Chapter 9 - Elijah
ELIJAH
I stand outside Charlie’s door in the darkened hallway, my hand raised to knock, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
The rectory is silent around me. Adrian retired to his quarters an hour ago, his footsteps heavy with exhaustion and frustration.
Marcus left for evening rounds at the hospital, visiting parishioners who requested pastoral care.
Everyone has gone to their separate spaces, their separate lives, leaving me alone with this desperate, clawing need that’s been building for weeks.
I’ve been patient. Mon Dieu, I’ve been so patient. Watching Charlie move through St. Michael’s like she belongs here, her vintage dresses swirling around those perfect thighs, her auburn hair catching light through the stained glass.
I’ve memorized the way she bites her lower lip when she’s concentrating, the unconscious grace in how she arranges flowers in the sanctuary, the melody she hums when she thinks no one’s listening.
I’ve stood close enough to smell the vanilla and cinnamon that cling to her clothes, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. Close enough to imagine what it would feel like to finally touch her without restraint.
But we’ve been interrupted. Every. Single. Time.
In the kitchen, when I tasted chocolate from her thumb and felt her pulse race beneath my fingers. In the choir loft, when our bodies angled toward each other on the piano bench and the air grew thick with want.
Each moment stolen, each touch abbreviated, each kiss cut short by footsteps or fear or the weight of what we’re risking.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I’m done waiting.
I knock softly, three gentle taps that sound too loud in the quiet hallway.
My French accent thickens when I’m nervous or emotional, and right now my thoughts are a jumbled mess of English and French.
The door opens, and Charlie stands there in an oversized t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone.
Her auburn hair is loose, falling in waves around her face, and her hazel eyes widen with surprise.
She’s not wearing a bra.
I can see the outline of her nipples through the thin fabric, and my mouth goes dry.
“Elijah?” Her voice is soft, uncertain. “Is everything okay?”
I step inside before I can lose my nerve, and she closes the door behind me.
The apartment is small, intimate, lit only by a single lamp that casts everything in warm gold.
Her bed is unmade, sheets tangled like she’s been tossing and turning.
The scent of her recent baking lingers in the air, mixing with something floral that must be her shampoo.
“I can’t wait anymore,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. The words tumble out in a rush, honest and desperate. “I need to taste you. To feel you. To have you, chérie. I’ve been patient, I’ve been careful, but I’m done pretending I don’t want you so badly it’s destroying me.”
Charlie’s breath catches, her lips parting slightly. I watch her throat work as she swallows, see the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath that thin t-shirt. Her hazel eyes shift from green to gold in the lamplight, searching my face.
“Elijah,” she whispers, and my name in her voice is my undoing.
“Tell me you feel it too.” I step closer, close enough that I can feel her warmth, close enough to count the freckles dusting her nose. “Tell me I’m not imagining this electricity between us. Tell me you want this as much as I do.”
She reaches up, her fingers threading through my golden hair, pulling me down until our foreheads touch. “I want this,” she breathes against my lips. “I want you.”
The confession breaks whatever restraint I have left.
I kiss her like I’ve been drowning and she’s air. My hands frame her face, tilting her head back so I can kiss her deeper, tasting the mint from her toothpaste and something sweeter underneath.
She gasps into my mouth, and I swallow the sound, my tongue sliding against hers.
Her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling slightly, and the small pain sends heat straight to my cock.
I walk her backward until her legs hit the bed, and she sits on the edge, looking up at me with those shifting hazel eyes.
I kneel before her, my hands sliding up her bare thighs, pushing the t-shirt higher.
Her skin is soft and warm beneath my palms, and I can feel her trembling.
“Tu es si belle,” I murmur, pressing kisses to the inside of her knee, her thigh, higher. “So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you.”
I push the t-shirt up to her waist, revealing simple cotton underwear that somehow makes her more desirable than any lingerie could.
I can see the damp spot on the fabric, evidence of her want, and my cock throbs painfully against my jeans.
I hook my fingers in the waistband and look up at her, waiting for permission.
“Please,” she whispers, lifting her hips.
I slide the underwear down her legs, tossing it aside, and for a moment I just look at her.
She’s perfect.
Pink and glistening and mine.
I spread her thighs wider, settling between them, and press a kiss to her inner thigh that makes her gasp.
“Je vais te faire chanter,” I murmur against her skin. “I’m going to make you sing, chérie.”
I taste her slowly, deliberately, my tongue tracing patterns that make her hips buck off the bed.
She tastes like salt and sweetness and something uniquely her.
I grip her thighs, holding her steady as I work her with my mouth, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on the bundle of nerves that makes her cry out.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling, guiding, and I let her use me however she needs.
“Elijah,” she moans, and the sound of my name on her lips is better than any music I’ve ever played. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need.” I slide two fingers inside her, feeling her clench around me, and curl them in a way that makes her back arch off the bed. “Laisse-toi aller. Let go for me.”
I work her with my fingers and mouth until she’s trembling, her thighs shaking around my head, her breathing ragged.
When she comes, it’s with my name on her lips and her fingers tight in my hair, her body pulsing around my fingers.
I don’t stop until she’s boneless and gasping, until she’s pulling me up by my hair because it’s too much.
I kiss her deeply, letting her taste herself on my tongue, and she moans into my mouth.
Her hands find the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head, and then her fingers are on my chest, tracing the lean muscle, exploring.
I’m not built like Marcus with his tattooed strength or Adrian with his boxer’s body, but the way Charlie looks at me makes me feel like a god.
“Your turn,” she whispers, her hands moving to my belt.
I help her, stripping quickly, and when I’m finally naked before her, she takes a moment to just look.
Her eyes trace the lines of my body, lingering on my cock, and the hunger in her expression makes me throb.
“Mon Dieu,” I breathe as she wraps her hand around me, her touch gentle but firm. “Charlie—”
“I want you inside me,” she says, her voice steady despite the flush on her cheeks. “Now.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
I pull her t-shirt over her head, revealing small, perfect breasts with pink nipples that harden under my gaze.
I cup them reverently, my thumbs brushing over the peaks, watching her face as she gasps.
Then I guide her back onto the bed, settling between her thighs, the head of my cock pressing against her entrance.
“Look at me,” I command softly, and her hazel eyes lock onto mine. “I want to see your face when I claim you.”
I push inside slowly, watching every flicker of emotion cross her face.
Pleasure, surprise, something that looks like relief.
She’s tight and warm and perfect, and I have to pause, my forehead pressed against hers, fighting for control.
“Tu me rends fou,” I groan. “You drive me crazy, chérie.”
“Move,” she whispers, her nails digging into my shoulders. “Please, Elijah. Move.”
I do, setting a rhythm that’s both tender and desperate, each thrust punctuated by whispered French and English, prayers and profanity mixing until I don’t know which is which.
Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper, and I angle my hips to hit that spot inside her that makes her cry out.
“C’est ca,” I murmur against her throat. “That’s it. Let me hear you.”
She’s vocal in a way that makes my control fracture, her moans and gasps filling the small apartment.
I reach between us, finding that bundle of nerves, and work it in time with my thrusts.
Her body tightens around me, and I feel her climbing toward release again.
“Come for me,” I command, my voice rough. “I want to feel you.”
She does, her body clenching around me, her nails raking down my back hard enough to leave marks.
The pain and pleasure combine, and I follow her over the edge, my body going rigid as I empty myself inside her.
Her name is a prayer on my lips, a benediction, a confession.
We stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, our bodies still joined.
I press kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, gentle now that the desperate need has been satisfied.
She’s beautiful like this, flushed and satisfied, her hazel eyes soft with something that looks like wonder.
Finally, I pull out carefully, and she makes a small sound of loss that makes my chest tight.
I find a towel in her tiny bathroom, clean us both gently, then pull her against me on the narrow bed.
She fits perfectly in my arms, her head on my chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin.
“That was…” She trails off.
“Parfait,” I finish. “Perfect.”
She tilts her head up to look at me, and there’s vulnerability in her expression that makes me want to protect her from everything.
Eventually, I know I need to leave.
Staying all night would be too risky, too obvious.
I dress slowly, reluctantly, while Charlie watches from the bed with the sheet pulled up to cover her breasts.
The sight of her there, rumpled and satisfied, makes me want to strip down and claim her all over again.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I lean down to kiss her one more time. “Dors bien, mon amour.”
“What does that mean?” Her lips curve into a smile.
“Sleep well, my love.”
Her smile widens, and I force myself to leave before I can’t.
The hallway is still dark and silent as I make my way back to my own quarters. My body is satisfied, my heart full, but as I reach my door, doubt creeps in like poison.
What have I done?
Adrian and Marcus have both claimed her, yes. We’ve talked briefly about sharing her, about building something unconventional but real. But tonight, I acted alone.
I went to her without consulting them, without planning, driven by desperate need rather than careful consideration.
Did I just fracture the fragile trust we’ve been building?
Did I cross a line that will make them see me as selfish rather than part of our united front?
Did I just make a huge mistake?