Deptford Devotion
"Church choir director Esther catches the new tenor Olumide sneaking glances during practice—and discovers they both worship the same way: on their knees."
Esther had been directing the Deptford Gospel Choir for fifteen years.
She'd never been distracted by a voice before.
But Olumide's tenor did things to her. Rich, resonant, filling the sanctuary like a caress. And when she watched him sing, watched those full lips form the words, watched his eyes close in something that looked like ecstasy—
She had to grip the music stand to steady herself.
"You're very talented," she told him after practice, voice professionally neutral.
"Thank you, Sister Esther." His eyes traveled down her body. "You're very... inspiring."
She was a big woman. Always had been. Thick in the Nigerian way that men back home appreciated. But here in London, she'd learned to hide it, drape it, minimize it.
He looked at her like he wanted to unwrap her.
"I should go," she said.
"Stay. Let me show you something."
He sang to her alone in the empty church. A song of worship that sounded like seduction.
And when he finished, he didn't ask permission. He just walked up and kissed her.
"I've wanted to do that since I joined," he said. "Is that a sin?"
"Probably."
"Do you care?"
She kissed him back. "No."
They barely made it to the vestry.
He lifted her onto the table where the communion supplies were stored—definitely a sin—and knelt between her thick thighs.
"Let me worship you properly."
His mouth was as talented as his voice. He sang praises against her flesh, and she gripped the edge of the table and forgot every hymn she'd ever known.
"Olumide! Oh God—"
"That's right. Call His name."
When she came, she had to muffle her screams against her hand.
Then it was his turn. She dropped to her knees on the vestry floor, looking up at him.
"Let me return the devotion."
His sounds of pleasure echoed through the empty church like the holiest music she'd ever heard.
They continued meeting after practice. Sometimes in the vestry. Sometimes in the bell tower. Once, recklessly, in the baptismal pool after hours.
"What are we doing?" she asked one night.
"Loving each other. Isn't that what God wants?"
"This isn't what the Bible means by love."
"Maybe not." He pulled her close. "But it feels divine to me."
They married in that same church. The congregation never knew how long their love had been growing—or where.
On their wedding night, Olumide sang to her again.
"What song is that?"
"Our song. The one I sang to you that first night."
Esther pulled him down to her.
"Sing it again. I want to feel every note."
Deptford Gospel Choir had never sounded better than it did under their combined direction.
And the harmonies they made in private?
Those were for God's ears only.