The following excerpt from the novella Arsonist’s Lullaby is NSFW and subject to change during editing. Please check trigger warnings.
Lucy
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispers, and my pulse races. I reach for him again, and this time I don’t flinch when my skin touches his. It’s not a burn but relief that I feel, atoms reunited. Hand in hand, he leads me out of the rows of pews and into a confession booth. It’s even quieter inside, hushed by velvet curtains and cushions. My body sinks into the seat with relief.
He kneels at my feet and runs his fingers along the inside of my leg. My breath is ragged. I don’t move, just watch and wait.
“I could never wait until marriage,” he says. “Imagine if the sex is bad.”
“Need a trial run, for sure,” I agree, breasts tight and heavy.
“May I?” he asks and, when I nod, he reaches behind me and plucks my bra undone through my cotton dress. Some of the pressure in my chest releases while the needful pain deepens, my nipples aching to be sucked. He leans forward and presses hot lips to my inner calf, heat rocketing to my clit. “Tell me when to stop,” he whispers, kissing his way up my skin.
I spread my legs wider in response.
His lips trail over the curve of my knee, up the tender flesh of my thigh, my panties clinging to me by the time he reaches the hem of my dress. He pushes it up to my hips, still kissing, and stops at where cotton covers my pussy. He draws a ragged breath.
“Lucy,” he pleads, “tell me to stop if you don’t want this.”
I press his hand to me and he moans, rubbing the wet fabric against my clit.
“You smell so good,” he whispers, “I want to eat you.”
“Then stop talking,” I say, “and do it.”
My legs are on his shoulders in a flash, panties around my ankles and kicked off somewhere in the booth. His mouth sucks my lips into him, tongue flat against my clit. I gasp, gripping the carved wood frame, bracing a foot against the other end. His tongue, soft at first, hardens, thrusting against me in a massage that immediately makes my legs shake, all control gone. All I can do is let go, go limp against the incensed cushions and let him take my body. The heat and hardness of his tongue is just a promise of what’s to come if I’m very good.
His teeth sink into my clit and I gasp, throwing my head back in delight at the sensation. He nibbles with just the right amount of teeth, staring up at me from partially under my dress, gauging my reaction. All I can do is nod, grateful that finally someone other than me is taking care of this endless need that’s been burning inside me. The more quakes he draws out, the more I need all of him. Even then, it’ll never be enough. The thought should scare me but I’m riding adrenaline stacked. When he comes up for air, I’m grabbing his face, pulling him in for a kiss that tastes of me, and riding him into forgiveness.
A cough echoes through the cathedral, and we freeze.
“Is… is someone in here?” I whisper.
“Maybe,” his lips move against me, and I cry out, unable to stop myself. “My God you taste heavenly.” Looking up at me, he licks me off his mustache, a devilish glint in his eyes.
From outside the confession booth, a man clears his throat. “Folks, I just need to prepare for service tonight.”
Eyes still locked, Stixx and I burst into laughter. He slips my panties back on, gives me a hand up, and we hop out of the booth like we were just taking pics.
“Father,” he says with a nod, and we stroll out, the scent of burning thick in the air. Sirens still drown out the noise of the city, and we walk to my car and his bike hand in hand. I look down at them in surprise, but don’t let go. I’m not ready.
Arsonist’s Lullaby
Coming Fall 2026
Copyright © 2026 by Elizabeth Barone
All Rights Reserved
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic or mechanical—without permission in writing from the author.
If you feed this into generative AI, I’ll feed you to the river.