19) Sacred Hunger

19) Sacred Hunger.

It's been six weeks since the engagement party. Megan and I have had our gifted re marriage counselling sessions, Megan has selected her wedding dress and the dresses for her wedding party. Her Maid of honour and sister Stacey, Her two bridesmaids and Best Friends Forever, Helen and Ryann, both of whom are also blind. She has also found the dresses for her mother Anne and oddly enough a dress for my mother Elizabeth.

I am positive about marrying Megan and all it entails. The months spent living together have been beneficial not only for Megan but also for me. Coming to terms with things which may sound small but which mean a lot for Megan because of her blindness. Things like not leaving shoes in the doorway, putting canned food in a certain place every time in the pantry. Putting pots and pans away in a certain order. So she can feel where things are and what they are. Also it has become a habit to place braille printed stickers on things as we unpack the grocery shopping.

It has indeed been a learning curve and I am pleased I did it.

Megan has proven herself to be a good housewife and dare I think it? An even better one than my first wife Jenny was.

She has settled on having the ceremony in a Catholic church and converting as well.

Today, I have finished work. At three o' clock in the afternoon. After only doing eleven hours I normally twelve to fourteen hours. I have picked Megan up and we are headed to the church to check in with the priest.

Megan is happy, jubilant even as I drive us to St Anne's the Catholic church that is the parish of my family and also shares a name with Megan's mother.

She holds my hand across the centre console of the Skoda as we drive there and park.

When we park in the car park. I get out and Megan gets out unusually quickly.

So quick she is standing cane in hand waiting for me to guide her by the time I can scoot around to the passenger's side.

We both up the stairs and up to the main door, Megan's arm through the crook of mine. And we enter.

The church doors swing shut behind us with a heavy thud, the sound echoing through the cavernous nave like a judge's gavel sealing a verdict.

No turning back now. I fleetingly think.

Megan's fingers flex against my bicep, her nails digging in just enough to remind me she's here, that this is real, that in a few weeks, she'll be mine in every way the law and God recognise.

The thought sends a jolt through me, sharp and electric, like the first pull of a cigarette after a long drought except this is better, way better. This is her. Her. My Megan. My beautiful ginger haired Megan.

Father Patrick is already halfway down the aisle, his black cassock swaying slightly with the measured pace of a man who's spent decades walking these same stones. I know he's been here for an age, I'm not sure how long it has been but it has been a very, very long time.

The late afternoon sun slants through the stained glass, painting him in fragments of red and blue, turning his silver hair into a halo. Almost saintly in a way.

He stops at the altar rail, turning to face us with that same warm, knowing smile that's seen a thousand weddings and twice as many, Confessions.

"Come, come, No need to lurk in the shadows like a pair of lovestruck teenagers." he says, beckoning us forward. In his soft lilting Irish accent.

Megan's lips twitch.

"Speak for yourself, Father. I've been a teenager for years." She replies, surprising me with her forwardness to such a figure. I wonder if she has a lack of reverends that's going to cause a problem.

I snort, guiding her forward.

The scent of beeswax and old paper fills my nose, mixed with the faintest hint of Megan's perfume something floral, and her ginger locks have a faint aroma of apples. She's freshly showered for this.

The cane in her free hand taps lightly, methodically, like a metronome counting down to the rest of our lives.

We sit in the front pew, the wood smooth and cool beneath my palms.

Megan shifts beside me, her thigh pressing against mine, her heat seeping through the fabric of her jeans.

I can feel the weight of her breast against my arm, the swell of it pressing into me with every breath she takes. My cock stirs just from the proximity of her. The conflicting emotions of where I am and what is touching me rising inside me.

Father Patrick settles across from us, his gnarled hands folded over his lap.

"Now then, Jon and Megan." he says, his Irish brogue wrapping around the words like a well-worn blanket.

"Let's talk about this grand adventure you're embarking on." His eyes crinkle at the corners as he looks between us.

"Megan, my dear, I trust you've been keeping up with your studies? A lass can't very well marry into the Church without knowing a thing or two about it. And the more I look at you the more I can't believe you're not Irish, with the hair and the spirit." Father Patrick comments.

Complementing and questioning Megan in the same sentence.

Megan tilts her head, her blind gaze fixed somewhere just past his shoulder.

"I've been reading, Father. Though I'll admit, some of the nuances are lost on me." Megan says.

"Ah, well, faith isn't about memorising the catechism word for word," Father Patrick says, waving a hand. His words and accent soothing.

"It's about the heart. And yours, I think, No I know is in the right place." Father Patrick says patting Megan on her knee, and then, His attention shifts to me, and I feel the weight of it like a physical pressure.

"And you, Jonathan. You've been quiet. Too quiet if you ask me." Father Patrick comments.

I shrug, rubbing the back of my neck.

"Not much to say, Father. We're here. We're doing this." I say.

"Hmm." He says as he studies me for a long moment, his blue eyes sharp despite the laugh lines around them.

And then he says something to maybe try to break the ice for want of a better term.

"You were just a wee lad when I baptised you, you know. Squirming in my arms like a landed trout." He recalls, A chuckle rumbling in his chest.

"And then you went and christened me right back. Soaked me to the bone, you did. You lil' perisher." Father Patrick chuckles.

Megan's laughter bubbles up, rich and warm.

"Jon, did you really pee on the priest?" Megan asks all innocent like.

"I was a baby, Megan." I groan, dropping my forehead into my hand

"A baby with excellent aim, apparently," Father Patrick says, grinning.

"Your mother was mortified. Had to wring out my cassock in the sacristy." He explains to Megan.

He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"I'd prefer not to repeat the experience at your wedding, if you don't mind." Father Patrick says to Megan with a chuckle.

Megan's fingers tighten around mine, her thumb tracing slow circles over my knuckles.

"No promises, Father." Megan replies back joking.

The priest throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing through the empty church.

"Ah, she'll keep you on your toes, this one," he says to me, still chuckling.

"That's good. A man needs a woman who won't let him get too comfortable." Father Patrick advises.

I glance at Megan, at the smug little smile playing on her lips, and I know he's right.

She's never let me get comfortable. Not from the moment she first touched me, not when she challenged me, not when she chose me. And God help me, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Father Patrick sobers, his expression turning serious.

"Now, let's speak plainly. Marriage isn't a fairy tale. It's not all sex and fairytales. It's It's.." Father Patrick says as he gestures vaguely at us, at the way Megan's leg is still pressed against mine, at the way my hand is swallowed by hers.

"Well. You know what I mean. It's work. It's sacrifice. It's choosing each other, every damn day, even when you'd rather not." Father Patrick explains, finally seeming to find the words.

Megan's thumb stills against my skin.

"We know. Father." Megan says smally.

"Do ye?" His gaze is piercing, unrelenting. That sort of gaze that will make you confess to things that you have done as well as things you haven't done.

"Because I've seen more than a few couples stand where you're sitting, full of fire and promise, only to crumble when the fire dims and the promises get heavy." Father Patrick says slow and sure, like a cross between Mash's Father Mulcahy and Yoda.

I open my mouth, but Megan beats me to it.

"We're not them." Megan proudly proclaims.

The priest holds her gaze for a long moment, then nods, as if she's passed some unseen test.

"No," he agrees softly.

"No, I don't think you are." He reaches out, patting her hand where it rests on the pew.

"You've a strength in you, Megan. A resilience. And Jonathan." He says as his eyes flick to me. "You've grown into a man your mother would be proud of. Steady. Reliable. Most of the time. Now how many christenings can I expect from you two? Six or Seven? Six or seven lil gingers?" He smirks, patting Megan's hand again.

I exhale, some of the tension in my shoulders easing.

"We're sure, Father. We're ready." I say to him.

"Good." He claps his hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet church.

"Then let's finalise the details. The readin' Song of Solomon 8:7, yes? 'Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away.' A fine choice. Romantic, without being too saccharine." Father Patick comments.

He pulls a small, leather-bound notebook from his pocket, flipping it open.

"Mike Thompson is doing a reading, and Helen? Who's Helen?" Father Patrick asks.

"Helen is My Bridesmaid, My childhood friend from blind school." Megan supplies.

"Ah, yes." He scribbles something down.

"And the prayer would you like it in Latin? It's traditional, but not required." He says as he glances up

Megan tilts her head, considering. You can almost see the cogs of her brain turning.

"Latin, It sounds more sacred." Megan announces.

I raise an eyebrow.

"You don't even speak Latin." I mention.

She smirks, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my thigh.

"I don't need to. It's about the weight, the gravitas of the words, not the meaning. The way they sound. The way they feel." Megan explains.

Father Patrick listens intently and then beams.

"A woman after my own heart. So she is." He says.

He reaches into his robe, pulling out a small, embossed card.

"Saint Lucy of Syracuse," he says, pressing it into Megan's palm.

"Patron saint of the blind. She'll watch over you both." He explains.

Megan's fingers trace the edges of the card, her expression softening. I swear I almost saw tears welling in her eyes.

"Thank you, Father." Megan says.

"Not a problem Megan. Now, let's discuss the practicalities. Megan, you mentioned Braille prayer sheets?" he says.

She nods.

"And hymn books, if possible. I'd like to follow along and two of my bridesmaids are also blind plus some others from school." Megan says, tightening her hand around mine and also her cane.

"Of course, of course." He says as he makes another note in his book.

"I'll have them prepared. And the music? you've chosen?" Father Patrick asks.

"We have, Megan's picked the hymns." I say.

"Yes some of the hymns are what I had when I was an Anglican, as well as some more contemporary tunes." Megan explains.

"Excellent." He tucks the notebook away. Smiling.

"Then I think we're nearly done here." He sits back, his voice dropping into the rhythmic, sonorous cadence of Latin.

"Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen." He says with his eyes closed while he makes the sign of the cross.

The words wash over us, rich and resonant, filling the space between my ribs with something warm and heavy.

Megan's breath hitches, her fingers tightening around mine. I don't understand half of it, but the way her thumb presses into the pulse point of my wrist tells me she feels it the weight of the blessing, the promise in it.

Father Patrick smiles, his eyes crinkling.

"There. Now you're properly blessed. Try not to undo it before the wedding, hmm?" He says as he wags a finger at us.

Megan laughs, standing as I help her up.

"No promises, Father." Megan jokes.

The priest shakes his head, amused, as we turn to leave.

"I'll see you both next week for the final rehearsal. And Jonathan" He says.

I pause, glancing back.

"Don't keep her waiting too long. Patience is a virtue, but even saints have their limits." Father Patrick warns.

Megan's laughter follows us down the aisle.

The moment we step outside, the late afternoon sun hits us like a physical force, warm and golden after the cool dimness of the church.

Megan turns into me, her lips finding the hinge of my jaw.

"Take me home," she murmurs, her breath hot against my skin.

I don't need to be told twice.

The drive home is a special kind of hell.

Megan's hand is on my thigh before I've even pulled out of the church car park, her fingers inching higher with every gear shift.

The engine growls as I accelerate onto the main road, the tyres gripping the tarmac.

Her touch is maddening light, teasing, just the tips of her fingers brushing over the growing bulge in my trousers.

"You're going to get us killed," I growl, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"Then drive faster," she demands, her voice husky.

Her fingers trace the outline of my cock through the fabric, her thumb pressing down just hard enough to make my hips jerk At her touch.

I glance at her, her head tilted back against the seat, lips parted, her diamond teardrop earrings catching the sunlight like sparks.

She's been like this all week. Insatiable, hungry, clingy, attached.

Every night since the café, every night since she decided she couldn't wait another second to have me.

And Christ, I can't get enough of her the way she takes what she wants, the way she demands it, the way she falls apart when I give it to her.

A traffic light turns red, and I slam on the brakes harder than necessary.

Megan laughs, low and throaty, her hand sliding up to palm me fully.

"Fuck," I hiss, my cock twitching against her palm.

"That's the idea," she purrs. Next to my ear as she leans over closer to me.

I take the next corner too fast, the tyres squealing in protest.

Megan's laughter fills the car, her fingers working at my belt buckle.

"You're going to make me crash." I warn.

"Then crash," Megan says, her voice rough.

"I don't care, as long as you're inside me when it happens." Megan snipes back.

The image of that, of bending her over the bonnet of the car, of taking her right here in the middle of the street flashes through my mind, and my foot presses harder on the accelerator.

The speedometer climbs, the world outside blurring into streaks of green and grey.

We make it home in record time.

The moment the front door slams shut behind us, Megan is on me.

Her lips crash into mine, her tongue hot and demanding, tasting of mint and something darker.

I back her against the wall, my hands gripping her hips, lifting her.

She wraps her legs around my waist, her skirt riding up, the heat of her already damp pussy against my stomach.

"Bedroom?" I manage to ask her in between desperate hard rough kisses, but she shakes her head, her fingers fumbling with my belt.

"Right here! Right now!" She gasps, in between full on mouth kisses her voice rough, desperate.

I groan, my control snapping like a frayed rope. Thinking if meeting a priest does this to her, I must go to mass more often.

The couch is three steps away, two, one and then I'm laying her down on it, her hair spilling across the cushions like fire.

She arches up as I yank her blouse open, the buttons scattering across the floor.

Her bra follows a second later, torn aside, her tits spilling free, pale and heavy, her nipples already hard, already begging for my mouth.

I take one between my lips, sucking hard, and she cries out, her back bowing off the couch.

"Oh Fuck, Jon please" Megan breathlessly begs.

I don't make her beg twice.

Her jeans are next, half dragged, half torn down her legs, her panties torn aside.

The scent of her hits me, it's musky, sweet, and my mouth waters.

I drop to my knees, spreading her thighs, and I dive in.

Megan gasps, her hands flying to my hair, her hips bucking against my face.

"Oh god! Oh my fucking Jesus. Oh God!" Megan cries out.

I lick her slow at first, savouring the taste of her, the way her thighs tremble around my ears.

Her clit is swollen, throbbing under my tongue, and when I suck on it, she lets out a broken moan, her fingers tightening in my hair.

"Fuck, Jon. Oh Jon! Jon!" Megan cries breathlessly.

I slide two fingers inside her, curling them, and she clenches around me, her juices coating my chin.

I don't stop, licking her through it, drawing out every last shudder until she's whimpering, oversensitive, her hands pushing at my shoulders.

"Too much" Megan pants, but I just grin against her thigh, my cock aching.

"Not nearly enough," I growl, as I stand up.

She reaches for me blindly, her hands finding my belt, yanking it open.

My trousers hit the floor, my boxers following, and then her fingers are wrapping around my cock, stroking.

"Fuck, you're huge." Megan gasps.

I groan, as she touches me, my head falling back.

"Megan," I say softly.

"Now, I need you now!" she demands, pulling me toward her.

I don't argue.

I grab her hips, flipping her onto her stomach, her arse in the air.

She moans, pushing back against me, and I guide my cock to her entrance, teasing her with the tip.

"You sure?" I ask.

"Jon, if you don't fuck me in the next two seconds, I swear to God." Megan angrily says

I slam into her in one thrust. Cutting her off.

She screams, her nails digging into the couch cushions, her body stretching to take all of me.

I groan, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.

"Fuck, you're tight." I comment.

"Move," she gaspingly demands, and I do.

I pull out slow, then snap my hips forward, burying myself to the hilt.

Megan cries out, her body rocking with the force of it.

I do it again. And again. Each thrust is deeper, harder, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, mixing with her breathless moans, with the creak of the couch beneath us.

"MORE! MORE! HARDER! FUCK ME HARDER!" she pants.

I give her what she wants.

I fuck her like I'm trying to brand her from the inside, my cock pistoning into her, her arse jiggling with every thrust.

She's so wet, so perfect, her walls clenching around me, milking me.

I can feel her getting close again, her breath coming in sharp little gasps, her body tightening like a bowstring.

"Jon, I'm" Megan cries out breathlessly.

"Cum for me," I snarl, my hand snaking around to find her clit.

I rub it in tight circles, and she detonates, her back arching, her scream raw and unfiltered.

She pushes back against me and throws her head back as she orgasms.

The pulse of her orgasm around my cock sends me over the edge.

I cum with a groan, my release spilling into her, my hips stuttering as I empty myself.

Megan collapses onto the couch, boneless, her chest heaving.

I follow, my body covering hers, my cock still twitching inside her.

For a long moment, there's nothing but the sound of our ragged breathing and the scent of sex thick in the air.

Then Megan lets out a breathless laugh.

"We're never making it to the bedroom at this rate." Megan says laughing.

I press a kiss to her shoulder, my lips curling against her skin.

"Who needs a bed?" I cheekily ask.

She turns her head, catching my mouth in a slow, deep kiss.

"I love you," she murmurs against my lips.

I pull back just enough to meet her blind gaze, my thumb brushing her cheek.

"I love you too." I say followed by a kiss.

Megan shifts beneath me, her body still humming with the aftermath, her skin slick with sweat.

I roll onto my back, pulling her with me, her head resting on my chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns over my skin.

The couch is too small for us, our limbs tangled, but neither of us makes a move to get up.

"We should probably clean up," I murmur, my hand stroking down her spine.

She hums, nuzzling closer.

"In a minute." Megan says.

I chuckle, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

The scent of her shampoo fills my nose.

"You're going to be the death of me, woman." I groan.

She grins against my skin.

"Maybe, But what a way to go." Megan says.

I shake my head, but I'm smiling.

Because she's right.

Because every time she touches me, every time she looks at me with those sightless eyes that see more than most people ever will, I feel more alive than I have in years.

Her fingers drift lower, tracing the ridges of my abs, the trail of hair leading down.

"Megan," I warn, but my cock twitches traitorously.

She laughs, low and knowing.

"Again?" Megan asks.

I groan, but I'm already hardening under her touch.

"You're insatiable." Megan says almost complaining.

"And you love it." I reply back to her.

I roll her beneath me, her laughter turning into a gasp as I pin her wrists above her head.

"I do, "Now shut up and let me show you how much." I say, my lips brushing hers.

And again.

And Megan and I fuck for the rest of the night on and off about four times more.

Until we both fell asleep on top of each other exhausted but sated.