Chapter 7 Sarah
SARAH
We spend the rest of the day in slow, small movements, orbiting each other in the cramped cabin.
Michael goes out for groceries, returns, and rebuilds the fire.
The air inside is fragrant with cedar. If I listen hard enough, I can almost forget the world outside, the bruises, the way my mother’s voice sounded like a locked door when I walked away.
I'm not ready to leave our bubble, but I know we can't stay like this forever.
“I keep thinking I should be more afraid,” he says. “But I’m not.”
I set the cup down. “Afraid of what?”
He hesitates, then: “Of what comes next. Of you, and me, and all the rules we’re breaking.”
I laugh, sharp and brittle. “I’m way past fear. At this point, I think I’ve lapped the field.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I need you to know something.”
I brace, expecting an apology, or a breakup, or a lecture about sin. Commandments. But he surprises me.
“I’m leaving the priesthood,” he says, matter-of-fact. “I’ve been planning it for months. Before you ever showed up at my door.”
The air leaves my lungs. “You’re serious?”
He nods, once. “It was never the calling. I thought it was. I tried to make it fit. But the truth is, I was always running from something, not toward it.”
“And me?” I say. “Am I just an excuse?” I suddenly feel a little degraded, a convenient trigger.
His eyes widen, almost hurt. “No. You’re the answer. The question was already there.”
He stands and paces the length of the room, three strides and back, over and over. The agitation in his body is kinetic, a tight coil under his skin. He runs a hand through his hair again, and when he sits back down, he’s closer than before; his knee touches mine beneath the table.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “Not with you. Not with anyone.”
I reach for his hand before I know what I’m doing. His skin is rough, callused in places, the thumb bent slightly from an old break. He lets me hold it and doesn’t try to pull away.
“You’re doing fine,” I say. “Better than most.”
He laughs, unconvinced.
I blurt out, “If you’re not a priest, what are you?”
The question hangs, absurd and raw.
He considers. “Maybe just a man. Maybe just yours.”
The words slip out so quietly I almost miss them. I close my eyes, let the heat rise in my cheeks, and when I open them again, he’s closer, his face inches from mine.
“I want —” I start, but I have no words.
He leans in, kissing the corner of my mouth, gently. “Tell me.”
“I want you to stay,” I whisper. “I don’t want this to end.”
He kisses me again, firmer. I taste the tea on his lips, his salty skin.
“It doesn’t have to stop,” he says. “Not unless you want it to.”
My heart kicks, hard enough to hurt.
We stand at the same moment, chairs scraping, and before I know it, we’re on the couch, pressed side by side.
The couch is small, barely wide enough for two, and our thighs are flush from knee to hip.
I bury my face in his shoulder, inhale the woody scent of smoke from the fire, and something underneath, something uniquely him.
He gathers me into his lap, arms banded around my waist, and just holds me. For a minute, it’s enough. For a minute, the world is small and safe.
Then I tip my head back, brush my lips against his ear, and say, “I need you.”
His grip tightens. His voice is wrecked when he says, “I want you to need me, Sarah. Even if you're the only person in the world who does. Do you truly need me?”
And then, without thinking, I hear myself, “Yes, Father.”
The room freezes. I can hear my own pulse, can feel a tremor run through him.
I want to rewind and erase those words. Or laugh them off, but he tips my chin up, searches my face.
“Is that what you need, Sarah?” His voice is low, nothing like the sermons, nothing like the gentle comfort of before. It’s a voice that could command armies, or just me.
I nod, unable to speak.
He lifts me, carries me to the bed, and when he lays me down, his hands are steady, sure.
“Good girl,” he says, and the words slide through me, hot and sharp.
I arch, desperate for more. He strips me, slow but with purpose, and every touch is electric, every kiss a promise. He lays me down on the bed like something breakable and rare, the mattress sags under our weight.
There’s no hesitation in his movements now; no trembling, no second-guessing. His body is a wall around me, his hands bracketing my head, his knees pinning my thighs apart.
He hovers, the fire’s glow painting his jaw in hard lines, eyes gone black and hungry.
“You’re sure?”
I nod, dizzy with want. “Yes, Father,” I whisper, the word sizzles from my tongue.
Something shifts in him. He leans down, kissing my throat, slow and possessive, like he’s staking a claim. I arch into him, desperate to be claimed, to be known and kept. His hands trace down my arms, not gentle now, but firm, and he pins my wrists above my head, his fingers laced through mine.
“Good girl,” he breathes against my skin, and every inch of me sings.
He takes his time. He studies me, his eyes rove over my body like he’s memorizing every freckle, every bruise, and nothing here is shameful.
I tremble from the comfort of being held so tightly.
He releases my wrists only to spread my arms wide on the pillow, palms up, and then he ties them together with the sleeve of his own shirt, knotted quick and sure.
My pulse stutters at the sound of fabric tightening around my skin.
He leans back to look at me, spread out, helpless, hungry.
“You trust me?” he asks.
My answer is in the way my legs part for him, the way my body arches off the mattress, the way I pant, “Yes, Father. I do.”
He makes a sound, almost a growl. He moves down my body, kissing, biting, teasing. He tongues my nipple until it’s peaked and aching, then moves to the other, sucking until I whimper.
“You want my mouth, baby girl?” he asks, low and dangerous.
“Yes, please,” I gasp, and the words come out pleading.
He laughs, warm and wicked, and slides down. His stubble scratches my thighs as he nuzzles between them, inhaling deeply.
“Sweet girl,” he says, and then he’s licking me, slow at first, then faster, working me open with his tongue and his fingers.
I can’t move, can’t do anything but take it, and the helplessness is a high I never knew I needed.
My hips try to buck, but he holds them down, his grip bruising, and the contradiction of his rough hands and gentle mouth … they undo me.
“Come for me,” he commands, and I do, so hard I nearly black out. I sob his name, every nerve lit and flaring.
He doesn’t stop, just slows, licking softly as I ride out the aftershocks. Only when I’m limp and shuddering does he move up, unties my wrists with careful fingers, massaging away the ache.
He kisses me, and I taste myself on his lips.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, stroking my hair, my face, my shaking hands.
I am boneless, emptied out, but I want more. I want all of him.
“Will you fuck me?” I ask, voice small and pleading. “Please?”
He cups my cheek, thumb gentle on my mouth. “Tell me you want it.”
“I want you,” I say. “I want everything.”
He shucks off his boxers. He stops, looks at me. “Nothing stopping us now, baby girl,” and then he’s pressing into me, slow, raw, and savoring every deliberate push inside.
He’s bigger than I remember, or maybe it just feels that way now, when I’m open and raw and aching for him. He slides in, inch by inch, watching my face for pain. There isn’t any. It's just a pressure, a fullness, a sense of finally being filled by something good.
“God, you feel so perfect,” he groans.
He sets a rhythm, slow at first, grinding in deep, making me feel every inch of him. His hand circles my throat … not tight, just a warning, a promise that he could, if I wanted. I do. I want him to take everything, to leave me marked and claimed.
He fucks me harder, the bedframe bangs against the wall, and with each thrust, I unravel a little more. I am gone, I am his. I come again, a tidal surge that leaves me panting and clutching at his back, my nails dig half-moons into his skin.
He comes with a shout, body rigid, then slumps onto me, panting. For a long time, we are just a heap of sweat and skin and ragged breath.
He rolls off, pulls me into the curve of his body, arms tight around me.
“Did I hurt you?” his voice hoarse and low.
I shake my head. “No. Never. I want it. I want you, I need you, Father.”
He kisses the top of my head, then my eyelids, then my lips.
After a while, the tremors subside. We lie tangled together, blankets kicked to the floor, the room close and humid, filled with sex and smoke and something sweet I can’t name.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, drifting, half-dreaming, but at some point, I prop my chin on his chest and look at him.
“I’ve never called anyone ‘Father’ like that before,” I say. “It just…seems right, seems to fit.”
He smiles, brushes hair from my forehead. “I liked it.”
I study his face, memorize the lines, the way his eyes crinkle when he’s happy. “It doesn’t weird you out?”
His answer is a kiss, deep and sure. “You make me want to protect you. You make me want to be what you need. And if that means being your own personal Father, or anything else, I’ll do it.”
My heart twists, then settles.
For the first time, I understand what it means to be loved not for what you are, but for all the things you think you lack.
I trace shapes on his chest, lazy. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t,” he says, “I’m certain. I guarantee it.”
We talk, low and soft, about the future. College, my mother, what it would mean to start over somewhere new. The world outside the cabin feels like it belongs to someone else. Here, in this room, nothing can touch us.
Eventually, my eyelids grow heavy. I burrow into him, let his arms wrap me up.
“You’re safe,” he whispers, stroking my hair.
I believe him. For the first time, I really do.
The last thing I see before I drift off is the pattern of moonlight on the wall—silver squares shifting as the branches outside sway. The last thing I feel is his hand on my back, steady and warm, anchoring me to the world.
I sleep. And this time, I dream of nothing at all, because I have everything I need.
Right here.