Fic: Turn to the Aims and Desires of the World, Erica/Jack, NC17
Title: Turn to the Aims and Desires of the World
Fandom: V (2009)
Pairing: Erica/Jack
Rating: NC17
Spoilers: set between 1x12 and 2x01
Summary: Written for Porn Battle prompts red, sin, forbidden, hands. When Anna instills fear with Red Sky, Erica and Jack seek a little comfort from one another.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit. Just borrowing, and I promise to put them back when I'm done.
Warnings: Priest-type sex. Please don't read if this would offend your beliefs. I've tried to be as respectful as possible to the Catholic faith.
Though she's obviously trying to be quiet, Jack hears the faint creak of the door and the measured steps of her boots against the marble. She enters on the Gospel side of the church, on Mary's side, and he doesn't need to turn around to see the image of her walking through the nave.
Even though he hears her coming, he isn't expecting the contact of her hand on his shoulder, and when Erica speaks his name in greeting, Jack's hands betray him. The candle he was lighting, another prayer for salvation, spills hot wax down its side and over his fingers. The hiss of pain is involuntary, and immediately he's ashamed.
Erica doesn't seem phased by his moment of weakness, taking his hand (and the fact that she can touch him as though it was nothing, as though there's no such thing as temptation or hell drives him ever closer to insanity) with her usual brusque tenderness. Her other hand retrieves the still trembling candle and with typical efficiency, she pushes it into an empty holder, letting the brass points shave off four strips of cold paraffin.
There's no reason for her to be here, other than the fact that today he stood up in front of everyone and redefined his faith. He made a choice between the Church and doing the right thing, and God alone knows how he'll be punished for that. It brings back too many memories of the debates he's had over the years: trying to reconcile goodness with the prospect of a vengeful God.
Beside him, with cool hands and compassionate eyes, is the other greatest challenge to his faith. It's no coincidence how often he hides his collar around her, something he's always worn with pride. There’s part of him--a conflicted, angry part of him--who wants her to see him as more than the institution. He wants to prove to her that he can be useful, that he can fight just as well with his morals, that he can save people too. The worst part is that Erica doesn’t mean to dismiss him, but she believes in guns and arrests, not prayers and hymns.
The wax is already stiffening on his skin, the initial burn having faded to a dull throb of pain. Erica tugs gently at his wrist, leading him towards the pews but he resists. Instead, he nods towards the door and she follows without questioning.
“Erica?”
It’s the only question he can think of.
“The sky turned red, Jack.”
She seems calm, at least on the surface, but there’s a storm raging in those saltwater-blue eyes that he can’t risk looking at for too long. There’s a point where looking turns to staring, and that’s just asking for trouble. Erica catches him, again, but instead of her usual challenging stare there’s a question forming on her face.
“Do you think this is it? Do you think the world is ending?”
He wants to conjure up a few more inspirational words, he knows that his mentors over the years would have just the passage of scripture for a moment like this, but all he can think is how stunning Erica looks as fear and bravery compete for control of her emotions.
Jack reaches out a hand (and isn't it nice to be Jack, not 'Father', even in his own head whenever Erica is around?) with the intention of a reassuring pat on Erica's shoulder. Instead, somehow, he finds himself gently stroking the blond hair from her ear down to her shoulder. It's soft to the touch, silky in a way that his will never be, because even if the apocalypse begins today, of course Erica Evans still remembered to condition in the shower that morning.
There's a moment when he realizes what he's doing, but before he can stop, Erica leans into his hand. Under the strands of hair he feels the sudden heat of her cheek, and it's almost like an electrical current pulsing through his arm at the simple contact. Her eyelids flutter closed, and for a moment he's free to look his fill without fear of questions or propriety. This simple act of touching, the warmth and softness of a beautiful woman beneath his hand and Jack knows the die is already cast.
Tonight, he will break his vow. How many others will break in this battle against the Visitors? How many more compromises can he blame on a war? This isn't Iraq, where it's okay to skip a few lines in the Last Rites because some poor soldier's life is ebbing away, seconds instead of hours and days remaining. Jack has never been comfortable with absolutes, but now he's in danger of ignoring them altogether.
But Erica is waiting, without saying a word. She wants to know if this is really it, and there's only one thing Jack wants to do if the sun really won't rise in the morning.
(He doesn't ask about her son, about her ex-husband, about why she would seek out a priest when her faith is in only the visible, the tangible. He doesn't ask if she wants this, because suddenly it's the most obvious thing in the world.)
He kisses her, with no small amount of self-consciousness. How long since he met another person's lips like this? How long since he's felt the soft pressure of a kiss returned, the flicker of tongue that suggests more sinful behaviors to come? Too long, and yet he hasn't missed it until Erica, with her guns and her sass and her unshakable convictions about the word that he shouldn't have to envy.
Erica is kind enough not to speak, at first. She doesn't comment on the fact that this is never supposed to happen, that they're standing in a drafty corridor with only the streetlights through stained glass to light the space around them. There's incense in the air, the constant echoes that seem to span the centuries that the building has stood, and Jack can't make himself say 'no', never mind 'not here'.
When he fumbles with her jacket (leather, as always), she's quick to unzip it. Underneath she's dressed in that smart but casual way of hers - clothes just tight enough to lead to temptation, but she's certainly had no trouble chasing down bad guys and aliens alike in them. It's only in that moment that Jack admits to himself how long he's wanted to see her naked, how these inappropriate, vow-obliterating thoughts have pestered him since that first night in the warehouse.
Or maybe arousal is just his default reaction to Erica and adrenalin, but the damn sky is red and he doesn't have the strength to fight it anymore. Another searing kiss from Erica drowns the last scraps of his resolve, and any futile hope of self-control goes with it.
She's pressed against him now that the jacket is out of the way, her palms flat on his chest as their kisses get more frantic. Jack has his hands tangled in her hair, feeling like he'll never quite be close enough, like the kisses will never be hard or plentiful enough. If he's going to burn in hell, or burn on the streets tomorrow, he's going to make it worth having ever been alive in the first place.
There's no grace in the way that they tear at each other's clothes, and a button or two certainly goes flying off into the shadows. The lace of Erica's bra is pleasantly scratchy against his now bare chest, and Jack knows she can feel his erection against her hip, evidence--as if it were needed--of how far he intends to fall tonight.
Oh, Jack she murmurs, and he feels it as much as hears it while dusting kisses along the elegant lines of her throat. He can’t think of sin and eternal damnation, not while the fading scent of her perfume is tickling his nose (something musky, like spices maybe, from somewhere far away).
He does nothing to stop her when her hands find his belt buckle, the only sounds in the small corridor are the whisper of leather slipping through metal, accompanied by their already ragged breathing. Taking her face in his hands, Jack kisses Erica soundly, his attempt to tell her how much he wants this, how she's worth breaking every last rule for.
It's all he can do to stay standing as Erica backs him against the wall, and he can feel the cold stone through the thin black material of his shirt. In front, he has the scalding heat of Erica's mouth as it trails down his torso, the firm pressure of here lips and wet swipes of her tongue driving him one step closer to madness. The graze of her teeth is welcome, an edge of pain to stop him giving over completely to pleasure. He doesn't know how to tell her that he needs this to hurt, but the moan each nip and bite draws from his throat seems to spur her on.
By the time she's pulling down the zipper of his pants, Jack knows he's lost. The cool air is startling against his hard cock once it's freed (and even thinking in these terms, of words like these, it's nearly too much) but in seconds Erica's warm fingers wrap around the base and that's all he can think about.
She teases with her tongue, perhaps giving him another chance to back out, to see sense and save his soul, but it only makes his hips twitch towards her mouth--seeking out more, as if he could ever get enough. When her mouth closes over the head of his cock, Jack loses his mind just a little bit more.
It feels impossibly, perfectly good, albeit for a different definition of good than he's clung to for years. He hasn't told Erica that he's done this before, that there were women before the Holy Orders; he doesn't tell the story of the girl he loved with his whole heart, killed before she could graduate college. When he preaches about love and loss, he doesn't qualify his words with that experience, but he thinks that somehow Erica has sensed this in him, the dark weight she carries with her calling out to his own.
He doesn't want this to be over before it starts, doesn't want this to be only something Erica gives to him. She's selfless, sure, because she might not even be in this fight if she weren't so used to giving up her own life in service of others, and he wonders if it feels the same for her - the numbness, the frozen time of sitting on a shelf and watching the real things, the human things pass her by?
It takes what little willpower he still owns to pull away from the hot caress of her mouth and flicking tongue. Jack sinks to his knees as he frees himself, tugging at her clothes despite the chill of the old, stone building. Their skin is feverish to the tough, a faint sheen of sweat visible in the faint light. Jack kisses her again, but Erica's tumbling back towards the chilly floor and he has no choice but to follow.
Her jeans are a little trickier to dispense with than his slacks, but that's only because Erica wears her clothes tight enough to lead a man into temptation. Now that he's surrendering to that temptation, Jack couldn't be more grateful. After all, what better compliment to God that to appreciate such an attractive woman?
He hesitates when there's only underwear left between them, a sort of final frontier that he's been trying not to think about in this frantic buildup. Erica watches him from where she's lying on her back, breasts rising and falling almost hypnotically as she tries to calm her breathing a little. This is what Jack thinks deserves to be called glorious, this sight before him, and so with little ceremony he hooks his thumbs into Erica's panties and easily pulls them down.
With so much more of her exposed, he'd be a fool not to enjoy it properly, and so Jack lets his hands and mouth rove across her smooth skin, bringing years of frustrated fantasies to life at long last. Erica's expressive beneath his touch, her usually unmoved exterior betraying far more than he's used to seeing-- from the way she bites her lips to the gentle rocking of her hips as they rise up to meet his stroking fingers.
She wants more.
Jack does too, if he's honest, and if nothing else the intimacy of this moment makes the truth the one thing he can cling to. He feels like he'll die if he doesn't take Erica now, here on the cold marble floor of a once-sacred building.
He lets his fingers travel further as his mouth obsesses over her breasts, and soon those fingers encounter warmth and wetness that he'd almost forgotten existed. Erica moans aloud as he seeks out her most sensitive places, but that's nothing compared to his own cry of happiness and relief when she spreads her legs and lets him bury his cock inside her. Any last doubts are immolated in the feel of her around him--the slick velvet of her brings him perilously close from the first stroke.
It's as if they both know this can't happen again, because they both try to make it last. Although Erica's hand sneaks between their bodies, presumably to rub her clit as he thrusts inside her, she stops and forces herself to wait. For his part, Jack runs through every mental list he can summon to delay his own climax, but he knows it won't buy him much time; it's been far too long and he wants this too much.
His hands take hold of her hips and his thrusts are more powerful now. Jack would be worried that he's hurting her but for the enthusiastic way she responds to each movement. His knees and elbows are bruising from the floor, but that's just enough punishment to keep him sane, and it’ll be enough to remind him of his sin come the morning.
Then Erica lets her hand finish its journey and Jack can feel her fingers between them, the gentle rubbing motion that turns her muted moans into something louder, just a little more desperate. It doesn't take long until she's coming, head thrown back in ecstasy, and Jack has only a moment to revel in the sight before his own orgasm overwhelms him.
He supposes, though of course he's out of the habit, that they should have discussed protection before any of this started, but when Jack comes inside of her, Erica doesn't look angry or worried. As he collapses on top of her, supporting himself as much as possible on his forearms, Jack can’t stop himself from kissing her, anywhere his mouth happens to land.
He hears her murmuring his name as she comes down from her high, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling even in this dull light. The fact that he made her look this way appeals to Jack on some baser level, there's an animalistic thud of pride in his chest at the sight.
Erica's arms are wrapped weakly around him, holding him close, possibly in fear that he'll realize his sin any moment and bolt. Jack is too spent to feel nervous or guilty, though he's no fool, and knows those emotions are coming in a tidal wave anytime now. He wants to postpone it just a little bit longer, even as he's softening, still inside this beautiful woman, he knows how easy it might be to become addicted to moments just like these. There's already the glimmer of maybe, just one more time and vague, flickering images of other once forbidden tricks they might try. Erica doesn't seem in any hurry to go either, her skin cooling anywhere where there bodies aren't directly touching.
She moves first, of course, because even in an unprecedented situation, Erica Evans is the one to take charge. Shifting her hips slightly indicates a new state of discomfort, and Jack withdraws reluctantly, rocking back on his heels for a moment before shamefacedly retrieving his clothes from the floor.
They dress in silence, not daring to risk even a split-second of eye contact. Jack is already mourning the vision of Erica's body--once more obscured by clothes--when he feels a gentle touch at his elbow.
"I'm sorry, Jack."
She has nothing to be sorry for, and he's relieved to see in her eyes that she doesn't seem to regret her own part in all this. Erica senses that she's tempted him, that she's the reason he's strayed when so many other women have flitted through his life without effect. It's her pre-emptive guilt, a pathological willingness to shoulder the blame so that everyone else can carry on with their lives.
"Don't be. I, uh, didn't mean for this to happen. But I won't regret it Erica. I don't think I can."
He stresses that last word, because it's important to Jack that Erica know his sincerity. Let him make his peace with the church and with God himself, leaving Erica absolved of responsibility once.
There's nothing he can think of to do besides pull her into a warm hug. Jack is acutely aware of his body now beneath his rumpled clothes--his skin still just a little clammy from the sweat and exertion of their love-making--but holding Erica tight against him is too good to resist. She presses her own silent thanks, and explanation, and apology into his shoulder blades with her fingers; the tightness of her grip suggest that maybe she doesn't want to be alone if and when the sky really does fall.
That's when it roars up, out of nowhere, until Jack doesn't think he can breathe at all. His throat goes dry, like someone poured a handful of sand down over his tongue, and it feels like a metal band is tightening around his chest.
"Whoa!" Erica exclaims as she steps out of their embrace. "This is the freaking out part?"
Struck dumb by his panic, by his sudden and unavoidable shame, Jack nods at her suggestion. He shouldn't be so relieved that Erica's response is to hold him close again, instead of running for the nearest exit. He breathes deeply into the crook of her neck, and he thinks she might by crying too as his own tears splash down on the crisp blue collar of her blouse. Before long, his labored breathing has returned to normal, and all he can hear above their mingling heartbeats are the familiar ethereal whispers of the building that they've just desecrated.
Expecting an interruption from Father Travis at any moment, Jack pulls away and offers to escort Erica to the door. She hesitates, although whether she's thinking about asking to stay, or for him to go, Jack never finds out.
"Goodnight," she whispers, and strides off into the shadows with that athletic gait he can spot from across a crowded street now. Jack lets his head fall into his hands, gathering his thoughts for a moment before reaching for the rosary beads still lodged in his pants' pocket.
He steps back out towards the pews, selecting a space near the front, although there's nobody else in sight.
Bowing his head, eyes shut tight against the burning incense and flickering lights, against the mental images of his own immoral deeds, Jack begins to pray. The words have a fresh meaning for him tonight, a new urgency to his quest to show devotion and beg forgiveness.
He tries not to think of it as Erica giving him back his faith, but Father Jack Landry is forced to admit--at least to himself--that it might be exactly what she's done.
Fandom: V (2009)
Pairing: Erica/Jack
Rating: NC17
Spoilers: set between 1x12 and 2x01
Summary: Written for Porn Battle prompts red, sin, forbidden, hands. When Anna instills fear with Red Sky, Erica and Jack seek a little comfort from one another.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit. Just borrowing, and I promise to put them back when I'm done.
Warnings: Priest-type sex. Please don't read if this would offend your beliefs. I've tried to be as respectful as possible to the Catholic faith.
Though she's obviously trying to be quiet, Jack hears the faint creak of the door and the measured steps of her boots against the marble. She enters on the Gospel side of the church, on Mary's side, and he doesn't need to turn around to see the image of her walking through the nave.
Even though he hears her coming, he isn't expecting the contact of her hand on his shoulder, and when Erica speaks his name in greeting, Jack's hands betray him. The candle he was lighting, another prayer for salvation, spills hot wax down its side and over his fingers. The hiss of pain is involuntary, and immediately he's ashamed.
Erica doesn't seem phased by his moment of weakness, taking his hand (and the fact that she can touch him as though it was nothing, as though there's no such thing as temptation or hell drives him ever closer to insanity) with her usual brusque tenderness. Her other hand retrieves the still trembling candle and with typical efficiency, she pushes it into an empty holder, letting the brass points shave off four strips of cold paraffin.
There's no reason for her to be here, other than the fact that today he stood up in front of everyone and redefined his faith. He made a choice between the Church and doing the right thing, and God alone knows how he'll be punished for that. It brings back too many memories of the debates he's had over the years: trying to reconcile goodness with the prospect of a vengeful God.
Beside him, with cool hands and compassionate eyes, is the other greatest challenge to his faith. It's no coincidence how often he hides his collar around her, something he's always worn with pride. There’s part of him--a conflicted, angry part of him--who wants her to see him as more than the institution. He wants to prove to her that he can be useful, that he can fight just as well with his morals, that he can save people too. The worst part is that Erica doesn’t mean to dismiss him, but she believes in guns and arrests, not prayers and hymns.
The wax is already stiffening on his skin, the initial burn having faded to a dull throb of pain. Erica tugs gently at his wrist, leading him towards the pews but he resists. Instead, he nods towards the door and she follows without questioning.
“Erica?”
It’s the only question he can think of.
“The sky turned red, Jack.”
She seems calm, at least on the surface, but there’s a storm raging in those saltwater-blue eyes that he can’t risk looking at for too long. There’s a point where looking turns to staring, and that’s just asking for trouble. Erica catches him, again, but instead of her usual challenging stare there’s a question forming on her face.
“Do you think this is it? Do you think the world is ending?”
He wants to conjure up a few more inspirational words, he knows that his mentors over the years would have just the passage of scripture for a moment like this, but all he can think is how stunning Erica looks as fear and bravery compete for control of her emotions.
Jack reaches out a hand (and isn't it nice to be Jack, not 'Father', even in his own head whenever Erica is around?) with the intention of a reassuring pat on Erica's shoulder. Instead, somehow, he finds himself gently stroking the blond hair from her ear down to her shoulder. It's soft to the touch, silky in a way that his will never be, because even if the apocalypse begins today, of course Erica Evans still remembered to condition in the shower that morning.
There's a moment when he realizes what he's doing, but before he can stop, Erica leans into his hand. Under the strands of hair he feels the sudden heat of her cheek, and it's almost like an electrical current pulsing through his arm at the simple contact. Her eyelids flutter closed, and for a moment he's free to look his fill without fear of questions or propriety. This simple act of touching, the warmth and softness of a beautiful woman beneath his hand and Jack knows the die is already cast.
Tonight, he will break his vow. How many others will break in this battle against the Visitors? How many more compromises can he blame on a war? This isn't Iraq, where it's okay to skip a few lines in the Last Rites because some poor soldier's life is ebbing away, seconds instead of hours and days remaining. Jack has never been comfortable with absolutes, but now he's in danger of ignoring them altogether.
But Erica is waiting, without saying a word. She wants to know if this is really it, and there's only one thing Jack wants to do if the sun really won't rise in the morning.
(He doesn't ask about her son, about her ex-husband, about why she would seek out a priest when her faith is in only the visible, the tangible. He doesn't ask if she wants this, because suddenly it's the most obvious thing in the world.)
He kisses her, with no small amount of self-consciousness. How long since he met another person's lips like this? How long since he's felt the soft pressure of a kiss returned, the flicker of tongue that suggests more sinful behaviors to come? Too long, and yet he hasn't missed it until Erica, with her guns and her sass and her unshakable convictions about the word that he shouldn't have to envy.
Erica is kind enough not to speak, at first. She doesn't comment on the fact that this is never supposed to happen, that they're standing in a drafty corridor with only the streetlights through stained glass to light the space around them. There's incense in the air, the constant echoes that seem to span the centuries that the building has stood, and Jack can't make himself say 'no', never mind 'not here'.
When he fumbles with her jacket (leather, as always), she's quick to unzip it. Underneath she's dressed in that smart but casual way of hers - clothes just tight enough to lead to temptation, but she's certainly had no trouble chasing down bad guys and aliens alike in them. It's only in that moment that Jack admits to himself how long he's wanted to see her naked, how these inappropriate, vow-obliterating thoughts have pestered him since that first night in the warehouse.
Or maybe arousal is just his default reaction to Erica and adrenalin, but the damn sky is red and he doesn't have the strength to fight it anymore. Another searing kiss from Erica drowns the last scraps of his resolve, and any futile hope of self-control goes with it.
She's pressed against him now that the jacket is out of the way, her palms flat on his chest as their kisses get more frantic. Jack has his hands tangled in her hair, feeling like he'll never quite be close enough, like the kisses will never be hard or plentiful enough. If he's going to burn in hell, or burn on the streets tomorrow, he's going to make it worth having ever been alive in the first place.
There's no grace in the way that they tear at each other's clothes, and a button or two certainly goes flying off into the shadows. The lace of Erica's bra is pleasantly scratchy against his now bare chest, and Jack knows she can feel his erection against her hip, evidence--as if it were needed--of how far he intends to fall tonight.
Oh, Jack she murmurs, and he feels it as much as hears it while dusting kisses along the elegant lines of her throat. He can’t think of sin and eternal damnation, not while the fading scent of her perfume is tickling his nose (something musky, like spices maybe, from somewhere far away).
He does nothing to stop her when her hands find his belt buckle, the only sounds in the small corridor are the whisper of leather slipping through metal, accompanied by their already ragged breathing. Taking her face in his hands, Jack kisses Erica soundly, his attempt to tell her how much he wants this, how she's worth breaking every last rule for.
It's all he can do to stay standing as Erica backs him against the wall, and he can feel the cold stone through the thin black material of his shirt. In front, he has the scalding heat of Erica's mouth as it trails down his torso, the firm pressure of here lips and wet swipes of her tongue driving him one step closer to madness. The graze of her teeth is welcome, an edge of pain to stop him giving over completely to pleasure. He doesn't know how to tell her that he needs this to hurt, but the moan each nip and bite draws from his throat seems to spur her on.
By the time she's pulling down the zipper of his pants, Jack knows he's lost. The cool air is startling against his hard cock once it's freed (and even thinking in these terms, of words like these, it's nearly too much) but in seconds Erica's warm fingers wrap around the base and that's all he can think about.
She teases with her tongue, perhaps giving him another chance to back out, to see sense and save his soul, but it only makes his hips twitch towards her mouth--seeking out more, as if he could ever get enough. When her mouth closes over the head of his cock, Jack loses his mind just a little bit more.
It feels impossibly, perfectly good, albeit for a different definition of good than he's clung to for years. He hasn't told Erica that he's done this before, that there were women before the Holy Orders; he doesn't tell the story of the girl he loved with his whole heart, killed before she could graduate college. When he preaches about love and loss, he doesn't qualify his words with that experience, but he thinks that somehow Erica has sensed this in him, the dark weight she carries with her calling out to his own.
He doesn't want this to be over before it starts, doesn't want this to be only something Erica gives to him. She's selfless, sure, because she might not even be in this fight if she weren't so used to giving up her own life in service of others, and he wonders if it feels the same for her - the numbness, the frozen time of sitting on a shelf and watching the real things, the human things pass her by?
It takes what little willpower he still owns to pull away from the hot caress of her mouth and flicking tongue. Jack sinks to his knees as he frees himself, tugging at her clothes despite the chill of the old, stone building. Their skin is feverish to the tough, a faint sheen of sweat visible in the faint light. Jack kisses her again, but Erica's tumbling back towards the chilly floor and he has no choice but to follow.
Her jeans are a little trickier to dispense with than his slacks, but that's only because Erica wears her clothes tight enough to lead a man into temptation. Now that he's surrendering to that temptation, Jack couldn't be more grateful. After all, what better compliment to God that to appreciate such an attractive woman?
He hesitates when there's only underwear left between them, a sort of final frontier that he's been trying not to think about in this frantic buildup. Erica watches him from where she's lying on her back, breasts rising and falling almost hypnotically as she tries to calm her breathing a little. This is what Jack thinks deserves to be called glorious, this sight before him, and so with little ceremony he hooks his thumbs into Erica's panties and easily pulls them down.
With so much more of her exposed, he'd be a fool not to enjoy it properly, and so Jack lets his hands and mouth rove across her smooth skin, bringing years of frustrated fantasies to life at long last. Erica's expressive beneath his touch, her usually unmoved exterior betraying far more than he's used to seeing-- from the way she bites her lips to the gentle rocking of her hips as they rise up to meet his stroking fingers.
She wants more.
Jack does too, if he's honest, and if nothing else the intimacy of this moment makes the truth the one thing he can cling to. He feels like he'll die if he doesn't take Erica now, here on the cold marble floor of a once-sacred building.
He lets his fingers travel further as his mouth obsesses over her breasts, and soon those fingers encounter warmth and wetness that he'd almost forgotten existed. Erica moans aloud as he seeks out her most sensitive places, but that's nothing compared to his own cry of happiness and relief when she spreads her legs and lets him bury his cock inside her. Any last doubts are immolated in the feel of her around him--the slick velvet of her brings him perilously close from the first stroke.
It's as if they both know this can't happen again, because they both try to make it last. Although Erica's hand sneaks between their bodies, presumably to rub her clit as he thrusts inside her, she stops and forces herself to wait. For his part, Jack runs through every mental list he can summon to delay his own climax, but he knows it won't buy him much time; it's been far too long and he wants this too much.
His hands take hold of her hips and his thrusts are more powerful now. Jack would be worried that he's hurting her but for the enthusiastic way she responds to each movement. His knees and elbows are bruising from the floor, but that's just enough punishment to keep him sane, and it’ll be enough to remind him of his sin come the morning.
Then Erica lets her hand finish its journey and Jack can feel her fingers between them, the gentle rubbing motion that turns her muted moans into something louder, just a little more desperate. It doesn't take long until she's coming, head thrown back in ecstasy, and Jack has only a moment to revel in the sight before his own orgasm overwhelms him.
He supposes, though of course he's out of the habit, that they should have discussed protection before any of this started, but when Jack comes inside of her, Erica doesn't look angry or worried. As he collapses on top of her, supporting himself as much as possible on his forearms, Jack can’t stop himself from kissing her, anywhere his mouth happens to land.
He hears her murmuring his name as she comes down from her high, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling even in this dull light. The fact that he made her look this way appeals to Jack on some baser level, there's an animalistic thud of pride in his chest at the sight.
Erica's arms are wrapped weakly around him, holding him close, possibly in fear that he'll realize his sin any moment and bolt. Jack is too spent to feel nervous or guilty, though he's no fool, and knows those emotions are coming in a tidal wave anytime now. He wants to postpone it just a little bit longer, even as he's softening, still inside this beautiful woman, he knows how easy it might be to become addicted to moments just like these. There's already the glimmer of maybe, just one more time and vague, flickering images of other once forbidden tricks they might try. Erica doesn't seem in any hurry to go either, her skin cooling anywhere where there bodies aren't directly touching.
She moves first, of course, because even in an unprecedented situation, Erica Evans is the one to take charge. Shifting her hips slightly indicates a new state of discomfort, and Jack withdraws reluctantly, rocking back on his heels for a moment before shamefacedly retrieving his clothes from the floor.
They dress in silence, not daring to risk even a split-second of eye contact. Jack is already mourning the vision of Erica's body--once more obscured by clothes--when he feels a gentle touch at his elbow.
"I'm sorry, Jack."
She has nothing to be sorry for, and he's relieved to see in her eyes that she doesn't seem to regret her own part in all this. Erica senses that she's tempted him, that she's the reason he's strayed when so many other women have flitted through his life without effect. It's her pre-emptive guilt, a pathological willingness to shoulder the blame so that everyone else can carry on with their lives.
"Don't be. I, uh, didn't mean for this to happen. But I won't regret it Erica. I don't think I can."
He stresses that last word, because it's important to Jack that Erica know his sincerity. Let him make his peace with the church and with God himself, leaving Erica absolved of responsibility once.
There's nothing he can think of to do besides pull her into a warm hug. Jack is acutely aware of his body now beneath his rumpled clothes--his skin still just a little clammy from the sweat and exertion of their love-making--but holding Erica tight against him is too good to resist. She presses her own silent thanks, and explanation, and apology into his shoulder blades with her fingers; the tightness of her grip suggest that maybe she doesn't want to be alone if and when the sky really does fall.
That's when it roars up, out of nowhere, until Jack doesn't think he can breathe at all. His throat goes dry, like someone poured a handful of sand down over his tongue, and it feels like a metal band is tightening around his chest.
"Whoa!" Erica exclaims as she steps out of their embrace. "This is the freaking out part?"
Struck dumb by his panic, by his sudden and unavoidable shame, Jack nods at her suggestion. He shouldn't be so relieved that Erica's response is to hold him close again, instead of running for the nearest exit. He breathes deeply into the crook of her neck, and he thinks she might by crying too as his own tears splash down on the crisp blue collar of her blouse. Before long, his labored breathing has returned to normal, and all he can hear above their mingling heartbeats are the familiar ethereal whispers of the building that they've just desecrated.
Expecting an interruption from Father Travis at any moment, Jack pulls away and offers to escort Erica to the door. She hesitates, although whether she's thinking about asking to stay, or for him to go, Jack never finds out.
"Goodnight," she whispers, and strides off into the shadows with that athletic gait he can spot from across a crowded street now. Jack lets his head fall into his hands, gathering his thoughts for a moment before reaching for the rosary beads still lodged in his pants' pocket.
He steps back out towards the pews, selecting a space near the front, although there's nobody else in sight.
Bowing his head, eyes shut tight against the burning incense and flickering lights, against the mental images of his own immoral deeds, Jack begins to pray. The words have a fresh meaning for him tonight, a new urgency to his quest to show devotion and beg forgiveness.
He tries not to think of it as Erica giving him back his faith, but Father Jack Landry is forced to admit--at least to himself--that it might be exactly what she's done.