Page 66 of Saint
“You’re goddamn right about that,” he says, his voice as rough as his touch. “Hold still.”
I do as he says, too shivery and hot to care that I’m bent over a medieval altar with my habit up around my waist. Too inflamed to worry about how ridiculous I must look with my boots still on, my feet planted apart and my hands planted on the stone in front of me. Nothing matters, nothing at all, it’s too late, it’s too late, thank fucking God it’s too late for anything else to matter.
He returns with a firm, possessive grip of my ass and then with slick fingertips. Slick and cool.
Lubricant.
I look back over my shoulder at him. He has a condom packet clenched between his teeth, and his eyes are heavy-lidded when he looks back at me.
“How did you...?”
“What did you think I went into town for?” he mutters around the condom, his fingers finding the heart of me again. “It wasn’t to help with the copper pots.”
Knowing that he planned this—that he walked up to the grotto with his satchel, prepared to fuck me—makes it all the more wonderfully unbearable. “So this whole day...”
“Yeah,” he says, tearing open the condom packet with his teeth and then rolling it over his cock, which juts out from between the zipper of his jeans. “This whole day.”
A fingertip presses in, and I shiver so hard that I feel like I’m going to shiver myself into a pile of atoms at the foot of this altar, and then I hear the click of a bottle and everything gets slicker, cooler. My body clenches around him, but it welcomes him too, welcomes the gorgeous invasion that was familiar once upon a time and now feels new all over again.
I press my face against the cool stone, breathing heavily as he pushes a second finger inside. And then both fingers move, grazing against something deep, something vital, and I groan into the altar.
Elijah’s voice is low and triumphant when he speaks. “I knew you needed it. I could tell the moment I saw you. Luckily for you, I wouldn’t refuse a monk. It’s the least I can do for a man of God, don’t you think?”
I nod against the altar, making a noise of shameless assent as he fists his cock and presses the slippery, latex-covered head against me. It’s huge, vast, bigger than grace and larger than sin, and as it begins to breach me, I forget how to think. I forget how to breathe. The only thing I can remember is him, is the heavy need of him slowly pushing inside. Impaling me. Pinning me. Nailing me to a cross I built myself five years ago out of loneliness and despair and hope.
I feel stretched open and for a single moment, there is more pain than pleasure, but it is pleasure too, this pain. A flogging, a cilice around the arm, a cord below the knee, kneeling for hours on a stone floor with only the Host for company—this is the same. This is dying to the self, this is sanctifying, this is salvation and baptism, and he is the one giving it to me.
“Please,” I say, sucking in a breath. “I need—”
“I know what you need,” he says, and then with a slow drag out, he pushes in again, all the way, until his hips are flush with the curves of my backside. We stay still like that a moment, and then he splays a hand between my shoulder blades and presses me down. “Stay still, and I’ll help. You’ll see how good I can help.”
I close my eyes. “Please,” I whisper. “Let me feel you.”
He does, with more slow strokes and another drizzle of lube, moving his hands to my ass to spread me apart. “Look at you,” he says in a rough voice. “Look at how good you take me.”
I nod against the stone, electricity zapping through me, up my spine and back down again. Every time he moves, his shaft drags against my prostate and soon I’m to that place where my shivers have become shudders and the shudders have become uncontrollable tremors all over my body. My belly quivers. My thighs shake.
“Yes,” Elijah murmurs, his hands still holding me apart. “That’s it. Doesn’t that feel better? Aren’t you so glad you asked me to help?”
I’m beyond speaking now, rocking back into him, and then he slides a hand under my throat and lifts me so that I’m nearly upright. He finds my jaw and turns my head for a kiss, and it’s brief and sharply angled and it’s more meeting lips and exchanging breath than a true kiss, but it’s enough because it’s him, it’s Elijah, and we’re playing one of our games, and even if this never happens again, it’s happeningnow, and I will have this memory forever. His chest against my back and his hand on my throat and pleasure scissoring its way up my thighs to my groin until it threatens to saw me right in half.
“Elijah,” I grunt. “Elijah.”
And then it takes me. Like ecstasy, like being pierced with angelic spears of love, like being run through with swords of light. I understand so much in this moment, I think I might understand everything, every mystery of creation, even why God made love for him and sex so close together, and right as the first wave shreds its way down my belly, I open my eyes and see the white and green hills on the other side of the valley through the open chapel door. I smell the lavender and see the wind playing with the leaves and feel the faint fingers of the sun stretching in toward the altar. And it’s those hills I pin my gaze on as the release takes me, takes my body and offers it up to Elijah, to God, to myself. As the difference between the three of us shrinks to nothing, and we are all bound together in this moment, one spirit, one flesh, together, together, together. Evil exorcised with the salt of our sweat, joy anointed with seed.
Joined and incarnated andhere.Alive.
I lift my eyes to the hills.
I’m an empty vessel after this orgasm, a chalice holding nothing but the memory of wine, and Elijah lets me slump over the altar as he reaches down to fondle me. He finds where I’m slick with dripping semen.
“Yes,” he hisses, his strokes changing. Turning hard and using and rutting. “I knew it. I knew you needed this. And you’re going to keep needing it, aren’t you? It can be our secret, you know, what you need me to do to you. No one else needs to know how you ache under that pious little habit of yours.”
“I am,” I manage to say between his vicious thrusts. “I am going to need it. Please don’t stop. Please don’t stop—”
Behind me, he stiffens, and I hear a sharp gasp. And then he plants his hands on the edge of the altar and begins pumping the condom full in short, full jerks that I can feel inside me.
It takes him a long time, as if even his body doesn’t want this to end, and when he finally, finally goes still, he doesn’t seem to want to pull out.
