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The Praying Kind

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Laura Roslin’s prayer tent is a sacrosanct hideaway, a space of reverence and solitude. It’s where she goes to reflect on her day, to thank the gods for the many things that they’ve provided her, and to pray for the souls of the needy and the lost who are desperately seeking salvation upon New Caprica.

She tries not to think of the many reasons why Bill Adama eating her out on the pile of blankets behind her altar, in this tent that flickers with the light of two dozen candles lit to remember the souls of the lost, is horribly, terribly wrong.

The only thing that matters now is how incredibly, delightfully right his tongue feels as he sweeps it through her folds, and how ravenous he sounds when he groans and greedily sucks at her clit.

She’ll make this up to the gods later.

“Frak,” she says on a moan, then feels her cheeks and chest flush hotly at the mere mention of the obscenity in her makeshift shrine.

Bill’s satisfied chuckle as he releases her swollen clit from between his lips sends a jolt of pleasure through her abdomen. “Laura Roslin, you heathen.”

“This was your idea,” she breathes, grabbing his head and trying to ease his mouth back to her body. “Not that you’re the praying kind anyway.”

“You got a prayer for this?” She feels two thick fingers thrust into her without warning, slick from his mouth and her wetness. The low, sly challenge in his voice makes her twitch around him as he curls his fingers and draws them back out.

“Oh, gods.” She’s panting and can barely make out the words as he laps at her clit with the flat of his tongue and begins to frak her slowly, inciting an instinctual roll of her hips.

“Louder.” His request vibrates against her skin and she whimpers, sliding her heels over his shoulders and digging them into his back. She shakes her head, her eyes squeezed shut as she grips his hair.

“Someone’ll hear me.” Her argument sounds as half-assed as it feels.

“You’re praying.” He swirls his tongue around her, dragging it through her folds and thrusts his fingers sharply into her again, inciting a small cry that escapes her lips before she can catch it. She arches her back, lifting her hips to his mouth, desperately wanting more.

“Come on, Bill.” She doesn’t want to believe she’s begging, but she very well might be, her words followed by a soft moan of pleasure as he catches the tender skin of her outer lips between his teeth and tugs gently. He hums his disagreement, sucking and licking at her, and she manages to force her eyes open to look down. Their eyes meet and she shivers under the intensity of his gaze, the candlelight leaving only a trace of shadow across his face.

Bill traces his tongue in fine lines over her, barely touching, and arches his brow at her. She pushes her hips up to encourage him and he backs off. “Louder,” he murmurs, his fingers clutching at her ass as he presses his open mouth to her body, his tongue seeking her heat again.

Laura gasps when he hits the right spot, tonguing hard circles. “Oh gods,” she says, her voice wavering, yet a little louder. She’s thinking less about the repercussions of a loud prayer session and more about the fact that the pleasure swirling deep inside her means she’s about to fall apart under him.

The fact that he starts frakking her with his fingers again, harder this time, and is concentrating his energy in a motion that he knows makes her hot tells her that he’s appreciative of her more audible encouragement. She says it again, more loudly, and he growls into her. With one last thrust of his fingers and flick of his tongue she cries out, his name and the names of gods combined with her low whimpers.

“Oh, my Gods,” he breathes onto her skin, lazily lapping, over and over.

She laughs breathlessly, trailing her fingers over his cheek. “Hear that? I made you pray.”