Page 53 of Saint
The realization is electric and wonderful, and I want salt and electricity forever, I want this to last years and years, so that the next time two Americans stumble through the forest, they’ll find not only medieval ruins but us too, still playing our game.
He guides my head so that my mouth is pressed to the warm, thick root of him, and I kiss and lick him there too, I kiss and lick what I can around his cock—the sack beneath, drawn up tight, and the firm plane of his stomach above—and then he lets me get lower still, to kiss the hard muscles above his thighs, the same thighs I’d lusted after earlier while we ate.
When I straighten up again, he looks a little wild, like I’ve been teasing him on purpose, and his eyebrows are pulled together so tightly that there’s a deep line between them.
I open my mouth, tongue out, like I’m ready to receive communion, and he groans, fisting himself again and pushing into my mouth with a slow but inexorable stroke. When he pulls out all the way, though, I see that his eyebrows are still knitted together, that his expression is as anguished as it is wild.
Tumbling through my lust like cold water is the memory of him and Jamie holding hands in the beer garden. Him and Jamie kissing against Jamie’s Jeep.
I press my hands against the front of his thighs. “Can you?” I ask him. They’re the first words we’ve spoken aloud since I told him the game I wanted to play, and even in a hushed tone, they feel loud, loud, loud.
He exhales, slowly, his eyebrows unknitting a little. “I can,” he says softly.
Relief and curiosity and—hope?—shiver through me, but later, I’ll sort through all those feelings later, and I dip my head back toward the part of him which juts proudly from his body. But before I can taste him again, he catches my chin with his fingers. “Canyou?” he asks.
I have no choice but to look up at him then and maybe this is the actual moment that will end the game, because I can’t lie. I can’t answerI can, because we both know that this isn’t actually a game, that my robes aren’t pretend robes and I’m not a pretend monk.
So I answer the only way I can. “Iwill,” I tell him, like a fallen angel from a Milton poem, and open my mouth for him again.
This time, he doesn’t stop me. Jaw tight, he rucks up his tank top so that he can see better as I start to suck him off in earnest, taking him as deep as I can, loving the feel of him against my tongue, loving that soft velvet skin stretched over what feels like solid steel. Loving the plump head that swells whenever I trace my tongue around its flared edge, loving the little jolts and jerks of him as I lap and lick and suck hard. Feeling himrespondis the sexiest fucking thing, and it has my cock straining at its cage, it has my thighs tight and my heart beating so fast that I’m dizzy.
I forgot about this, I think, forgot all the little details that made this intosexand not the mechanical act my memory had flattened it into. It’s so much more than a cock in a mouth—it’s the heat of his dick against my lips and the way his stomach tenses and his eyes flutter closed. It’s the soft pant of his breath and the way his hand twists in my hair, at turns loving and grateful and demanding and cruel. It’s that indefinable flow of pleasure, that getting hot while doing hot things to someone else, that heady sense of power and love, knowing that you’re making someone else feel so good they can’t stand it.
Perhaps it’s a mercy that I’d forgotten, because if I’d remembered, I would have been tormented beyond what any hair shirt could ever do to me.
His pants turn into moans, and I let my hands roam all over him—cupping and sliding and gently scratching—and then I open my throat and take him all the way back, all the way in. Swallowing him down until my throat aches and my lips are all the way against him and I can smell the lingering scent of soap on his skin.
“Fuck,” Elijah groans, the hand in my hair restless and gripping and releasing and then gripping again. “Fuck.”
Everything around us is different, from my robes to the ruins to the hot slant of the Belgian summer sun, but his voice like that, his taste on my tongue...
Familiar as anything. Familiar as breathing.
I’m going to come in my robes, cage and all. And from nothing, from basically nothing but the sound of him cresting and the feel of his hand in my hair, and how am I supposed to save my body for God when this feels so necessary, so inevitable?
So right?
My abdomen contracts, and I grunt around his cock right as I start to release the dripping, unsatisfying release of a caged orgasm. And then there’s the first swelling jolt of his climax, followed by my reflexive need to swallow as he begins to pump down my throat. And the way my lips and tongue move around him, it’s like a prayer, it’s like chanting.
A secret, silent psalm just for us.
He whispers my secular name, and I love it, I love hearing him say it. And maybe I’ve been more Aiden than Brother Patrick today anyway. I’ve made off-color jokes and sworn up a storm and played a dirty game with Elijah the first chance I got. Maybe I was kidding myself all these years when I thought I’d changed, when I thought I’d finally learned how to keep a promise.
Maybe trying to be a holy man was a doomed experiment all along.
But when he says my name again there’s too much happiness coursing through me, too much excitement and relief for guilt to find much purchase. Because anything is worth this. Anything.
He holds my head still as he finishes in my mouth, a proprietary touch that has my cock trying to stiffen in its constraints all over again, and then he gives himself a long minute after, shuddering a little as I gently lick him clean.
He stares down at me, lips parted, eyes dazed, and then the front of my habit is seized in two fists, and I’m hauled up to his mouth. I’m yanked against him for a crushing kiss, the kind of kiss that almost hurts, but it has to, it has to hurt, because anything less ferocious would be dishonest and a lie.
His tongue fucks into my mouth like my mouth was made for him to fuck with anything he wants, and I love it, I whimper at the sensation of him tasting himself as he tastes me too, and then I’m kissing him back, my hand finding the back of his neck and my other hand finding his ass, until we are pressed together so tightly that my robe flutters around his legs.
“You’re wearing your cage again,” he moans into my kiss, a hand sliding between us to curl around me.
“Yes,” I manage to say, inhaling as he cups me. Everything is still sticky and hot, and all I want is to push him down onto the moss and then make out with him until we both die of old age.
“Please tell me you have your key,” he says. “Please, please—”
