Chapter 5: The worship
Leo woke to the muffled sound of traffic far below and the sterile, chilled air of a hotel room he didn’t recognize. For a disoriented second, he thought he was in a client’s file room. Then the scent hit him—lavender from the sheets, the sharp, clean bite of hotel disinfectant, and underneath it, the musk of their skin and sex from the night before.
The space beside him was empty, the satin cool.
He found her standing by the window, one hand holding the heavy curtain aside just enough to silhouette her against the gray morning light. She was already dressed for her showing in a severe, ice-blue sheath dress that clung to her hips and flared at the knee. Her hair was a perfect platinum twist. She looked untouchable, a sculpture of ambition and control.
“You’re awake.” She didn’t turn. “We have two hours before the car arrives.”
He sat up, the sheet pooling at his waist. The memories of the previous night crashed over him—the taste, the humiliation, the desperate, possessive fucking. His throat felt raw.
“Come here, Leo.”
He obeyed, padding across the cool floor to stand behind her. He saw their faint reflection in the glass: his rumpled, sleep-soft body hovering near her pristine, armored form.
“Last night was a beginning,” she said, her voice calm, instructional. “You performed a service. You reclaimed what is yours to reclaim. But worship isn’t just about cleaning up a mess.” Finally, she turned. Her green eyes were fathomless. “It’s a daily practice. A devotion. This morning, I’m going to teach you how to properly worship your wife.”
She stepped away from the window and sat on the edge of the neatly made king bed. She crossed her legs, the movement elegant and deliberate. She slipped off one pointed-toe stiletto, then the other. They fell to the carpet with soft thuds.
“Start here.”
She extended her right foot. Her toenails were painted a deep, blood-red. The arch was high, the skin smooth and pale. It was just a foot. And yet, presented this way, in the quiet of the morning after the chaos of Jax, it felt monumentally significant.
He sank to his knees on the carpet before her. The pile was dense and impersonal.
“Kiss it,” she instructed.
He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the cool top of her foot. The scent of leather and her subtle, clean skin lotion filled his nostrils.
“No. Not like a pilgrim kissing a relic. Like a man who gets off on the dirt beneath his wife’s sole. Like a man who knows this foot has walked all over him.” Her voice dropped, a confidential, filthy whisper. “Lick it. Suck my toes into your mouth. Show me you fucking mean it.”
A shudder ran through him. He took her foot in both hands, his fingers wrapping around her slender ankle. He lowered his head and dragged his tongue, slow and flat, from her heel to the ball of her foot. The taste was faintly salty, purely her. He opened his mouth wider, taking her big toe inside, sucking on it. He heard her breath hitch, a small, gratifying sound.
“Good. Tell me why you’re doing this.”
He released her toe with a wet pop. “To worship you.”
“Why do you exist, Leo?”
He moved to the next toe, running his tongue between them. “To worship you,” he mumbled against her skin.
“Louder.”
“To worship you!” The words echoed in the quiet room, absurd and definitive.
“Every part of me,” she said, her voice thickening. “My body is your temple. Your only cathedral. Now the other foot.”
He switched, repeating the ritual, his arousal now a persistent, aching throb. He was hard, trapped against his thigh, completely at her disposal. She let him work for several minutes, her head tilted back, eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips. Then she shifted, uncrossing her legs.
“Stand up. Help me with my dress.”
He rose, his knees protesting. He found the hidden zipper at the side of her dress and pulled it down. The fabric parted. She stood and let the dress slither to the floor, leaving her in only a matching set of pale lace. She was breathtaking—all taut muscle and creamy skin, the faint shadows of last night’s bruises blooming like petals on her hips and inner thighs.
“The underwear too. Then lie on the bed. On your back.”
His hands trembled as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her panties, drawing them down her legs. He did the same with her bra, freeing her breasts. She stepped out of the pile of clothing, a goddess disrobing. He lay back on the cool satin, his erection pointing straight up, vulnerable.
She didn’t join him immediately. Instead, she walked to the foot of the bed and climbed onto it on her hands and knees. She crawled over him, a predator, until she was straddling his face, her knees pressing into the pillows on either side of his head.
The view was overwhelming. The elegant, powerful lines of her back tapered down to the ripe, perfect curves of her ass. And between them, presented directly over his mouth, was her cunt, pink and swollen and glistening faintly from his attention only minutes before. The scent of her, deep and musky and entirely female, flooded his senses.
“This,” she said, her voice muffled from this angle. “This is your altar. You don’t just lick it when it’s full of another man’s cum. You worship it when it’s clean. When it’s hungry. When it’s mine. You show it devotion for no other reason than because it is part of me.”
She lowered herself an inch. His mouth was already open, panting.
“Eat my pussy, Leo. Eat it like it’s the last thing you’ll ever taste. Make me come with just your tongue and your desperation.”
He needed no further command. He lifted his head from the mattress, sealing his mouth over her. He licked into her with a frantic hunger, his tongue spearing deep, then flattening to lave broad strokes over her clit. She was already so wet, her taste clean and sharp and perfect. He gripped her thighs, holding her in place, feasting on her. His world narrowed to the dark, wet heat of her, the sounds of his slurping and her escalating moans, the tremble in her powerful legs.
“Yes, fuck, just like that… your tongue is so good for this… for this one thing…” she chanted, riding his face, her hips grinding down in a slow, circular rhythm.
He felt her tighten around his probing tongue. Her cries became sharper, fractured. She was close. He redoubled his efforts, sucking her clit hard between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue.
She came with a shattered cry, her body clamping down, thighs squeezing his head as she shook above him. Wetness flooded his mouth and chin. He drank it all, licking her gently through the aftershocks until she shuddered and pulled away.
She collapsed beside him, breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on her collarbone. After a moment, she turned onto her side, propping her head on her hand. She looked down at his body, at his cock, which was leaking a clear, steady bead onto his stomach.
“You need to come, don’t you?” she asked, her tone almost conversational.
He could only nod, his jaw aching.
“Then fuck me. But not like last night. Not like a frantic boy claiming something. Fuck me like you’re giving a tribute. Slow. Every stroke an act of worship. And you will tell me, with every thrust, what you are.”
She rolled onto her back, spreading her legs, beckoning him into the space he had just devotedly ruined with his mouth.
He moved between them, his body trembling. He positioned himself at her entrance, which was slick and loose from her orgasm. He pushed in, a slow, inexorable invasion. The heat was breathtaking. He buried himself to the hilt and paused, overwhelmed.
“Say it,” she whispered, her eyes locked on his.
“I am your worshipper,” he gasped.
He pulled back and slid in again, a long, deep stroke. “I exist to worship you.”
Again. “You are my cathedral.”
Again. “My only god.”
He set a punishing, slow rhythm, each withdrawal an agony of denial, each penetration a profound relief. The slapping of their skin was a quiet, rhythmic counterpoint to his mantra. He was losing himself in the cadence, in the feeling of her wrapped around him, in the absolute truth of the words.
“My purpose is your pleasure,” he chanted, his voice breaking.
“Yes,” she hissed, her hands coming up to claw at his back. “Give me your tribute. Cum inside your god. Fill your temple.”
Her words tipped him over. The orgasm seized him, a deep, rolling quake that tore a raw, broken sound from his chest. He pistoned into her twice more, shallow and desperate, as he emptied himself in long, hot pulses, flooding her, his body convulsing with the force of it.
He collapsed onto her, his weight heavy, his breath sobbing into her neck. She held him, one hand stroking his sweat-damp hair.
They lay like that for a long time, until the city’s light grew brighter around the edges of the curtain. Finally, she patted his shoulder.
“The car will be here soon,” she said softly. “You should shower. I need to get ready.”
He rolled off her, spent and hollow. As he pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, he felt the wetness between his legs, the physical proof of his devotion already cooling.
She stood, effortless, and walked toward the bathroom. She paused at the door, glancing back at him, a complex look in her eyes—satisfaction, ownership, a trace of something that might have been pity.
“You learned well today,” she said. Then she disappeared into the steam.
Leo stared at the rumpled, damp sheets, at the indentation where her body had been. The temple was empty. The worshipper remained, waiting for the next service to begin.