Birmingham Blessing

Sister Grace's voice could move mountains. When she led the choir in "Amazing Grace," even the most stoic members of the Birmingham congregation would weep. But it wasn't her voice that was tempting Deacon Marcus into sin.

It was everything else about her.

Grace was forty-two, Ghanaian-born, with a body that her modest church dresses couldn't quite hide. Full breasts that heaved when she hit the high notes, hips that swayed when she directed the choir, and a backside that made the teenage boys giggle and the deacons pray for strength.

Marcus prayed for strength a lot these days.

"Beautiful rehearsal today, Sister Grace."

She turned, and that smile—Lord have mercy, that smile—hit him like a physical force. "Thank you, Deacon. The choir is really coming together."

The sanctuary was empty now, everyone else gone home. Just the two of them among the pews and the silence.

"Can I speak frankly with you?" she asked, moving closer.

"Of course."

"I've noticed you watching me. During service. During practice." Her voice was soft, intimate. "A woman notices these things."

Marcus felt his face heat. "Sister Grace, I apologize if—"

"Don't apologize." Her hand touched his arm. "I've been watching you too."

"We can't," Marcus said, even as his body betrayed him. "We're both married. This is a house of God."

"God made our bodies, Marcus. God made desire." She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume, something floral and intoxicating. "My husband hasn't touched me in three years. He's more interested in football than his wife. What kind of marriage is that?"

"Grace..."

"Tell me you haven't thought about it. Tell me you don't lie awake at night wondering what it would be like. Tell me that, and I'll walk away."

He couldn't tell her that. They both knew it.

She kissed him in the shadow of the altar, and it felt like blasphemy and salvation all at once. Her body pressed against his, soft and warm and everything he'd been dreaming about.

"Not here," he managed. "Anyone could walk in."

"The storage room," she whispered. "In the back. No one goes there after hours."

She led him through the church, past the baptismal font, past the icons of saints watching with disapproving eyes. The storage room was small, filled with old hymnals and choir robes, but it had a lock.

She used it.

"I've wanted this since the day I joined this church," Grace confessed, unbuttoning her dress. "You were the first person to welcome me. So kind. So handsome."

Her dress fell, revealing a full slip underneath, and beneath that, the body he'd been imagining. Everything was magnificent—her heavy breasts, her soft stomach, her thick thighs. She was a woman built for comfort, for pleasure.

"Touch me, Marcus. I need to feel a man's hands on me."

He touched her. Reverently at first, then with growing hunger. She moaned when he cupped her breasts, gasped when his hands found her backside.

"Yes," she breathed. "Finally, yes."

They made love among the old hymnals, Grace on top of him, riding him while biting her lip to keep from crying out. The church walls were thin, and the night watchman might hear.

But she couldn't stay silent. When the pleasure overwhelmed her, she pressed her face into his shoulder and screamed, her thick body shaking with release.

"Your turn," she panted, shifting her angle. "Let me feel you finish."

He gripped her hips, thrust upward, and found his own salvation.

Afterward, they sat among the scattered robes, breathing hard.

"What do we do now?" Marcus asked.

"Now?" Grace smiled that devastating smile. "Now we practice. Choir rehearsal is twice a week. I don't see why our private sessions should be any different."

"And our spouses?"

"What they don't know won't hurt them. God knows neither of us are getting what we need at home."

She kissed him again, slow and sweet. "Same time Thursday?"

Marcus knew he should say no. Knew this was wrong on every level. But when he looked at Grace—at her warm eyes and welcoming body—he couldn't find the strength.

"Same time Thursday," he agreed.

The deacon had fallen. But Lord, what a glorious fall it was.