“Not demanding worship but begging for faith.”

The tenderness, the fear, the way she trembled and still opened herself to him. Her lips parted just above, soft folds pulsing, alive, her heat close enough to taste. Not sin, not curse. Her voice trembling but unafraid, disarming, slipping past every defense, lodging in his chest like prophecy: “Will you let me love you?” It wasn’t hunger that seized him. The unbearable beauty of her honesty—her altar unveiled, bare and open, hovering, its heat pouring into his mouth like grace. Not demanding worship but begging for faith.