Page 74 of Saint
Rolling to his stomach has hiked his stylish tank top up to his shoulder blades and his shorts are already pulled down to his thighs. For a moment, I simply savor the sight. The dark sepia stretch of his back—layered with slender muscles and beveled with the strong reach of his spine—and the firm rounds of his ass, curved in perfect Fibonacci curves.
I run my hands over those curves now, feeling the way goose bumps raise under my touch, even with the Provençal sun blazing overhead. I part the muscled cheeks of his backside and look down at the soft, velvety place I’m about to fuck.
“This is so good,” I say, touching the pleated rim of his entrance and pressing in. “This is so good, and I can’t wait any longer. You’re going to give it to me, aren’t you? You’re going to give it to me, because you were hoping I’d do this, weren’t you? You were hoping the big, quiet monk would pin you down and make you feel how much he’s needed it.”
“Yes,” he mumbles into the blanket, his hips lifting against my touch. “God,yes.”
I reach for the bottle of lube and click it open, pouring a generous amount on my fingers and painting his hole with it. “You’ve been driving me wild the whole time you’ve been here,” I say, pushing a finger inside. He moans. “That pretty mouth. This perfect ass. You think I don’t notice? That I’m superhuman? Made of stone? That I haven’t seen you looking at me, that I haven’t seen you staring at my hands like you want them all over you? That I haven’t seen you staring at my habit like you want to know what’s underneath?”
He’s blistering hot and a mind-breaking combination of tight and soft inside. I continually check his hands, keep my hearing alert for snaps of his fingers, but most of my attention is on what I’m doing to him right now. To where I’m drizzling more lube and then sliding a second finger in and pressing until I find the lust-swollen spot inside him and start stroking.
He is restless as I do, his hips moving against the blanket like a teenager fucking his own bed because he’s so horny, and noises begin to come out of his mouth. Pleading noises, urgent noises, sweeter than any psalm or canticle.
“Yeah,” I say, my erection aching inside the latex as I watch him fuck himself back against my slick fingers. “That’s what I thought. You need it as badly as I do. Maybe God really did send you to me. Maybe I’m ministering to you right now. Helping a poor stranger in need.”
He moans something into the blanket, something barely intelligible. It contains my religious name though and is followed by another shameless squirm of his hips, and so I think he’s still digging the daddy monk game, which. Good. Me too.
I slide my hands free to the sound of whimpering protests and slick my erection up with more lube before wedging it against the opening I’ve just been fingering. I push one cheek aside and use my other hand to tease at his rim with my crown.
Goose bumps stipple his skin, and I can feel him trembling underneath me as I breach him, moving past his tightest, narrowest barrier and into the hot heaven beyond.
“I wish you could see yourself right now,” I tell him. “How gorgeous you look while you’re taking me.”
I get an incoherent mumble in response, but there’s no snapping of fingers and the mumbling sounds moan-y in a good way, so I push in deeper, shivering as more and more of me is squeezed and then caressed by his silky, hot sheath. It’s been years since I’ve felt the clutch of a lover’s body around me, and yet it’s so instinctive still to move, to take, to push, and to fuck.
And then I’m all the way inside, deep enough that I can feel my hips press into his backside. I stroke my fingers up his spine and then lean down to brace my forearm on his back, draping myself entirely over him.
“God, you feel good,” I breathe in his ear, giving an experimental thrust and then grunting at how good it feels. Hotter than a furnace, hotter than the fires of hell. The kind of heat you dream about alone in bed at night. The kind of heat you’d pay any price to heaven for.
“You feel...big,” he mumbles.
I withdraw and push back in as I pet his side, his hip. “Maybe it’s that you’re so tight. Jesus Christ. It’s like fucking a fist.” I punch my hips forward with a groan and then take his wrist and push his hand underneath his hips to his cock.
“Didn’t expect...you to care...” he says, sounding drunk, as his arm begins to move. “Big mean monk like you.”
“You thought I’d just use you and be done?” I rasp as I start rutting into him harder, a little rougher. “You thought maybe I’d just want a hot little hole for the afternoon? Maybe I like watching you getting off underneath me. Maybe I want you so limp from coming that I can fuck you again and again while you lay dazed on the blanket. Maybe I want you at prayers every day thinking of how hard you come when I’m on top of you.”
He mutters a curse into the blanket, rolling his head along his forearm as I hold him down and fuck. I drive into him without mercy, my exhales harsh, my muscles hard and straining, my habit everywhere, somehow making everything all the more obscene. The monk who snapped, who broke at the first man to offer himself. The monk, who after years of denial, simply had totake.
“Aiden,” Elijah chokes out, his arm moving faster. “Aiden, I’m—” He turns his face toward me as he goes taut, and then with a sudden inhale, he shudders so hard that I have to ride him to stay inside.
And more than the satiny heat around my sex, more than his gorgeous ass moving against me as he rides out his climax against the blanket, it’s his face that tips me over. The flutter of his eyelashes and the cut of his jaw and the helpless, helpless part of his lips against the onslaught of his pleasure.
It makes me want to fuck him seventeen times a day just to see that expression on his face as often as possible.
The orgasm grips me hard, snapping me clean in two as I stroke into him, relentlessly chasing every last throb, every last drop, etching every last bit of it to memory. The stretch of his body around my swollen length, the heat, the slick, soft kiss of him. The sweat dappling his back as he slumps limply forward, the sweat dripping off my own face now. The rasp of my thighs moving against the expensive fabric of his shorts, the drape of my habit and scapular everywhere, the ripple of the springs nearby.
The beauty of the sun along his face and the shadows hidden along the perfect shell of his ear and the heartbreakingly raw sound of his voice as he murmurs my name. My real name.
I come and come, loving it and hating it, because each pulse filling the condom is that much closer to the moment ending. This perfect moment which feels holier than prayer and deeper than contemplation.
And then finally, I am emptied out into him.
I pull free, cleaning us both quickly enough that he’s still floppy and dazed when I’m done, and then I lie down and pull him into my arms and kiss him until we’re both hard again and reaching for the satchel.
“Maybe I’m not the best one to explain celibacy to you,” I say as he rolls a condom back over my cock, and he’s still laughing even after he climbs over me and sinks his way home.
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