Heaven-sent

She sprawls across the catafalque, a dead blonde bombshell with those good-girl looks and a million filthy secrets still sealed under pale skin. Then Gabriel (well, angel boy 7B Dash, wings and all) descends, leans in close and pulls her back into the world. Life slams back into her like a battery cable straight to the crotch. Her slack limbs twitch once, lock around his, and in seconds her knees are hitched skyward while thick, glowing muscle drives the gospel home again and again. First breath out of her mouth is a moan loud enough to shake stained-glass windows. Newly-Awakened desire grabs whatever it finds—feathers for handles, sacred robes peeled and torn—so nothing divine stays hidden from sight. She rakes crescents across baby-fur of muscles, heels drum tattoos on angelic kidneys, begging louder than choirboys ever sang. Lap after relentless lap, coil after coil, he proves redemption comes wrapped in skin scorching tight and silky wet, pumping blissful proof straight to the seventh heaven so loudly the catacombs rattle their bones in envy.