Page 67 of Saint
I don’t want him to either.
But biology dictates it, and he slides free of my body after a moment, as slowly as possible. “Stay here,” he commands, and then I hear the sounds of him rustling through the satchel. When he returns, he turns me around and then urges me to sit on the altar with my habit still up to my waist.
For some reason, this is the thing that makes me hesitate, even though I know this altar has been deconsecrated, and even though I just had my hands braced on it so my ex-boyfriend could rail me into Judgement Day. But putting my ass on an altar just feels wrong somehow.
Once I see what’s dangling from Elijah’s long fingers, however, my objections vanish.
It’s the key to my cage.
“You got it from my room,” I breathe.
Elijah gives me a look that’s all heat, irritation, and lust together. “I’ve thought of nothing but this game all fucking day, the whole time I was in Cavaillon making excuses so I could sneak off to find les presérvatifs. And then I come back to the abbey to find you practically fucking naked and grinning at me like you used to do, like you were daring me, and Jesus, how I’ve missed being dared. And I knew if you were in this cage one minute longer, I was going to lose my goddamn mind, so I got your key while you were taking your shower.”
I spread my legs as he takes the small padlock of my cage between his fingers and fits the key inside. “I thought maybe when you saw me this afternoon—” I stop. It feels too stupid to say out loud.
“You thought what?” Elijah asks, eyes on my cage as he turns the key and the lock clicks open. “Tell me.”
“I thought that maybe you were turned off,” I confess. “Since my body is so different.”
He straightens up, his expression incredulous. “You what?”
“You know,” I say, feeling my face burn along with my chest. “Because I’m different now. Hairier. My stomach—”
He grabs my hand and drags it to his cock, which has been de-condomed but not put away. It’s already getting hard again.
“The daddy monk body works for me.A lot.And I want...” He leans forward to press his lips to my jaw, my ear. “I want you like this so much that sometimes I can’t even look at you, because once I do, I can’t think straight until I can escape somewhere to get off.”
He pulls back and eases my sore flesh free of the chastity device, and then with a bite of pain and a swell of primitive pleasure, my cock fills between my thighs, lengthening between us.
“I want morewhat ifs,” I say.
He looks down at my sex and then back up to my face. One eyebrow is lifted, but I don’t know if it’s in agreement or disagreement until he speaks.
“Me too,” he says finally.
“I don’t—I can’t give you—”
“I know, Aiden.”
He gets to his knees, his eyes on mine, and then he parts those perfect lips and lowers his head. His mouth envelops me, hot and silky and soft too, and it only takes one suck.
One suck, and I erupt again, fully this time, my hands finding his face to hold him close as the hard, delicious contractions quake through my thighs and cock and spurt a full release onto his tongue, a full release that has me stunned after it pulses its way to a long, ball-draining finish. His eyes are still looking up at me, his lips stretched around my flesh, and this is perfect, this is so perfect.
I will have to confess eventually, I will have to stop and find my way to celibacy again, but wasn’t it Abbot Jerome’s idea that I should use this trip to truly ask myself what I wanted, whatGodwanted? That this was an invitation to examine if I was meant for solemn vows and the rest of my life in a monastery? And IknowI am, I know I’m supposed to be a monk and spend the rest of my life alone with God...but surely it can’t hurt to take the invitation up to its fullest? Just for this trip? Just for the next couple of weeks? What are a few weeks in a lifetime of devotion, when you think about it? What are a few stolen hours when the rest of the day is prayer and work?
What are a fewwhat ifswhen the rest of my life is set in stone?
37
As we slowly clean upand gather our things—both of us dragging our feet, reluctant to leave our little sex-chapel—I confront the other barrier between us.
Jamie. The broken engagement.
“You don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to,” I say carefully, picking up part of the condom wrapper from the floor and tucking it into the satchel, “But not a day goes by that I’m not sorry for what happened in the hermitage, what I made you do—”
“You didn’t make me do anything,” he cuts in. “You felt me against you that day. I wanted every bit of it and more. And don’t act like you didn’t have as much to lose.”
“But I—if I hadn’t kissed you, then you and Jamie might still be—”
