Kneeling before the Altar

She lit the final candle, amber light wrapped itself around her curves like a cloak, casting her in warm glow.

He watched from where she’d placed him, on his knees, exactly where she wanted him, breath held as though the very air waited for her permission.

She stepped toward him with unhurried grace, the quiet confidence of someone who knew her power and wore it like perfume.

Her fingers slid beneath his chin, lifting his gaze until his eyes met hers.

“There,” she murmured, satisfaction curling through her voice. “That’s how I like to be looked at.”

She circled him slowly, inspecting him the way a sculptor studies marble before creation.

Her touch was deliberate, claiming without needing to grip.

The back of her knuckles trailed down his chest, guiding his posture, shaping his stillness.

She smiled. She didn’t smile softly. She didn't smile sweetly.

She smiled with quiet command - the composed, unquestioned assurance of a woman who knows her word is enough.

Kneeling before her wasn’t submission.It was privilege.

And as she rested her hand in his hair, tilting his head to the exact angle she preferred, he felt it fully: this was worship… and she was the altar.

xox Miranda xox

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