Wolfwood gazes up at you from his knees, supplicating before the altar you have him bound to. His eyes track the motion of the switch in your hand, an eager tremble rolling down his spine. Craving the bite of the leather more than his next breath.

”You have lust in your heart, Nicholas.”

The switch comes down; his punishment, his salvation. He hears it snap on his flesh, feels the pain sear a line down his back, blooming into a pleasurable tingle that spreads over his skin. A low groan rips from his throat as he jerks against the bindings.

”Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

The disdain in your tone does nothing to cool the heat in his blood. Another crack of the switch, another groan, his hips arching up against the friction of his slacks.

He feels your fingers grip his jaw, tugging his head up to look at you—God, that angelic fucking face—and the tip of the switch glides down his body, featherlight, until…

He wakes with a gasp, drenched in sweat. The room is pitch dark—still in the small hours of the morning—and he’s alone in his bed. He drags a hand over his face in frustration, the other wandering down to squeeze the hard, aching remnant of his dream. Every fucking night it’s the same.

He’s been dreaming of you ever since he started coming to your church. A place of solace where he can heal the lingering heartache of his late wife’s passing. But something twisted in him clings to your kindness, perverting it to satisfy the hunger he tries to hide. The disgust he feels with himself is only equal to his lust for you.

With a resigned sigh, he rolls out of bed and slips on his clothes. The church really is the only place he can get peace of mind despite his obsession. But he wasn’t expecting you to be there. He stalls as the heavy doors open, blinking when he sees you lighting candles around the altar.

“Evenin’.” He clears his throat, feigning nonchalance, willing the immediate resurge of heat between his thighs to go the fuck away. “Or—morning, I guess. They got you here overnight?”