Chapter 6 Michael
MICHAEL
The cabin is a hush of amber and blue shadows, the only light the slow pulse from the wood stove.
On the bed, Sarah is half-curled, watching me with a wariness I can feel in my own bones.
She shifts, letting the blanket slip to her lap.
The hem of the hoodie slides up her thighs, baring the pale skin above her knees.
I stare.
I do not pretend otherwise. In the dimness, her bruises look like the work of an old master, Rembrandt maybe. Yellows and deep violets bleeding into blue and rose. I’m supposed to protect her. Instead, I want to undo her. Claim her.
“Michael?” she says, and the sound of my name, no Father, just the raw syllable, burns through me.
I let go of the doorframe. My hand leaves a sweat print on the wood.
I take a step in. Then another. Each footfall is a commitment to letting go of pieces of my old life.
When I reach the bed, I stand over her, unsure if I should touch her first or ask permission.
She solves it for me by reaching up, two hands bracing my hips, tentative as a child petting a stray.
I am shaking.
I sink to my knees. I mean it as submission, maybe even penance, but the effect is erotic, her gaze hungry and uncertain as she looks down at me. I take her hand and press it to my jaw. Her fingers flutter, then settle, mapping the stubble, tracing my mouth.
I kiss the inside of her wrist, a priestly benediction twisted into something carnal.
“Sarah,” I say, tasting her name, “I can’t stop.”
She nods, her pupils blown wide, and I can tell she’s bracing herself, too.
The first kiss is dry and awkward. It doesn’t matter. We do it again, slower, and I feel the charge gather, the surrender and the dare. She opens for me on the second pass, her tongue tentative and curious. I let her set the pace. When she pulls away, she’s breathing hard, mouth wet.
“Can I?” she says, but loses the thread.
I know what she’s asking. I cup her cheek, fingers spread into her hair, and kiss her again.
This time I’m the one who can’t hold back.
I kiss her the way I’ve thought about for months.
Deep, almost bruising, my hand sliding from her face to her neck, thumb tracing the tendon. Her breath hitches, then melts.
I break away, not because I want to, but because I have to say it. “Sarah, if you want me to stop.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Her voice is small but fierce. “I want to.”
I nod. It’s not the first time I’ve crossed a line, but it’s the first time I want it to matter.
I move to the bed, sitting beside her. The mattress creaks under my weight. For a moment, I just let our knees touch, not rushing the reveal. I don’t want to scare her or myself.
I reach for the top button of my shirt, but my hands are useless, clumsy with nerves.
She notices. She helps. Her hands cover mine, guiding my fingers to the first button, then the next.
I have not been undressed by another in more than a decade, and the sensation is both terrifying and wildly tender.
When she gets to the collar, she hesitates.
I take over. I undo the tab, the little plastic square that marks me as holy, and place it in her open palm.
She looks at it, then at me. Her lips part, and I can feel the question forming, the theology of it.
I kiss her before she can speak, a silent answer.
I strip off the shirt, exposing a torso that is far from priestly. Her hands go to my skin, feather-light, and I shiver. She traces my chest, fingers splaying, as if reading braille.
“Is this okay?” she says.
“Perfect,” I answer, and mean it.
I touch her knee, following the arc of her thigh up under the hoodie. The muscles are tense, flexed. I want to worship her, to take every slow inch. I rest my palm above her knee, and she leans into my touch. I squeeze, gentle but firm. Her legs part, just a little.
I slide my hand up, cupping the outside of her thigh. Her skin is so soft it’s like touching water. She’s trembling, and I want to slow it down, but my own pulse is out of control.
I push the hoodie higher, and she raises her arms so I can pull it off. She’s not wearing anything underneath. Her breasts are full, high, the nipples pink and puckered from chill or anticipation.
She flushes, looking down at herself, then back at me. “Don’t laugh,” she says, voice barely audible.
“Never,” I say, and kiss the hollow between her breasts.
She gasps. I do it again, then drag my tongue up to her collarbone, nipping at the skin, marking her as mine. I look at her face. Her eyes are closed, mouth slack.
I guide her back onto the mattress and lay her flat. I work my way down, kissing every bruise, every mark left by the world. When I get to the hem of her underwear, I pause.
“May I?”
She nods. I slip my fingers under the waistband, peeling them down slowly. She lifts her hips to help, then covers her face with her hands, embarrassed.
“Hey,” I say, “look at me.”
She peeks out from between her fingers.
I settle between her legs, kissing the inside of each thigh.
Her body is a lattice of nerves, and every inch of her skin shudders at my touch.
She smells like soap and sweat and the sharp, metallic tang of arousal.
I bury my face in her, pressing my lips to her heat, and her entire body arches off the bed.
“Oh,” she says, and claps a hand over her mouth.
I want her to be loud, to own this, but I don’t push. I lick her, slow and deliberate, finding the rhythm that makes her shudder, then double back on itself. She’s so wet already, it surprises me. I taste her, savoring every response.
Her hands find my hair, tangling in the strands, tugging me closer. Her thighs clamp around my ears, and I let it happen. I let her use me as leverage. She doesn’t last long. Her body tenses, feet kicking at the mattress, and then she’s coming, gasping my name.
I ride out every aftershock, kissing her until she’s too sensitive and pushes me away. I crawl up the bed, kissing her cheeks, her eyelids, the tip of her nose.
She’s crying a little, but smiling.
“I didn’t know it could be like that,” she says, then laughs.
“It can always be like that,” I say, voice low. “For you.”
She tugs at my waistband, a silent plea. “Can I?”
“Anything you want.”
I let her pull my sweatpants down. My cock is hard enough to hurt, the head crimson and glossy. She looks at it like she’s not sure what to do, but I guide her hand, wrapping her fingers around the shaft. She strokes, cautious at first, then firmer as she feels me buck against her grip.
She leans in, kissing the tip, tentative, then bolder, taking the head into her mouth. The sight nearly breaks me. I groan, unable to hide it, and she smiles around me, pleased with herself.
“Sarah, stop,” I say, “unless you want me to finish.”
She pulls back, eyes shining.
“Not yet,” she says, and I could die for her.
I line up my tip at her entrance, rubbing through her folds. Her eyes are wide with anticipation and fear. She’s so wet it makes a noise, obscene and perfect.
I look directly into her eyes.
“If it hurts, tell me. We can go slow.”
She nods, hands gripping my biceps.
I press in, just the tip, and her breath catches. I stop and wait for her to adjust. She tilts her hips, angling for more. I slide in, a fraction at a time, watching her face for any sign of pain. When I’m fully inside, we both go still, breathing each other in.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
She grins. “More than.”
I start to move, slow at first, then deeper, harder as she urges me on. Her nails rake my back, her teeth graze my neck. She is wild and wonderful and absolutely real.
I last longer than I expect, but not much. When I come, it’s with a violence that leaves me shaking, my forehead pressed to hers. She kisses me through it, her hands stroking my hair, my back, grounding me.
We collapse together, sticky and spent. I roll to the side, pulling her into my arms. She laughs, a sound of pure relief.
“Do you regret it?” she asks.
“Not for a second,” I say, and hold her close.
After, the room is perfumed with sweat and salt. Sarah is still wrapped around me, one thigh thrown over my hip, her head burrowing under my chin. I stroke her hair, slow and steady, feeling the knot in her spine gradually loosen.
For a long time, neither of us speak. The rain on the roof is as steady as a metronome. When I look down, she’s already watching me, eyes glassy in the half-light.
“Was I…” she starts, then stops, biting her lip.
I run my palm along her back, tracing the length of her spine.
“Perfect,” I say, and mean it.
She snorts, a small puff of disbelief, but she doesn’t contradict me. Instead, she drapes herself over my chest, propping her chin on my sternum. I cradle her face, kissing her gently, reverently.
“Thank you for trusting me,” I say.
She smiles, wicked and shy at once. “I think I trust you more than I trust myself.”
We lay like that, our skin cooling in the afterglow, until the draft makes her shiver. I pull the blanket over us, but she pushes it aside, rolling onto her back, with a hint of excitement in her eyes.
“Show me,” she says, the words a dare. “Show me how to do it right.”
The old Michael, the one built in the seminary, all theory and iron will … would have frozen, would have called this sin and run from it. But the man in this bed is done with running.
I slide down, kissing her navel, her hips, the seam of her thigh. She smells like herself, and like me, and when I nuzzle between her legs, she giggles, startled by the tickle.
I look up.
“Relax,” I tell her. “Just let yourself feel.”
She nods, but her hands clench the sheet.
I taste her, slow and soft, tongue circling before I flatten it and press. She gasps, a sound of pure surprise, and the sheet rips a little in her grip. I go gentle, reading every twitch and flinch, using my lips to soothe, my breath to tease.
Her body is a classroom, and I am the eager, desperate student. When I find the right spot, her hips buck, and I wrap my arms around her thighs to keep her anchored.
“That’s …oh, God, that’s-” she pants, words breaking up as the pleasure builds.
I hum against her, and she cries out, louder now, not caring who hears. The tempo of the raindrops is our soundtrack. She comes apart under my tongue, her hands fly to my hair, holding on tight as if I might vanish.
When she’s done, I crawl back up, licking my lips, proud as a schoolboy.
She pulls me on top of her, arms and legs both wrapping around me.
“Jesus Christ,” she says, half-laughing, half-weeping.
We roll, and she straddles me, eyes wide.
For a moment, she’s uncertain, but I guide her, letting her find the rhythm, the balance.
She rides me, awkward at first, but soon with confidence, and when I start to lose control, I try warning her.
She understands, leaning forward to kiss me as I finish.
The sound she makes is triumphant, almost feral.
She collapses on top of me, boneless. The world shrinks to the heat between us.
We lie there, tangled, just breathing.
After a while, she speaks.
“Did you ever think it would be like this?”
“Not in a million years,” I admit.
She nods, tracing circles on my chest. “I think I like it.”
I laugh, and it feels like the first honest laugh I’ve had in years.
“Me too,” I say.
Dawn lightens the bedroom. How easily my space now belongs to us both is not lost on me. Sarah is asleep on my chest, her mouth open just enough to let out a half-snore, her fingers curled like claws against my ribs. My arm is dead from her weight, but I wouldn’t move it for the world.
I watch her for a long time, let the feeling of her seep in.
There’s no guilt, no shame. For the first time in years, the static in my head is gone.
I trace little circles on her shoulder. Her skin is soft, except where the bruises are.
She wakes up slowly, blinks at the ceiling, then turns her face to me.
“Did you sleep?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Didn’t want to waste it.”
She laughs, rolling onto her back. The sheet pools at her hips. I admire her, every line of her svelte frame, the pale rise of breasts marked by my sucking and nibbling.
“You look happy,” she says, skeptical.
“I am.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
She hesitates. “Why did you become a priest?”
I expect the question to hurt, but it doesn’t. I run my thumb over her knuckles, thinking.
“My father was a drunk,” I say. “Mean as a snake. I joined the seminary to get away from him. I thought, if I spent my life helping people, I’d be something better than him. I liked the certainty of it, the rules, the ritual.”
“Did it work?”
“For a while,” I say. “Then I started to feel like I was pretending. Like I was wearing a costume I couldn’t take off.”
She nods, and her hair brushes my chest. “So why stay?”
“Habit,” I admit.
She is silent for a minute, then says, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
I pull her closer. “I know. That’s why you scare me.”
She pokes me in the side. “I’m not that scary.”
“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met,” I tell her.
The air shifts. The silence is thick, but not uncomfortable.
“There’s something I should say,” I begin. “I’ve been thinking about leaving for a while. Before you ever showed up at my door. It wasn’t you that caused it. You just… gave me the courage to admit it.”
She searches my face. “What would you do? If you weren’t a priest, I mean.”
“I’d still want to help people,” I say. “Maybe social work, maybe counseling. There’s more than one way to save someone. I'm sure I'll miss parts of it, but I'm ready to let go.”
“I don’t know what happens now,” she says. “I don’t know if I want to stay in this town, or if I want to run away, or if I want to sleep for a year.”
I reach over, take her hand.
“You don’t have to know,” I say. “Not today.”
After a while, we get up, shower together, awkward and giggly.
I dry her hair with a towel, and she bites my shoulder in retaliation for the roughness.
When I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, I see a different man.
Maybe rehabilitated, or just relieved. I'm still tired, but lighter, as if some old debt has finally been paid.