I was still bent over the altar rail when the side door opened.
Footsteps.
Father Thomas didn’t pull out. He pressed his weight against my back, trapping me against the marble rail. His palm clamped over my mouth, shutting off my breath. His c**k remained half-buried inside my wet heat.
I froze.
Footsteps crossed the stone floor of the choir loft—slow, deliberate, even. A key rattled in a lock.
We stayed locked together in the dark. My breath hit his palm. My chest pressed against the cold edge of the marble, my seven-month belly squished under his stomach. His other hand gripped my hipbone, fingers digging into the flesh.
The footsteps turned, went down the wooden stairs, and faded into the main aisle. An iron latch clicked shut.
Silence returned to the sanctuary.
He waited three
