Page 95 of Saint
With the same kind of ruthless reverence he’s had since he started undressing me, Elijah pushes me onto my back on the cool grass, grabbing his satchel and setting it nearby while he kneels between my thighs.
My cock aches beyond anything, hot against the air and weeping pre-cum all over my bare belly, and he gives it a fond caress as he razes his way up and down my body with that scorching stare. “I want to remember how you look forever,” he murmurs, his free hand already inside the satchel, searching for what he needs.
I laugh at him—although the laugh turns into a moan as he caresses me again. “You’ll have forever to see how I look,” I say, my hips lifting to chase his touch. And then a little tide of insecurity comes in. “If you want it. The forever, I mean.”
He gives me a look like I’m the worst pupil in the class. “There’s nothing I want more,” he says, and maybe there’s some heaviness in his voice when he says it, but maybe there’s not, and also he’s doing that thing where he tears open a condom packet with his teeth, and I’m distracted. I’m distracted as he paints my entrance with lube and slowly works me open for him, I’m distracted as he presses his thick erection to the muscles he’s just worked into welcoming pliancy, I’m distracted as he breaches me and drives the breath right from my body.
It should be one of our lovely, filthy games right now. Outside, theoretically where someone could find us. Memories of our first night swirling in our minds.
But it’s not a game at all, and there’s something so sweetly intimate about all our bare skin sliding together, about the hair on his thighs rasping against my own. About the way his eyes burn all over my body, as if he really is trying to remember the way I look forever.
And it’s not the thrill of maybe being caught that penetrates my mind as Elijah strokes deeply into me. It’s the thunder of the ocean and the playful soughing of the wind around the corners of our refuge, it’s the silver clouds and the soft grass and the far-off calls of the sea birds. The way all of God’s creation feels pressed into this one moment, like a flower between the pages of a book.
“Aiden,” Elijah murmurs as I arch between us, wrapping my legs around his hips. He bends to kiss me, his tongue in a slow, exploring rhythm, just like his hips, and then I feel the tightness spreading all over me, not just in my belly and my groin, but in my chest and toes and lips too as I pant his name.
“Aiden,” he murmurs again, like my name is more than my name, like my name is hisselah, meant to punctuate his prayers. I writhe under him, all while my legs tighten around him, and his kisses turn soothing, calming. “I know,” he says. “I know. I’m here.”
It comes like a flame catching a wick—bright and fast and soaring up into a full-bodied tongue of fire that wants nothing more than to consume. My cock is trapped between our two bellies, and it jerks in time with the pulses tearing through my body from deep inside, and I cry out against Elijah’s lips as it spurts hot semen between us, coating both our torsos in it and creating a slick, pressurized slide that drives my orgasm on and on and on, my entire body a being of joyous fire and dancing flames.
Elijah follows me—a quick breath like he’s suddenly fallen from a great height, and then I feel his heavy pulses inside my body, his forehead dropping down to roll against mine as he uses the grip of my body to pleasure the last of his orgasm out of himself.
And then gradually, we both become still, arms and legs tangled, his breath deep and shivery on my lips.
Outside, the ocean continues its endless rush and boom, the clouds continue to thicken, the birds continue to call.
Elijah moves his head enough to look at his watch.
“We have time still,” he says, lifting up to take care of the usual necessities and then draping himself back over my body. “What if we used up every last minute before we have to go back?”
“What if I said no shit, Sherlock?”
He laughs, kissing my nose as he slides his hands under my shoulders and then drops his lips to my throat, and then to my chest, kissing the place over my heart where his hand was earlier. And all I can do is smile up at the Irish sky as his hand replaces his lips and his lips drift farther and farther down until I’m all rekindled flame.
Set me as a seal upon your heart,the Song of Songs goes.For love is strong as death.
Its arrows are arrows of fire, flames of the divine.
And I burn with those flames for every minute that we’re allowed.
50
I can be forgiven,I think, for my joy. Even for my ebullience, although I know I do a good job modulating it once we get back to St. Columba’s. I don’t plan on sauntering in and announcing that I’m no longer going to be a monk before striding off with Elijah over my shoulder like a kidnapped princess. No, I owe it to Abbot Jerome not to cause a scandal while on his dime. And I owe this conversation to him within a framework of respect and decorum—or as much decorum as I can summon up, given the circumstances.
But it still feels impossible not to hold Elijah’s hand, not to stare fondly at him, not to shadow him everywhere for the rest of the day, even when he goes to his cell to work. And during prayers, I just want to pull him into my lap and kiss his neck while he sings, I want to be inside him while we pray.
I don’t do any of that, of course, and I manage to give him a really casual good-night nod after compline, even though he’s talking with Father Finbarr and I think I could ingratiate myself into their conversation and therefore get to spend a few extra moments with Elijah before the annoying wedge of night comes to separate us.
But I don’t, I behave, reminding myself that vigils will come sooner than I think, and I’ll be able to spend another morning with my beloved, my Elijah. It’s funny—when I was committed entirely to being a monk, even seeing Elijah for thirty minutes in a cloister was unbearable. And when I thought this interlude would end Saturday, I managed to keep myself under control. But now that I know we have forever? That forever is ours the moment I get back to Mount Sergius to put in my monk-ly two weeks’ notice?
Now every moment apart feels like torture.
I sleep though, dreaming dreams sweeter than candy, waking to the early glow that comes so soon in the morning at this latitude. I quickly wash and ready myself for the day, smiling back at Elijah’s closed door. The after-breakfast hours can’t come soon enough.
Except Elijah’s not at breakfast.
I search the refectory as I hurriedly chew through some eggs and toast, trying not to panic. There isn’treallya set hour for breakfast here, so it’s possible that he’s sleeping in or working, and sometimes people miss things, even things as important as breakfast. Hell, I haven’t even seen Father Finbarr yet.
But as much as I’ve worked to build my patience in these last few years, I barely last fifteen minutes before I’m washing my dishes and going back to the dormitory to find Elijah. I’ll wake him if I have to, I’ll tease him away from work, but I need him, even if it’s just for a short walk to the graveyard, even if it’s just so I can listen to him ponder whether the transepts of the church have been rebuilt or whether anyone’s done a podcast about the history here yet.
