure want. "Say my name," I demanded against his skin because I needed to hear it again, needed proof that this was real.
"Rafael—"
The sound shattered me, and I came with something between a sob and a roar, spilling hot against his ass while my whole body locked up. My teeth sank into his shoulder one more time, and when it was done, I collapsed against his back, panting hard, wrung out and trembling.
We lay there in the wreckage, both of us covered in cum and sweat and blood. The sun was setting, turning everything golden.
My hand moved through the wetness coating his chest. I couldn't stop touching it, couldn't stop touching him, like if I stopped, this moment would evaporate, and I'd be back in that cold cell of a life where I'd existed rather than lived.
"I'm going to hell." The words came out less fearful and more resigned.
"I'll save you a spot," Lorenzo said, voice rough and warm and utterly unafraid.
My hand kept moving through the mess between us. Every touch was proof I'd chosen this, chosen him, and no prayer could wash this away now, even if I wanted it to.
"What's wrong with me?" I asked, and the question came from somewhere deeper than the physical, from the place where twenty-nine years of doctrine was trying to reassert itself against the reality of what I'd just done.
"Nothing's wrong with you," he said. "You're just human."
But he was wrong, and we both knew it, because humans didn't spend their whole lives denying themselves every basic need and calling it holiness. Humans didn't rut against their father’s murderer on a warehouse floor while the world burned down around them. Humans had limits, had shame, had some instinct for self-preservation that would have stopped them before they crossed this line.
When I joined the order, I did it because I wanted to mean something, wanted my suffering to matter, wanted the pain to add up to purpose. But lying there covered in evidence of my desire, I couldn't make myself believe any of it had mattered at all.
Somehow, I'd gone from "thou shalt not" to "why the fuck not" in less than twenty-four hours. The ease of that transformation terrified me more than the damnation it promised, because if I could abandon everything I'd built my life on this quickly, what had any of it ever meant?
And now I could never go back.
I jerked awake atthe sound of the door banging open sometime later. I reached for where I usually kept my knives, but I wasn’t wearing them. I did, however, have a strange arm draped across my chest. Rafael. He hadn’t left my side.
