His hand on my waist was steady, reverent, as though even desire had learned to surrender before the preacher.

In the room, the books, the clock, the walls lined with scriptures, they didn't disappear. They just stopped mattering.

His hands tightened around my waist, while my hands rested on his chest as he pulled me closer to him..

He was no longer pretending.

He didn't have to.

He rested his forehead briefly against my chest

"I want you"

He swallowed hard. I looked at him, impressed, maybe? He wasn't sermoning now, Nothing was going to save him-- not even his scriptures.

What remained in him was his choice, his desire....