Page 60 of Saint
Elijah sighs with something like relief the moment I lick into his mouth, like he’s been waiting for my kiss his entire life, and then he’s tugging on me and we’re stumbling sideways until he’s sitting down on a pew and pulling me down to straddle him.
“I’m too big,” I murmur between kisses, but his hands are already pushing my robe up past my thighs.
“I like it,” he breathes against me. “I like you big.” His hands are on the bare skin of my thighs now, sliding up to my boxer briefs. His fingertips slide between the tight fabric and my skin, and then he gently scratches his way back down, sending goose bumps pebbling everywhere under my robe.
“You’re wearing your cage again,” he says, as his fingertips finally graze the metal ring banding around the base of my sex.
I groan at the touch. My cock is tryingso hardto fill, to thicken, and the exposed shaft above the rest of the cage is unbearably sensitive. And then he starts touching my testicles, teasing touches and fondles and tugs, until I break off our kiss and I’m breathing hard into his neck.
“The game we played in the ruins,” he says, his experienced hands playing so skillfully under my habit. “I keep thinking about it. About that poor monk who’s so desperate to fuck that he’ll beg a stranger to let him suck his cock.”
“Yeah?”
“I keep thinking about what else he’d do. How much he must...ache...” Elijah’s fingers stray farther—deliberately, probingly—and then I feel the light brush of his fingers over my hole. Sensation tingles along the delicate skin long after his touch drifts away, sinking its way deeper and deeper into me, deep into my belly. It curls and hooks around the base of my spine, and I have to brace my hands on the back of the pew to keep from crushing him entirely as I shudder through it.
Because I do, I do ache. Despite my release last night, and the tepid, half-releases while in chastity, I’m miserable. As if all the years of celibacy are finally catching up with me all at once, swelling me and filling me. My shaft is seeking any way out of its cage; my balls are heavy, twinging with something that’s between pleasure and pain.
Need.
I find his mouth again and pant against his kiss as he strokes my entrance. Nothing more than strokes, nothing more than teases. And despite the certainty in his touch, there’s a kind of hesitation there too. Almost like it’s the first time we’re doing this. Like we’re making out for real, wanting so much more, but only kissing and touching because we don’t know how much further the other person will let us go.
“Can you fix it?” I breathe, my lips ghosting over his as I speak. “The ache?”
His other hand finds my hip and curls tight around it, holding me in place for his fingers to push against me. “Yeah,” he rasps.
“I want you to fuck it away,” I tell him, pressing my forehead to his. “I want you to fuck me until I’m empty, until I’m drained all the way dry.”
That had been the idea behind my cages, once upon a time. We’d bought them as toys, thinking he’d lock me up for days and days, until I was bursting to come, and then he would fuck the denied seed right out of me. It turned out that both of us were too impatient to spend much time on delayed gratification, and so we never really finished that game. My two cages sat in a drawer until I was packing my bag for Mount Sergius, when I’d grabbed them on a whim, somehow intuiting that quitting sex cold turkey was going to require some extra help. Padlock-level help.
“Fuck, yes,” Elijah groans, and we’re kissing so hard now, him dragging me all the way down to his lap, where I can feel his erection swollen underneath me. Our tongues fuck the way our bodies want to, urgent and hard, and then I give up trying to keep my weight off him.
I settle onto his thighs and let my hands roam over the muscles of his arms and shoulders and over the sculpted contours of his throat and chest. I do what I once spent a year doing—what I spent all my twenties wishing I’d had the courage to do—and I trace over his perfect face with my fingers, following the rise of his cheekbones and the curve of his nose. Finding those eyebrows which show his every thought, the jaw that tenses so often around me, the corners of the mouth I was always so desperate to make smile.
And his hands are all over me too, greedy, a little desperate, and I don’t know if it’s the years between us, or the monk’s robes currently pushed up around my thighs, or the fact that this moment is so very, very stolen and we have no idea when we’ll get another, but we’re touching each other like we’ll have to sketch each other from memory later.
Like memory is all we’ll have.
“I love sitting in your lap,” I confess after a long moment of nothing but kissing. His hand has found its way back to my rim again, and he’s still teasing me there, still tickling me there.
“Is that so?” he murmurs, kissing his way to bite at my stubbled jaw.
“I wish I would have done it years ago,” I whisper. “All those times you were over with Sean. I wish I would have crawled right onto your lap and made you kiss me.”
There’s a new tension in his body when I speak, but when I pull back to see the burn in his eyes, I know it’s a good tension. A hungry tension.
“I wish you would have too,” he says, moving both hands to my hips and holding me down against his lap. It seems to escape neither of us that this is a position for fucking, that we’re so close to it, so close after so long. His lips are parted as he looks down at where my thighs straddle him, at where his hands hold me under my habit. “I remember coming over to pick up Sean to go out for my twenty-third birthday—do you remember? You were eighteen then, and it must have been almost a year since I’d seen you, maybe more. And you were out by the pool, wearing nothing but boxer shorts because you couldn’t be bothered to put your trunks on.” He lets out a shaky breath. “It was the first time I saw you and realized you weren’t a kid anymore, and Iwantedyou. I wanted you so suddenly and so much that nothing else mattered, not my friendship with Sean, not the schism between our families after Lizzy’s death. I wanted to stalk out to that pool and push you down onto a lounge chair and kiss you until you agreed to anything I wanted.”
I stare at him, stunned. “I had no idea. You noticed me that early? I thought...I thought it wasn’t until the gala, until years later—”
He’s already shaking his head, his mouth in a rueful twist. “I saw you that day, and nothing was the same for me. Nothing.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
He blows out a long breath, his hands easing a little on my hips, but his thumbs now rubbing possessive circles there. “Because as horny as I was, all those things did still matter. My friendship with Sean mattered. The shit between our families mattered. It mattered that you were eighteen and at the time, twenty-three felt like a creepy age to be wanting a college freshman. And,” he says with a lifted eyebrow, “in my defense, you were in the pants of every girl your age in a five-parish radius. I thought you were straight.”
I huff out a laugh. “Me too.” Even after college when I’d realized that I wanted to fuckeverybody, it was still too easy to compare every man I’d met to Elijah. No one else was as smart as him, as sophisticated as him. No one was as considerate or as dryly funny—or as clear about who he was and about what he believed.
No one else was him, period.
