The first time he calls you holy, you laugh it back so hard your sides hurt. The second time, you moan gospel around his fingers between your teeth. He has always surprised you into surprising yourself. Because heās an angel hiding his halo behind his back and nothing has ever felt so filthy as plucking the wings from his shouldersā undressing his softness one feather at a time. God, if youāre out there, if youāre listening, he fucks like a seraphim, and thereās no part of scripture that ever prepared you for his hands. Hands that map a communion in the cradle of your hips. Hands that kiss hymns up your sides. He confesses how long heās looked for a place to worship and, oh, you put him on his knees. When he sinks to the floor and moans like he canāt help himself, you wonder if the other angels fell so sweet. He says his prayers between your thighs and you dig your heels into the base of his spine until he blushes the color of your filthy tongue. You will ruin him and he will thank you; he will say please. No damnation ever looked as cozy as this, but you fit over his hips like they were made for you. You fit, you fit, you fit. On top of him, you are an ancient god that only he remembers and he offers up his skin. And you take it. Who knew sacrifice was so profane? And once youāve taught him how to hold your throat in one hand and your heart in the other, you will have forgotten every other word, except his name.
Profane by Ashe Vernon (via darkchocolateconundrumme)
