The first time he calls you holy,
you laugh it back so hard
your sides hurt.
The second time,
you moan gospel around his fingers
between your teeth.
He has always surprised you
into surprising yourself.
Because he’s an angel
hiding his halo behind his back
and nothing has ever felt so filthy
as plucking the wings from his shoulders—
undressing his softness
one feather at a time.
God, if you’re out there,
if you’re listening,
he f♥cks like a seraphim,
and there’s no part of scripture
that ever prepared you for his hands.
Hands that map a communion
in the cradle of your hips.
Hands that kiss hymns up your sides.
He confesses how long he’s looked
for a place to worship
and, oh, you put him on his knees.
When he sinks to the floor and moans
like he can’t help himself,
you wonder if the other angels
fell so sweet.
He says his prayers between your thighs
and you dig your heels
into the base of his spine
until he blushes the color
of your filthy tongue.
You will ruin him and he will thank you;
he will say please.
No damnation ever looked as cozy as this,
but you fit over his hips
like they were made for you.
You fit, you fit, you fit.
On top of him, you are an ancient god
that only he remembers
and he offers up his skin.
And you take it.
Who knew sacrifice was so profane?
And once you’ve taught him
how to hold your throat in one hand
and your heart in the other,
you will have forgotten every other word,
except his name.