The Power Of Lust

They live where the world can't find them. Stone walls. Silence. Kitana runs things. She clenches her jaw and pretends the heat in her chest is righteous fire, not Lucifer stroking her from the inside out. Angelika stays close. Always close. Her eyes linger too long on the older woman's mouth. Her knees shake when Kitana's hand lingers on her shoulder after prayer. Sometimes her own hand slips between the sheets at night and she prays the gasps never reach the next bed. Guilt tastes different when you want it. Black marble and candlelight press close while they breathe each other's names in voices they don't use for God. Fabric rips quietly under impatient fingers. Nipples harden against cold air, then against warm tongues. Kitana spreads Angelika on the sacristy table, thumbs parting slick folds, and drinks her until Angelika's rosary snaps and beads scatter across stone. Their mouths trade spit and prayer words turned filthy. Skin against skin. Sweat. Scratches. Nothing soft. Nothing kind. Fingers curl inside each other, knuckles dragging against tight heat while teeth leave bruises the habits can't hide. They taste copper when they bite too hard. Come is smeared across pages of the book neither one opens anymore. When morning light finally crawls across them they are tangled, raw, still trembling. Redemption tastes like salt and ash on their tongues. They kiss anyway.