Walk away. Say nothing and keep walking, keep ignoring. They had taught him so to do, and it always fared him well. But walking away had never been an option on this case. From the start he had tried. When he heard she had no faith, he automatically pulled away from a woman who could only be alien to him, to his beliefs. And then when she had stalked him, cornered him, kissed him and beat him. He tried to walk away and failed. He slowly began to think that walking away was not the best option.

The historical Jesus was not a figure taught in schools, not commonly known to the public. Certainly not to the church-going public. The Jesus who spent his time with the most hated factions of society: prostitutes, tax collectors, the poor and diseased. He remembered, when he was a boy, a priest had given a sermon at mass on the life of Jesus. He had been sent to experience the tragedies of human life, to know how it felt to be an outcast, to be hated and persecuted and killed by your own people.

Why? Why did God want to know those things, and not the joys of the world? This world that God created had so much happiness to provide, and Andrew was sure Jesus must have known it. The figure that he reached out to, that had spoken to him as a young man, had understood him entirely. Warts and all. Wants and all.

He sighed, and let the rosary beads slip through his fingers, until the silver crucifix dangled over the rail. He raised his eyes up to the tortured Christ figure that looked mournfully down on him, bleeding and beaten. Frankie never looked that way. The doe-eyed expression of a miserable animal. She was vivacious, when the pain of her blessing did not force her to writhe or call out in pain. Even in those moments, it was anger and fear that contorted her expression. She knew joy in all its glories: from the contended sleepy feel of enjoying a good meal, to the shuddering touch of another's hand on her skin.

But, of course, Andrew must walk away from that thought.

"Father Kiernan?"

How long had it been Father Kiernan? Since he had let them take her, or since he had saved her? Since she had kissed him in the garden? His smile was more of a grimace, as he rose to his knees after hours of trying to pray. "Yes Frankie."

He turned and saw her advance from the shadows. Her arms wrapped around her waist protectively, still bandaged at the wrists, though without the crimson stains that normally gave away her affliction. Her ash blonde hair fell about her face, hiding the scars that had become a part of her. His smile turned genuine out of second nature, though she did not smile back at him. She rarely did any more. "You were praying?" she asked in a deadened voice. "I'm sorry to interrupt."

"More contemplating than praying," he replied.

"It's still not working, then," she asked quickly, blue eyes looking sharply up into his in a way that made him sure she knew what he thought and what he felt, better than he did himself.

"How can I help?" he asked, ignoring her remark. He held out a hand to guide her to a pew, almost but not quite touching her back. It was stranger than any of the miracles he had investigated, the magnetic force that worked between them, simultaneously attracting and repelling them until they reached a sort of balance where he almost touched her.

She sat and awarded him a brief and genuine smile. "I had another vision last night." He waited for her to say more, but she stared only up at the Christ figure. "Tell me about your life. Before you became a priest."

"I've told you already," he said. "I was a biochemist."

"No, not that," she said quickly. Her skin remained porcelain pale, though he could see she was uncomfortable. "Not about your job. About who you were."

He shrugged, though a deep instinct told him it was time to walk away. "There's not a lot to tell."

Andrew shifted in the pew, hoping to put a little distance between them, but she broke the rules of their magnetic stasis. She put out her hand and stayed him, just touching his hand where it rested on the pew in front. It was enough to make him still. "You told me once you weren't always a priest. You suggested you might have had a life … or a woman."

"You want to hear about women?" Andrew asked carefully. Her skin on his was warm, blissfully warm, and he could feel the thrum of the blood that heated it. This was still Frankie, of that he was certain. His Frankie, she despite her brash exterior, soulful, even spiritual. He licked his lips. Dry lips, dry mouth, like being a teenager again. Sitting next to a pretty girl, not knowing and yet certain of what would happen next. "Why?" he whispered into the dusty silence of the church.

Her eyes slid to his and her lips crooked into a smile he had not seen since she had found out his name. The smile he had glimpsed, once, as she cut his hair, leaned over him to point out her diploma, brushed her fingers purposefully against his ear in a practiced maneuver designed to excite. "I don't. I just thought it might get you talking," she admitted.

"We always talk."

"Yes," she breathed. She was facing him now, and her hand was still over his. How could such a gentle touch keep him so rooted to the spot, when he should be walking away, should have already left?

Her fingers moved, trailed up his arm. He could feel their gentle touch through the thick fabric of his shirt. He drew breath to argue, or to confess – he didn't know which – but those fingers pressed against his lips to silence him, as her hand had silenced his movement.

"You need to trust me, like I've trusted you." She was suddenly determined. Her fingers slowly peeled away from his lips, and he found he missed their firmness. Frankie must have moved quickly, for it seemed no sooner did he wish her fingers to return, than they were replaced with her lips. Softer, more yielding, and infinitely better, they slid against his in a kiss unlike the others they had briefly shared. The others tempted, teased, told of forbidden fruit that he would never let himself know. This time her mouth promised more.

Her hands found his neck, slipped beneath the collar that had restrained him so many times. She pulled it away, releasing him from its grip, and dropped it to the floor of God's house. His hands found her waist, long fingers splaying to cover as much of her as he could reach, as their kiss deepened, her tongue dipping into his mouth. She tasted of the flower smell that always followed her, and Andrew sighed against her, pulling her closer.

"Like riding a bike?" she asked, as she pulled away for air, immediately attacking his neck with hot, steamy kisses.

Andrew's eyes fluttered shut, closing out the familiar icons that surrounded him, speaking of a life he knew he could forget, if only for now. "In a manner of speaking," he replied, his voice gruff with arousal. His hands slid beneath her shirt, drifting over silky flesh. "The bike might be a bit rusty, though," he confessed, with a smile that Frankie shared.

Frankie worked on unbuttoning his shirt, fingers tripping lightly over his buttons, telling of experience. Andrew raised an eyebrow at her. "You might be rusty," she said, grinning as she lathed her tongue over the freshly exposed expanse of skin, biting down gently on one dark nipple. "I'm just plain horny."

He groaned as she concentrated her efforts on his torso, exploring the olive skin lightly dusted with black hair. Her own shirt seemed to unbutton of its own accord – or had Andrew slid each button from its hole? Had his fingers picked up the work they had so enjoyed, all those years ago? He weighed her ample breasts in his palms, flicking his thumbs over the nipples that hardened through thin red lace. He felt her sigh against his chest, biting down once more in reaction to her own pleasure.

"Lie back," she told him.

He smiled and shook his head, squeezing her breasts once more. "No, let me touch you."

Frankie placed a determined hand in the centre of his chest, pressing him firmly back onto the pew. She slid the white shirt from her shoulders. "Perhaps you're used to abstinence," she said, with a wry twist of her mouth. "But it's been a month for me, and I've had about all the touching I can take for the moment." She reached behind her with one hand, effortlessly unsnapping the bra and letting it slide from her shoulders, joining her shirt and Andrew's collar on the floor. He gazed appreciatively at the unblemished continuation of her pearly white skin, peaked by large dark nipples, hard from the cold and his earlier attentions. "It's going to take a bit more to satisfy me," she whispered, as she leaned forwards over him, bracing herself with her hands at either side of his head.

Her soft skin against his was enough to make his mind reel, and his hands slid up her back to pull her down for another kiss, exploring her mouth as he knew he would her body. Frankie's hand slipped between them, easily finding the source of his arousal. Her palm pressed flush against it, rubbing steadily up and down in a maddeningly slow rhythm. His hips surged upwards into her, and she pulled away from his lips, eyes dark with desire. "See? That's what I'm talking about," she whispered.

She did not need to ask. He quickly unbuttoned his fly, hard cock springing easily to attention through the gap. She knelt up over him, her short skirt riding up over creamy thighs. His fingers could to help covering more of her warm skin, pushing the denim higher and revealing only more bare skin. He looked up at her incredulously. "You were expecting a chastity belt?" she asked, chuckling. Andrew was willing to go against his vows for her, to fight against the church that he had followed for years, and to make love to her in a church, under Mother Mary's disapproving glare – but he balked at a lack of underwear?

"Unexpected," Andrew explained, his hands rising up over her hips. They moved back, to squeeze the firm cheeks of her behind, long fingers sliding between her legs and pressing in places that made her eyes flutter closed in pleasure. "Unexpected, but not unwelcome."

She grinned, taking his stiff dick in hand and positioning him at her entrance, sliding over him so the sensitive head rubbed over her slick, heated flesh. Andrew groaned at the unfamiliar pleasure. He gripped the pew back hard, too afraid of hurting her to keep his hands on the angel astride him. "Are you ready?" she asked breathlessly, her ghostly pale skin finally flushed.

"Yes," he whispered, though he could not say whether before or after she sheathed him in her tight, wet haven. His nails scraped against the varnished wood, hips thrusting up to fill her wholly.

Then slowly, maddeningly slowly, she began to rise and fall on him, pressing herself down against his pubic bone, whimpering with every unexpected movement. She took his hand from the pew, bringing it to her hip to guide her.

So long, so long since he had last felt that mind-numbing pleasure of a beautiful woman over and around him. He pulled her down onto him, down where he could kiss and worship her, as she deserved. His hips began to press harder, faster, jutting up into and against her. She mewled against his lips, their kisses wet and messy as each of them pulled away for breath and surged together once more, unable to survive without the extra friction of the other's mouth.

She slid from his mouth, her inner muscles tightening around him as she came closer to her climax. Her head lolled beside his, blonde hair sticking to her face and his. "Come for me," she whispered, tongue circling the shell of his ear. "I want to feel you come," she demanded.

Andrew's eyes closed, his mouth fell open in a silent scream as his hips surged up once more, balls tightening and releasing himself inside of her. He gasped for breath, shuddering beneath her as she continued to rock against him through her own mewling climax.

Frankie slumped forward, lying neatly on her lover. She pressed a kiss to his neck, low down, in a spot that was usually hidden from the world. "That was good," she drawled, smiling as his arms encircled her.

They lay, motionless and silent, for some moments, just breathing and coming back to the world around them.

"What was your vision?" Andrew asked eventually, turning his head to look her in the eye.

She avoided his gaze, hiding in his shoulder. "Not so much a vision as a … really horny dream?"

Andrew's jaw tightened. He knew he had every right to be angry, to hate her. The woman who had rocked his beliefs, had torn down everything he had lived for, for as long as he dared to remember.

The woman from whom he could not walk away.

"A dream is not a vision," he said tersely, though he held her close to stop her sitting up, walking away.

"Maybe not," she replied, pressing a sealing kiss to his lips. "It came true, though, didn't it?"