The soft glow of the single candle flickered, painting the stone walls with dancing shadows as Father Michael moved. Sister Agnes lay where he'd left her, her body a canvas of raw, quivering sensation, her chest still heaving with the aftershocks of climax. Her pussy throbbed, glistening with his recent intrusion, still slick with the combined evidence of her release and his full load. She was a picture of utter, sated vulnerability, every inch of her skin flushed from the intensity.

He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His eyes, dark pools of hunger, were fixed on her, devouring every curve, every intimate detail of her spread, naked form. He...