Night wrapped the convent in silence. The long corridors were empty, lit only by the dim lamps along the walls.
Christiana stood inside John's office, watching him pace nervously across the room.
"We shouldn't keep doing this," John said again, running a hand through his hair. "Something feels wrong. I think someone might be watching us."
Christiana sighed softly.
"You worry too much," she said, her voice calm.
John stopped walking. "Christiana, I'm serious. If anyone finds out"
Before he could finish, Christiana stepped closer to him.
"Always worrying," she murmured, tilting her head slightly. "You think too much."
John tried to continue speaking. "This convent is not"
But Christiana gently placed a finger against his lips.
"Shh," she whispered.
The word was soft, but firm enough to stop him.
For a moment, John simply looked at her, his arguments fading under her steady gaze.
Christiana smiled faintly.
"See?" she said quietly. "Nothing is happening. No one knows."
John's shoulders slowly relaxed, though the worry had not fully left his face.
When she stood beside his chair she reached down, fingers brushing the back of his hand the one still holding the pen. She took the pen from him, set it aside, then curled her fingers around his wrist and guided his hand to the front of her habit, just below the wide leather belt.
"Feel how fast my heart is beating," she whispered. "For you."
Beneath the coarse wool her pulse hammered against his palm.
He should have pulled away.
He did not.
Christiana stepped between his knees, forcing him to spread his thighs to accommodate her. She gathered the heavy black skirts in both hands and lifted them slowly, bunching the fabric at her waist. No slip. No undergarments. Just pale thighs, the dark triangle of hair between them already glistening.
"Look at me," she ordered.
His eyes lifted. They were dark, pupils blown wide.
She released the skirts; they fell around his wrists like black manacles. Then she reached for the front of his cassock, tugged the remaining buttons open with sharp, impatient jerks until the white linen parted and his chest was bare. She scraped her nails lightly down his pectorals, watching the red lines bloom.
"You have denied yourself for years," she murmured. "Let me show you what you have been starving."
Before he could answer she sank to her knees between his legs.
Her hands were quick, efficient. She worked the wide sash free, shoved cassock and undershirt up to his hips. His cock sprang free already thick, already leaking at the tip. She made a pleased sound in her throat, wrapped her fingers around the base and gave one long, slow stroke from root to crown.
John hissed through his teeth.
She looked up at him through her lashes. "Say the word and I stop."
Silence.
She smiled small, dangerous then lowered her head and took him into her mouth in one smooth, deep glide.
He groaned, head falling back against the high-backed chair. His hands fisted on the armrests.
Christiana did not tease. She sucked hard, cheeks hollowing, tongue flat and pressing along the underside as she bobbed. Wet, obscene sounds filled the quiet room. She pulled off just long enough to spit into her palm, slicking him further, then went back down deeper this time.until her nose brushed the coarse hair at his base and her throat fluttered around him.
"Fuck" The word tore out of him, raw.
She hummed approval around his length, the vibration making his hips jerk.
When she finally pulled off, a thick string of saliva connected her lower lip to the glistening head. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, then stood.
"Up," she said.
He obeyed before he could think better of it rising on unsteady legs.
Christiana turned, braced both hands on the desk, bent at the waist. She kicked her sandals off, spread her feet wider, arched her back until the black skirts rode high and her ass was presented like an offering. She reached back, spread herself open with both hands.
"Take what the Church has denied you," she said over her shoulder. "Take it rough. Take it all."
John stepped forward. One hand gripped her hip hard enough to bruise; the other fisted the root of his cock and notched himself at her entrance. She was soaked slippery, hot, ready.
He thrust in a single brutal stroke.
Christiana cried out sharp, almost pained but pushed back to meet him, taking every inch.
He did not wait. Did not ease in. He fucked her like a man possessed hard, fast, relentless. The desk creaked under the force; papers slid to the floor. Her crucifix swung wildly beneath her, striking the wood with each punishing thrust.
"Harder," she gasped. "Make it hurt."
He obliged.
One hand left her hip, slid up her spine, gathered a fistful of dark hair and yanked her head back until her throat was exposed. He leaned over her, teeth grazing the side of her neck, then bit down not gently.
She moaned, loud and shameless.
His other hand snaked around to her front, found her clit and rubbed rough circles. She bucked against him, inner walls clamping down so tightly he nearly lost control.
"Not yet," she panted. "Not until I come on your cock."
He growled against her skin, fucked her faster, deeper, the wet slap of flesh against flesh echoing off the stone walls.
When she came it was sudden and violent back arching, thighs trembling, a choked scream ripping from her throat. Her cunt pulsed around him in rhythmic spasms, milking him.
Only then did he let go.
He pulled out at the last second, spun her around, shoved her to her knees again. She opened her mouth willingly. He fisted himself twice, three times then came hard across her tongue, her lips, her chin. Thick ropes of white painted her face; she swallowed what landed in her mouth, then dragged her tongue along the head to catch the last drops.
For a long moment there was only harsh breathing and the faint drip of wax from the candles on the side table.
Christiana rose slowly. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then reached up and straightened his cassock with careful, almost tender fingers. She buttoned it. Smoothed the fabric. Kissed the ring on his finger once softly before stepping back.
She rearranged her own habit, tucked her hair beneath the veil, pinned it properly. When she was once again the picture of modesty, she looked at him.
Outside the office, the hallway remained dark and silent.
Hidden behind the thick stone pillar, Joy watched the closed door from the shadows.
She had followed Christiana again.
Joy leaned slightly closer to the wall, her eyes fixed on the office door.
Inside, the conversation had gone quiet.
Joy's mind raced with thoughts.
So it's true, she thought.
The secret she carried was no longer just suspicion.
It was real.
And the longer she watched…
the more powerful that secret became.