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“Hey, what is it about shoulders, anyway?”
Keagan glances over at her from his desk, his gaze catching on her hands. Cal is laying on her back on the ground, their hair pooling around them in a dark halo, examining the crucifix clasped in their cupped hands, smooth ivory beads twined and draped around their fingers. At his enquiring noise, she continues.
“The big guy says that if you want to visit the Vatican, you gotta cover your shoulders, right? And knees. I never got what’s so sexy about ‘em. Like sure, sometimes it’s hot for a wee bite, but it’s hardly the same as a nice pair of tits right? But the big man says thou shalt not flash shoulders and really don’t’cha just think it’s a bit much?”
He leans back in his chair, considering her as she stretches, and then sits up on her knees, his rosary still tangled in the fingers of her left hand.
“Perhaps it poses too much of a temptation.”
He’s not really sure why he is entertaining this at all. He never paid much attention to these meaningless little prohibitions. A shoulder? A knee? True danger lies where the blood flows closest to the surface. The nape of the neck or the tender flesh of the inner wrist. The throat or behind the ear, close enough to hear choked gasps or muffled moans.
“Oh really?” Cal raises an eyebrow, and then shifts forward, her fingertips starting at the hollow of her throat, then caressing gently along the skin, until her fingertips catch on the strap of her dress, sliding it gently off the shoulder. “Watch out, Father. The whore of Babylon is coming for you, and she might dare to show off a shoulder.” Cal crawls forward, exaggerating the sway of their hips, until they’re kneeling at his feet. For some reason, his gaze remains stuck on the soft curve of that shoulder, the smattering of brown freckles which haven’t yet had a chance to darken in the summer sun.
“Is this a sin yet, Father? Should I pray for forgiveness to compensate for my awful, seductive shoulders?” Their hands slip up his legs, the silver crucifix sliding up the inseam of his trousers. “Wouldn’t want to do something awful like tempt a man of the cloth, and all.”
His hand catches on her wrist, and he tugs it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the soft flesh. “You are treading on thin ice, Callan.”
They do nothing to hide the glint in their eyes, the smirk on their lips. “Why, are you overcome with lust? Distracted by desire? Shocked and scandalised?”
In one swift movement, she is pulled up into his lap, his hand sliding under her skirt from the back of her knee to her thigh, fingertips digging into the flesh.
His lips press to her shoulder, kissing along the skin to make her shiver. “All of those things, and more.”
“Is that so?” Cal strokes his fingers through his hair. “Have you been hypnotis-”
His teeth sink into her shoulder, cutting her words off with a moan.
Perhaps those old bishops understood more than he gave them credit for, after all.