Chapter Twenty-Five
Cantrell
“But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed.”
The bishop arrived later in the month than anticipated, and with his arrival came a long list of responsibilities that mimicked that of an office secretary.
Organizing and prepping meetings, sectioning off time to allow for visits to Saint Anthony’s, relaying messages, and marking a day that was exclusively for meeting with the parish staff (elected congregation members who met whenever the bishop was in town).
On the surface it didn’t seem like much, but with the bishop only being in town for a week due to his late arrival, Cantrell was drowning.
Rier only piled more on by shoving his responsibilities onto Cantrell as well.
Between Revived Faith, the bishop secretarial duties, and managing Saint Anthony’s, Cantrell had no time to think about anything else.
Which, on one hand he was thankful for as it meant his focus was solely on what it should be on.
On the other hand, it also meant that when he was unable to sleep, his mind drifted to what it shouldn’t.
Sleep became harder and harder to come by; his mind entangled with his night with Illias and every small encounter they shared since.
Somewhere between their brief conversations in person and short text messages, Cantrell’s thoughts about Illias shifted.
Went from lustful to tender intimacy. Carnal to domestic.
There was no reason behind the change. No indication from Illias that he saw their arrangement as anything more than a means to an end.
A distraction from his troubles. Still, there was a tug at Cantrell’s core to know Illias, to hear each and every story behind the ink on his skin.
Learn his ins and outs, and what made him the man he was.
Cantrell wanted to know him biblically. Wholly and without barriers.
Like he knew Zoe before his greed drove her away, before he stumbled and fell and decided that laying on the ground was better than trying to walk again.
But he was no longer the man he was back then, insatiable for all that he could squeeze out of life.
Just having Illias would be enough. He had already took residency in the empty parts of Cantrell’s chest that Zoe left.
“Father Cantrell,” Illias’ voice rang from the parking lot.
Speak of the devil and he shall appear, Cantrell thought, looking up from the steps he was sweeping.
“Enjoying the sunshine?”
Illias’ hair was pulled back in a low ponytail with a few loose strands framing his face.
Exhaustion etched dark circles beneath his eyes but he maintained a half-smile that looked natural.
Cantrell, despite his worry for Illias’ wellbeing, mimicked his smile.
“Lovely day, isn’t it? How are you doing? ”
“I’m doing well besides wanting to rip the sleeves off this shirt,” he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“I would imagine so, it is rather hot.” Cantrell felt sweat slide down his back. His clerical blacks only attracted the sun’s heat.
“I can make it even hotter.” Illias winked.
“Watch your mouth,” he warned. “What brings you by?”
“Oh, I, uh, I went to a”—Illias fiddled with the button on his sleeve cuff—“fancy company lunch for Henry’s twenty-third year of working at his company. He’s apparently one of the head honchos or something. Thought I would swing by,” he said while rolling up his sleeve.
Cantrell approached his next question with caution, knowing the relationship between Illias and Henry was rather volatile. “How did it go?”
Illias shrugged, rolling up the other sleeve. “Okay, I guess. We didn’t fight, which is nice. A little awkward though.” He popped open a few of the top buttons. “But it made Mom happy, which is what matters to me anyways.”
Cantrell failed to keep from staring. “I’m happy to hear it went well then.” Cantrell shifted the broom between his hands and adjusted his weight to avoid hip pain later. “Are you still visiting Saint Anthony’s on your days off?”
“I am.” Illias straightened his spine, a hint of pride in his eyes.
“Charity asked if I would start on this garden idea she has. I don’t have a green thumb worth a damn, but she asked if I would build a few raised garden beds for her, so I’ve been working on that.
” Illias glanced over Cantrell’s shoulder then looked back at him.
“Planning on visiting Nirvana’s tonight? ”
Based on Illias’ question, Cantrell assumed he could answer more freely than he typically would. “The bishop is in this week. Afraid I have to be on my best behavior.”
Illias laughed and Cantrell wanted to bottle the sound up to listen to over and over again. “If you change your mind about that,” Illias drummed his fingers on his pocket where his phone must be, “you know how to reach me. I’ll see you around, Father.”
“Sunday,” Cantrell said, looking at him expectedly.
“Yes, sir,” Illias said, with a two-finger salute.
Cantrell wished Illias a goodnight and watched him walk back to his car, waiting until the little coupe pulled out of the parking lot before going back to sweeping the steps—which felt like such a meaningless task now that he thought about it—and tried to quell his racing heart.
Was this what it was like with Zoe? Heart racing from the slightest conversation, palms sweating just from a simple glance?
He couldn’t remember clearly what it had been like prior to her leaving.
All her memories were murky, like viewing them through the bottom of a brown bottle.
He knew one thing for certain though. His memories of Illias would never share the same fate.
Sunday Mass came and went with no sign of Illias among the congregation.
Cantrell carried on as normal. Took confession for those that requested it.
Held a small prayer circle for a family going through difficult times.
Cleaned and prepared the sacristy for Wednesday.
Organized the upstairs spare supplies closet.
Ignored the pit of his stomach hinting that something was wrong and played his part as the dutiful priest.
It wasn’t until late into the evening that Cantrell had a moment to sit in his office away from scrutinizing eyes.
He removed his phone from the top drawer where he kept it during Sunday.
No new notifications lit up his screen. Praying for the best, Cantrell went to his messages and sent a text to Illias.
Cantrell
You were missed at service today. I hope you’re well.
HIM
Slept in, super late night Saturday.
Cantrell
I’m sorry to hear.
HIM
Come by when I get off to give me the cliffnotes?
Cantrell considered his options, thought of every possible outcome, good and bad. Heart hammering against his ribcage, he typed his response.
Cantrell
Let me know when you get home.
Cantrell waited until sunset to leave the church.
Navy blue cloaked the sky by the time he pulled into the small parking lot in front of the townhomes where Illias lived.
Everything about the situation screamed bad idea.
Told Cantrell to go back to the rectory where he would be safe.
He was beyond listening to the voice of reason and made the short walk from his car to Illias’s door.
He knocked then seconds later the door opened revealing Illias dressed in sweatpants and a tank top that hugged his torso so tightly that Cantrell could see Illias’ nipple piercings through the fabric.
Heat pooled in Cantrell’s abdomen and he quickly averted his eyes as he walked in.
“I appreciate you coming by on such short notice,” Illias said, closing the door. “Can I get you anything?”
Cantrell cleared his throat. “I’m good, thank you.” He sat in the recliner. “But I do hope I’m able to try whatever is in the oven making that wonderful smell.”
Illias beamed. “Cookies, special recipe. They’ll be ready in about five more minutes.”
“You didn’t go through the trouble of—”
“Oh, no, I just like to keep myself busy when I’m ner—” Illias cut himself off, eyes widening.
“Do I make you nervous?” he asked, voice dropping as he tilted his head back just enough to portray a smidge of smugness.
Illias rolled his eyes and scoffed, “No, I get nervous around all hot men.”
“Come here,” Cantrell beckoned.
Cantrell kept his eyes trained on Illias until he stopped in front of the recliner.
Cantrell drank in the sight of Illias from head to toe, wishing there was a way to see him this unfiltered, unguarded, more often.
“I honestly can’t tell what I like you better in.
Sunday best or your regular attire,” Cantrell said, bringing his eyes up to Illias’.
Cantrell reached forward and skimmed his fingers across Illias’ hips.
Goosebumps ran down his arms. Cantrell ghosted his fingers around Illias’ waist until his palms rested on the skin just above Illias’ sweatpants.
He climbed on top of Cantrell, slotting his knees in between Cantrell’s thighs and the armrests of the chair.
Illias placed one hand on the back of the chair and the other on Cantrell’s shoulder, then leaned down so that their faces were centimeters apart.
“I know what I’d prefer you in,” Illias said, a devious glint in his eyes.
“And what might that be?” Cantrell’s focus was on Illias’ mouth.
“Nothing,” he whispered.
“Is that so?” Cantrell’s grip tightened on Illias’ waist. “Because I think you quite enjoy my uniform.”
“I can’t deny that your little getup”—Illias’ lips brushed Cantrell’s jaw— “gets me a little hot under the collar,” Illias said and nipped Cantrell’s jaw.
Reflexively, his hips jerked upwards, seeking friction that Illias held just out of reach. Taking matters into his own hands, Cantrell pulled Illias down then ground upwards, drawing a low, throaty groan. The sound was like hot wax dripping down Cantrell’s spine.
“You must be excited to see me.” Illias rocked his hips, drawing a sharp breath from the older man. “At least a part of you is.”
Cantrell guided Illias’ hips, rocking him back and forth slowly. “I’m ecstatic,” Cantrell breathed. “Absolutely thrilled.”
Illias pressed a kiss to Cantrell’s neck then grazed his teeth along Cantrell’s skin, letting out a low, deep moan.
Cantrell angled his head to give Illias more access.
In this moment, he forgot he was a priest. That he wasn’t supposed to have another man in his lap, grinding against him, friction bringing him agonizingly slow to the edge in the most delectable way.
God may not forgive him for his failures as a priest, but he didn’t care.
His body buzzed in a way he hadn’t felt in years, like he was flesh and blood instead of a ghost hiding within the confines of the church.
Praying to a God he wasn’t certain was there some days.
But Illias? He was. He was alive and breathing and magnetic.
He pulled at the stitches that held Cantrell together until he came undone.
Cantrell lifted a hand to Illias’ head, tangling fingers in soft curls.
Illias lifted his head from Cantrell’s neck and pressed their foreheads together.
Their eyes locked, and they were close enough to share breath.
Illias’ lips hovered above Cantrell’s, a temptation that Cantrell couldn’t ignore.
Would a kiss be too much? He leaned a little closer.
Their lips brushed against each other. He didn’t pull away. His chest tightened. Does that mean—
The oven alarm went off and Illias shot straight up, eyes wild, chest heaving.
Cantrell’s head spun. They almost kissed.
They almost kissed. He ran his fingers through his hair and took everything in.
His hammering heart, the electricity coursing through his body, the beautiful and flustered man sitting in his lap, the smell of chocolate and caramel wafting through the air.
It all felt so surreal. A dream that he was bound to wake up from.
He placed a tender hand on Illias’ cheek that he leaned into.
This isn’t a dream, Cantrell thought, stroking his thumb across Illias’ cheek.
This is real. Illias turned his head slightly and pressed a kiss to the center of Cantrell’s palm.
And it’s going to destroy everything.