Page 105 of Boardroom Mask

This ishim.

He thrusts once, deep and devastating. “Say it, Jillian.”

I’m shaking all over. He tightens his grip on my throat by a fraction and resumes his rhythm, slow at first and then building, and the pressure in my core ratchets up and up and I know I’m close and he knows I’m close and he won’t let me get there until I give him what he wants.

I whisper something.

“Louder.”

“… Kir.”

“Again.”

“Kir—”

“Again.”

“Kir!”

“Again.”

“KIR!”

And then the orgasm rips through me so hard my arms give out. I collapse forward against the panel and he follows, pressing me flat, his hips driving into me through the aftershocks while his fingers keep working and his other hand gentles on my throat. He says something against my hair, but I can’t hear it over the roaring in my ears. I feel his rhythm falter, then break, and he buries himself deep one final time and his whole body locks up behind me. I feel the heat of him inside me with no lattice, condom, or mask between us.

When we’ve both finished cumming, we stay there for a long time. Pressed together against the back panel of the confessional, breathing the same heated air. His forehead rests against the back of my skull.

Eventually, he pulls out. I feel him tuck himself back in and zip up. Then his hands find my hips and he tugs my underwear and jeans back up, buttoning them for me tenderly.

I turn around in the narrow space. Face to face. Chest to chest. His forehead drops against mine. I can feel his heartbeat through his sweater. It’s fast. Faster than mine, maybe.

“You said my name,” he says quietly.

“I did.”

“How did it feel?”

I think about lying. The habit is so ingrained that the deflection forms automatically:It was just a name, don’t flatter yourself, it slipped out.But the lie won’t come. Not here, not in this cramped wooden box that will tolerate no lie.

“It felt real,” I tell him.

His hands find mine in the dark and he holds them, fingers laced together between our chests. I pull back enough to look at him.

“We should go,” I mumble. “Before the early mass crowd shows up and we have to explain ourselves.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “What would we say?”

“That we were praying.”

“That’s one word for it.”

I almost laugh. Turning, he pushes the door open and steps out first, checking the aisle. The cathedral is empty now. The old woman is gone, the priest nowhere in sight. Kir reaches back and takes my hand, pulls me out. My legs are rubber. I grip the edge of the confessional doorframe until they remember how to work.

We walk down the aisle side by side, not touching now, two people in a church at dawn who could be anyone. At the front doors, he stops. I stop beside him.

First light is breaking over the city as Kir turns to face me. His hair is a wreck but his eyes are level and clear. “Next Wednesday,” he says. “Eight o’clock.”

I blink. “Huh?”