#corruptions

Then she emerged from the cab of the truck. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair pulled back severely. Even from this distance, the glint of metal replacing her left arm was unmistakable, catching the morning sun. A thick cigarillo was clamped between her lips, smoke curling lazily upwards as she gestured emphatically at the movers, her voice a low, authoritative rumble that carried easily down the street. Dark ink snaked visibly up her exposed right arm, disappearing under the sleeve of her tank top. She hefted a heavy box herself, biceps straining, moving with a brusque efficiency.

Your mother clicked her tongue again. "Well, everyone needs a place to live, I suppose. Bless her." There was a tightness in her voice, a familiar blend of piety and judgment that made you frown a little.

Later that afternoon, after the worst of the noise had subsided, your mother placed a foil-covered dish on the kitchen table. Perfectly baked blueberry muffins, still warm. "dear, be a good neighbor and take these over to... to the new arrival. A welcome gesture." Her eyes held a warning. Be polite. Be proper. Don't stare.

Clutching the warm dish, you walked the short distance, quietly. The house looked much the same, but the open garage was a stark contrast to the manicured lawns surrounding it. Tools lay scattered across a workbench, engine parts were piled in organized chaos,some boxes were still sealed on the ground and the air smelled faintly of oil and metal.

And there she was, wiping grease from her mechanical hand with a rag. Up close, she was even more imposing. The tattoos were intricate, dark patterns against her tanned skin. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, flickered over you as you approached the edge of the driveway. You felt suddenly very small, very... plain.

"Um, hello," you managed, holding out the dish as if shielding yourself infront of her gaze that seemed to capture everything. "My mother... we live down the street. She baked these. As a welcome." Your voice sounded breathy, unsure. You never had problem talking with strangers, you loved it in fact!but somehow your new neighbors had an...effect!

She paused, her gaze lingering for a second longer than necessary, taking in your attire. It wasn't unkind, exactly, but it was intense, appraising. She took the dish, her organic fingers brushing yours briefly. A strange jolt went through you at the contact that she didn't miss...she was seasoned woman she knew she had this kind of...effect, but you didn't seem to be one of those girls who would get effected, Not by her,not with the modesty that clinged to your style and every move even in your nervous state! well, don't judge a book by it's cover.

"Right. Thanks," she muttered, her voice rough, smoke-tinged. She didn't smile, didn't offer small talk. She just nodded curtly, turning back to the boxes, the muffins seemingly forgotten on the workbench.

You retreated, feeling oddly breathless, your cheeks warm which made your brows frown in confusion. She was unlike anyone you'd ever met. Rough, intimidating, undeniably powerful in a way that was both frightening and utterly captivating. Maybe that was the subject of your...nervousness.

That first encounter set a pattern. Drawn by an invisible pull you didn't understand, you found your way to her garage at least once a day. A pitcher of lemonade on a sweltering afternoon ("Mom made too much"). A plate of cookies ("Church bake sale leftovers"). the chain on your old bicycle conveniently slipped just as you were riding past her house. (You certainly didn't have a part in it). Soon enough because of your bike brave sacrifices you learned way more than just her name...

Your bike was a good excuse everytime that you didn't brought something over. Sevika would look up from welding something, visor flipped up, eyes narrowed behind protective goggles. You would explain the problem, feeling foolish but determined. Without much comment, she'd gestur for the bike, fixing it in minutes with deft, efficient movements of both her hands. You’d thank her profusely. She’d just grunt.

Through all these visits, You sat quietly on an overturned crate just inside the garage beside the work bench, observing her work. The focused intensity, the sure way she handled tools, the mesmerizing blend of human flesh and complex machinery in her arm. You noticed the details ... the way her muscles flexed, the calluses on her human hand, the occasional frustrated sigh when a part wouldn't cooperate. You learned to read the subtle shifts in her expression, even though she rarely spoke directly to you.

Sevika, for her part, noticed you too.picking up a fact or two about your family, your demeanor, and your preferences whenever your quiet voice filled the garage. She registered your quiet presence, the way you never seemed to fidget, your hands always neatly folded in your lap, a calmness that was unlikely in her world. She noted the modest, proper clothes,your shiny Mary Jane that never seemed to get dirty, your way of doing your hair that looked effortlessly neat, again, so different from anything in her own world. And beside this things she absolutely noticed the unwavering admiration in your eyes. It was plain, undisguised, and it stroked a part of her pride she hadn't realized was listening. The pastor's daughter, all innocence and propriety, looking at her like that.

When she found herself thinking about that quiet admiration that seemed to drop from your eyes whenever they layed on her,thinking about what might be in your mind, she wanted to laugh.It was absurd. Hilarious, even. Her and the preacher's kid? Two worlds separated by an unbridgeable chasm. Oil and holy water. Grit and grace. Impossible. Impossible?

And perhaps that was the crux of it. Sevika didn't do impossible. The very notion grated against her core. If something, or someone, seemed unattainable, it wasn’t a barrier! Oh no! it was a challenge. A puzzle to be solved, a situation to be controlled, dominated. The quiet admiration was flattering, yes, but the impossibility… that was intriguing. That sparked something deliberate within her. She would prove herself wrong. Or rather, prove the situation wrong.

One Saturday afternoon, the air thick with the smell of gasoline and summer heat, you were watching her wrestle with the stubborn engine of an old sedan. You sat in your usual spot, lost in the rhythm of her work.

Suddenly, her voice cut through the clatter of tools. Calling you.

You blinked, startled. She rarely addressed you so directly. She’d slid out from under the car, wiping grease on her jeans. Her mechanical hand rested on her hip.

"Yeah?" you squeaked.

"You just gonna sit there gawking all day?" Her tone was gruff, but lacked its usual edge. "Might as well learn something useful. Hand me that 10-mil wrench. No, the socket wrench."

Hesitantly, you stood up, your legs feeling stiff. As you stand up turning towards the workbench, she described the tool. You found the it on the cluttered workbench and walked cautiously towards her. Both of your figure now hidden behind the car from the street. The space felt charged, smaller than usual.

"Here," you offered it.

Instead of just taking it, Sevika reached out, her human hand closing over yours as you held the tool. Her skin was rough, calloused, grease ingrained in the lines, yet surprisingly warm. her thumb brushing against your knuckles as she talked. "Now, look here."

She guided your hand towards the engine block, pointing out a specific bolt. You were acutely aware of her closeness, the scent of metal and something uniquely her... smoke, maybe leather? Your breath hitched. Your mind, usually so ordered, felt scattered, unable to reconcile the strict teachings of your upbringing with the thrilling, terrifying proximity of this woman. Guilt pricked at you for reading too much into it, a familiar sting, but it was drowned out by a confusing wave of… excitement? Fascination?

Sevika demonstrated how to fit the wrench, her instructions low and steady, but her eyes weren't entirely on the engine. They flickered to your face, noting the flush on your cheeks, the slight tremble in your hand beneath hers, the wide, confused gaze you directed at her. The control she felt in that moment was intoxicating.

"You gotta... apply steady pressure," she murmured, her mechanical fingers brushing against your arm as she adjusted your stance slightly. The contact, metal against the soft fabric of your sleeve, sent a shiver down your spine. Time seemed to slow. The sounds of the neighborhood faded, replaced by the hammering of your own heart.

You looked up, needing to understand the shift, the sudden intensity crackling in the air. Your eyes met hers. Sevika's gaze was dark, unreadable, yet held a spark of something possessive, challenging. The air thickened, heavy with unspoken tension. Confusion warred with a strange, burgeoning awareness within you.

In that stretched moment, with your hand still held loosely in hers over the cold metal of the wrench, Sevika leaned down. There was no hesitation, no warning. Just a deliberate, decisive movement. Her lips met yours.

It wasn't gentle or tentative. It was firm, demanding, tasting faintly of smoke and something else entirely foreign that made your knees weak and your grip loose over the tool. The kiss was a claim, a spark igniting in the forbidden space between your two worlds, and your mind went utterly blank, consumed by the shocking, impossible reality of Sevika kissing you. Her lips moved ever the slightest on yours, it wasn't like her to kiss like that! But she knew it wasn't like you to have any experience in that filled...she was taking it slow, for your sake.

The kiss broke as deliberately as it had begun. Sevika pulled back, not far, just enough to observe you. For you, the world felt tilted off its axis. Your lips tingled, hypersensitive, the taste of her cigarillo that she smoked hour ago now was on your lips. Your lungs burned from lack of air you hadn't realized you weren't taking, and heat bloomed across your face, a tell-tale blush you desperately wished you could control. It had been… overwhelming. A clumsy, shocking collision on your part, met with a practiced, undeniable expertise on hers. You hadn't known how to respond, simply frozen under the sudden, firm pressure of her mouth.

Sevika, in stark contrast, looked entirely steady. Her breathing was even, her stance relaxed, mechanical hand leaving your arm and now resting once more on her hip. One dark eyebrow arched slightly, and a ghost of amusement flickered in her assessing eyes as she took in your disheveled state looking down on you face with the wide, stunned eyes, the slightly parted lips, the ragged catch in your breath. She saw the shock of a first kiss etched plainly across your features. Hooked, a low, satisfied voice murmured in the back of her mind.

"Well, " she murmured, her voice a low rumble that vibrated through the charged air between you. "Someone looks like they just got kissed for the very first time." She said feigning shocked.

Her words were a teasing prod, hitting the nail squarely on the head. Heat flared brighter on your cheeks. It was your first kiss, a monumental, terrifying, exhilarating first. But admitting that? Showing her just how profoundly she'd rocked your carefully ordered world? No. Some instinct, buried deep beneath the panic and the strange, fluttering excitement, urged you to mirror her coolness, to pretend this wasn't the earth-shattering event it felt like. You swallowed hard, trying to regain some semblance of composure, acutely aware that only the bulk of the sedan shielded this moment from any curious neighborhood eyes. If she wasn't standing right there, pinning you with that knowing gaze, you might have actually screamed, or maybe jumped up and down from the sheer, terrifying novelty of it all.

"Don't know what you're talking about," you managed, the words sounding thin even to your own ears. You avoided her gaze, focusing instead on a grease stain on the concrete floor.

Sevika merely smirked, a slow, confident expression that said she knew exactly what she was talking about, and knew that you knew it too. She didn't push it further then, just turned back to the engine with a grunt, leaving you reeling in the sudden silence, the ghost of her kiss burning on your lips.

Days bled into weeks. The garage, once just a place of curious observation, became a space charged with a different kind of tension. The dynamic shifted, subtly but irrevocably. Sevika began to punctuate the greasy silence not just with the clang of tools, but with kisses. They were unpredictable, never announced. Sometimes, while you were handing her a wrench, her hand would linger on yours, fingers brushing deliberately against your skin before she leaned in for a brief, firm press of lips. Other times, she might corner you against the workbench, the kiss deeper, more demanding, leaving you breathless and shaken.

She was terrifyingly good at reading you. Sevika seemed to possess an innate understanding of just how far she could push before genuine panic set in, before the ingrained guilt and fear instilled by your upbringing threatened to overwhelm the burgeoning, addictive thrill of her attention. She learned the subtle tells ...the hitch in your breath that signaled anticipation, the slight widening of your eyes when she crossed a boundary, the way you’d unconsciously lean into her touch despite your obvious nervousness. She played this knowledge expertly, doling out affection and intimacy with calculated precision, always keeping you slightly off-balance, always wanting more.

She knew exactly what she was doing, the practiced ease of her touches, the confidence in her kisses, designed to unravel you. A part of her, the arrogant, prideful part, relished the idea of someone seeing the pastor's pious daughter, willingly entangled with someone like her. It would be a delicious scandal, a testament to her power of influence. But she also recognized the brittle fear beneath your fascination. Pushing you into the public eye too soon would likely shatter the delicate connection she was forging, send you scurrying back to the safety of your prescribed world. So, for now, she granted you the privacy of the garage, the shared secret intensifying the illicit thrill for both of you.

Today felt different. An edgy anticipation hummed beneath your skin. You hadn't seen Sevika yesterday, a planned church event keeping you occupied, and the day before that, she'd been engrossed in a complex wiring job, offering no more than curt instructions and ignoring your hopeful glances. The absence of contact, after the growing pattern of unpredictable intimacy, left an annoying ache, a restlessness you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You were leaning against the workbench, watching her meticulously clean a carburetor part. She moved with that same focused intensity, her mechanical fingers surprisingly dexterous with the small components. The late afternoon sun slanted through the open garage door, casting long shadows. You traced a pattern on the dusty bench with your finger, trying to appear nonchalant.

Sevika straightened up, wiping her hands on a rag. She needed something from the higher shelves behind you. She moved towards you, her proximity instantly setting your nerves on high alert. Your breath caught. Is she…? She leaned in close, the familiar scent of oil, metal, and smoke filling your senses. Her face was inches from yours; you could see the faint lines around her eyes, the dark intensity of her gaze as she reached past you for a can of cleaner on the shelf.

Your heart, which had leaped into your throat, plummeted with disappointment. She pulled back, turning away without a word, without even a glance.

An involuntary sound, a small huff of frustration, escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Sevika paused, halfway back to her task. She turned slowly, that knowing, slightly cruel smirk playing on her lips again. "Something bothering you, Pastor's kid?"

You flushed, caught out. "No. Nothing."

"Really?" She took a step closer, invading your space again, her presence magnetic and intimidating. "Sounded like you were expecting something." Her eyes glittered with challenge. "If you want something," she said, her voice dropping lower, rougher, "you need to learn to ask for it."

The implication hung heavy in the air. Ask for it? Ask her? For a kiss? The very idea sent a wave of heat crawling up your neck. Your strict upbringing, the ingrained modesty, the sheer audacity of voicing such a desire warred with the memory of her touch, the addictive thrill of her attention, the frustrating ache of wanting it now. Embarrassment tightened your throat, but her challenging stare, the sheer force of her personality, pushed you.

"I... I just..." The words tangled on your tongue, thick with mortification. You couldn't look at her. "Maybe... could you...?"

Before the full, humiliating request could stumble past your lips, Sevika moved. Her human hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up forcefully. Her mouth crashed down onto yours, harder than before, a kiss that wasn't teasing but staking a claim, punishing your hesitation and rewarding your tentative compliance all at once. It stole the air from your lungs, demanding a response you were barely capable of giving, lost in the sudden onslaught. You would plead more often if this is the reward you'll be getting.

But then, just as you felt yourself start to sway, the kiss shifted. Her lips left yours, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline, down the sensitive column of your throat. You gasped, your head instinctively tilting back, granting her access. It was uncharted territory, a shocking escalation that sent shivers racing across your skin. She paused there, her breath warm against your pulse point, her eyes, dark and intense, searching yours. It wasn't a question asked in words, but the query was unmistakable: May I?

Every warning bell from your past screamed 'no,' screamed 'danger,' screamed 'sin.' But the feeling of her lips against your skin, the possessive grip on your jaw, the raw, predatory focus in her eyes… it silenced everything else. You couldn't speak, couldn't think, could only feel the frantic beat of your heart against her proximity. You didn't pull away. Your eyes fluttered shut.

That was answer enough.

Sevika smirked against your skin before her mouth closed firmly over the juncture where your neck met your shoulder. You jolted at the sharp, sucking pressure, a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper escaping you. It didn't exactly hurt, but it was intense, startling, possessive. She lingered for a moment before pulling back slightly, her thumb brushing over the spot.

She surveyed her handiwork, a dark, blooming mark against your skin, a visible sign of her claim. A low sound of satisfaction rumbled in her chest. She leaned close to your ear, her voice a rough whisper that sent another wave of shivers through you.

"That's right," she murmured, the words a praise for you bravery of coming out of your comfort zone. "Good girl. Now you will know who you belong to everytime you look into the mirror."

Weeks passed, sevika ever the presistor never let the mark leave your neck, you had to constantly choose clothing with high collar but the smile on your lips screamed "worth it". Dinners at your parents’ house was usually a quiet affair, governed by polite conversation and the rhythmic clinking of silverware. Tonight, though quiet, felt different inside you. A secret warmth curled in your stomach, a buoyancy that made it hard to keep the corners of your lips from twitching upwards. You kept your eyes mostly on your plate, the high, stiff collar of your blouse feeling both protective and suffocating against the sensitive skin of your neck. The dark marks hidden beneath were a constant, thrilling reminder of Sevika, a secret language only the two of you shared.

"Mrs. Gable mentioned seeing you chatting with our new neighbor quite often, " your mother commented casually, placing a serving spoon back in the mashed potatoes "Sevika, wasn’t it?"

The sudden mention of her name made you inhale sharply, a piece of roast potato lodging itself in your throat. You coughed, eyes watering, as a strangled gasp escaped you. Your father immediately passed you the water glass, patting your back gently.

"Goodness, dear, careful," your mother fussed, though her expression held only mild concern, misinterpreting your reaction as simple surprise. "I was just saying, it’s nice you’re being so welcoming. Perhaps," she continued, turning a thoughtful look on you, "you could invite her to service this Sunday? It would be a kind gesture. Show her some community spirit."

Your father nodded approvingly. "That’s a fine idea," he said to your mother than after a pause he turned back to you "I’m really proud of you, dear, for looking past appearances and extending friendship. That’s true Christian spirit."

Guilt twisted sharply in your gut, mingling uncomfortably with the secret thrill. Spirit? Friendship? If they only knew. The image of Sevika’s lips against your neck, the possessive heat in her eyes, flashed in your mind. "Oh. Um, yes. Maybe I could," you mumbled, agreeing weakly. The thought of Sevika, Sevika with her utter lack of reverence for anything, stepping foot inside your father’s church was terrifying.

The next afternoon, back in the familiar territory of the garage, the anxiety from last night returned tenfold. You perched on your usual crate, watching Sevika work, but your usual quiet observation was replaced by a nervous fidgeting you couldn’t control something so out of ordinary for you. Your mind was occupied, What if she laughed in your face? What if she said no and thought you were trying to force your beliefs on her? Worse, what if she said no, and your parents took it as a sign she wasn’t receptive to ‘friendship’ and curtailed your visits?

Sevika, predictably, noticed immediately. She put down the wrench she was cleaning, her sharp eyes narrowing on your tense posture. She wiped her hands on a rag and walked over, stopping far too close, that familiar invasion of your personal space that still made your heart hammer. Her human hand came up, calloused thumb brushing softly against your cheekbone, a gesture that had become unnervingly familiar, a prelude to intimacy.

"Alright, Pastor’s kid," she said, her voice low. "Spit it out. You’ve been wound tighter than a spring nut since you got here.”"

Her closeness, the casual intimacy of her touch, momentarily scattered your thoughts. You took a shaky breath. "My parents… they, uh… they want me to invite you to church. On Sunday." The words tumbled out in a rush, braced for refusal or mockery.

Sevika’s expression didn’t change much, perhaps a flicker of surprise deep in her eyes, quickly masked. Church? Her? The idea was ludicrous. She hadn’t stepped inside one since… well, she couldn’t even remember. Honestly, she couldn’t care less about stained glass and sermons. But then she looked at you, properly looked. Saw the genuine anxiety knotting your brow, the way you chewed on your lower lip, the plea in your wide eyes. Seeing you this worked up, this vulnerable… fuck it. How bad could one boring hour be? Besides, the image of walking into his domain, the pastor’s holy ground, with his daughter marked and claimed by her… the sheer audacity appealed to her confrontational nature. But it wouldn’t be Sevika if she didn’t make you work for it, just a little.

She pulled her hand back, folding her arms, leaning against the workbench with feigned contemplation. “Hmmm, church,” she drawled, tapping her mechanical finger against her bicep. "Don’t know. Not really my kind of place, you know? Lotta judgment, usually."

"No, it’s not like that!" you rushed to assure her, desperation making your voice high-pitched. "Everyone’s really nice, and Dad’s sermons are… well, they’re good! Please, Sevika? It would make my parents happy..." and I don't know what will happen if you decide not to you though to yourself.

Sevika watched your earnest pleading, a slow smirk building. She already knew she was going, but the game was too enjoyable you were too adorable to resist like this. She pushed off the workbench, to lean in close again. Her eyes dropped pointedly to the high collar of your shirt. Before you could react, her fingers deftly hooked under the fabric, pulling it aside just enough to reveal the fading, but still visible, mark she’d left days before. Her head dipped, and her lips attached themselves firmly to the spot, a deliberate, possessive reclaiming. You gasped, hands automatically coming up to grip her forearms, clinging as the familiar heat and pressure sent tremors through you. She lingered, tasting her claim, reinforcing her ownership right there in the greasy light of the garage.

She lifted her head, eyes dark and intense. The smirk was gone, replaced by smoldering satisfaction. "Okay," she said, her voice rough. "I’ll go." She released your collar, letting it snap back into place, hiding the freshly renewed evidence. Her gaze held yours. "But you owe me one, Pastor’s kid. Big time. One day, I’m gonna ask you to do something for me, and you’re gonna do it. No questions asked. Got it?"

Staring into those commanding eyes, feeling the phantom heat of her mouth on your skin, you didn’t really know what else you could possibly give her, what favor she could possibly want that she hadn’t already begun to take. But trapped in the force of her will, you could only nod dumbly. "Got it."

Sunday morning arrived with a nervous flutter in your stomach. You stood near the entrance of the church with your parents, greeting familiar faces, your eyes constantly darting towards the heavy wooden doors. And then, she arrived.

Sevika stood framed in the doorway, a stark contrast to the pastel dresses and neat suits surrounding her. She wore dark jeans, sturdy boots, and a plain, dark button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal both her mechanical arm and the intricate tattoos snaking up her human one. She looked… out of place, yes, but also undeniably powerful, her usual intimidating aura somehow amplified in this setting of quiet reverence.

Your father, ever the gracious host, stepped forward immediately, hand outstretched. "Sevika! Welcome, welcome! We’re so pleased you could join us."

Sevika took his hand, her grip firm. "Pastor," she acknowledged, her voice neutral. Her eyes, however, immediately found yours across the small space. And they widened, just slightly.

You wore a simple white dress, knee-length, with short sleeves and a modest neckline it was your typical Sunday attire but sevika had never seen it. seeing you like this, bathed in the soft light filtering through the stained-glass windows, your hair neatly done, a gentle, almost shy smile gracing your lips as you met her gaze… Sevika felt an unexpected jolt. You always looked neat, proper. But today, surrounded by the trappings of your faith, you looked… breathtaking. Ethereal. An innocence so potent it was almost provocative. That kind smile, directed at her… damn it all, she wanted to drag you out of here right now, push you against the ancient stone walls and kiss you senseless, wipe that serene look right off your face and replace it with the dazed flush she was becoming addicted to.

The service began, and you found yourselves sitting side-by-side in a wooden pew. You felt Sevika’s restlessness beside you, the slight shifting, the way her mechanical fingers tapped silently on her knee. You assumed it was discomfort the unfamiliar hymns, the prayers, the sheer foreignness of the environment for someone like her. You risked a small glance; she wasn’t looking at the altar or your father in the pulpit. She was looking at you. Specifically, at the way your hands were clasped loosely in your lap as you bowed your head in prayer, your expression earnest and focused. Adorable. Utterly, maddeningly adorable.

Leaning closer during a moment swallowed by the organ’s swell, Sevika’s lips brushed your ear. Her warm breath sent shivers down your spine despite the sacred surroundings. "Where's the Restroom?" she whispered, her voice a low, rough command against the delicate shell of your ear. "End of the hall." You whispered back gesturing with a tilt of your head to the direction. "Great, yo have five minutes to come after I go" she voiced in a stern tune that didn't allow any argument.

You jolted, turning wide eyes to her. Now? Here?

Sevika merely raised a knowing eyebrow, a silent reminder of the debt you owed. Pride flared in her chest ... cashing in the favor so soon, so brazenly, right under the nose of the Pastor himself. She gave your knee a quick, firm squeeze under the cover of the pew, then stood smoothly and slipped out into the side aisle, heading towards the back.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was insane. Sacrilegious. But the memory of her kiss, the weight of her promise, and the undeniable pull she exerted overrode everything else. After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only two agonizing minutes, you mumbled an excuse about needing water to your mother and slid out of the pew, legs trembling as you followed Sevika’s path.

The restroom was small, utilitarian, smelling faintly of bleach and old plumbing. Empty. The lock clicked shut behind you, loud in the sudden silence. Before you could even take a breath, Sevika had you backed against the cool tile wall, her mouth descending on yours in a hungry, almost frantic kiss. It was all pent-up frustration from the service, the forced restraint, the maddening sight of you looking so pure and untouchable.

Her hands were immediately busy, fingers fumbling with the small pearl buttons at the neck of your white dress. One, two, three gave way, exposing the smooth skin of your collarbone and the tops of the marks she’d already left. Her lips abandoned yours, attaching themselves to your neck with bruising intensity, licking, sucking, biting lightly, drawing a choked gasp from you.

"So damn beautiful," she muttered against your skin, praising the way you trembled under her assault. Her hands roamed, sliding over the fabric of your dress, mapping the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, then drifting higher to cup your breast through the material. She was trying to maintain some semblance of control, trying to just "put out the fire," as she’d thought of it, but touching you, marking you here, in this forbidden place, was intoxicating.

Her mouth moved lower, leaving a trail of fire across your collarbone, then lower still, finding the delicate skin just above the swell of your breast, hidden by the loosened dress. She nipped gently, then soothed the spot with her tongue, leaving another dark bloom against your skin.

She pulled back abruptly, breathing hard, her eyes blazing with a barely contained inferno. Her mechanical hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face up to hers. You looked dazed, lips swollen, eyes wide and dark, the picture of illicit surrender.

"You’re making me crazy, Pastor’s kid," she growled, her voice thick with desire. "Making me want things I shouldn’t, especially not here." She leaned her forehead against yours for a second, trying to regain control. "God help you when I finally stop holding back."

And with that lingering threat, that promise of future intensity hanging heavy in the small, sterile room, she released you, leaving you trembling against the wall, marked and claimed within the very heart of your father’s church.