Chapter 16 Elijah
ELIJAH
The church is empty when I lock the main doors, the silence pressing against my ears like water.
My hands shake as I turn the ancient key, the metal cold against my palm.
I know what’s waiting for me in the confessional.
I know what we’re about to do, and the wrongness of it makes my cock throb painfully against my jeans.
Mon Dieu. We’ve crossed so many lines already, but this…this is different.
I find Marcus in the sacristy, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes burning with the same desperate need I’m feeling.
He doesn’t speak, just nods toward the confessional booths.
Adrian is already inside the priest’s side, I can see the shadow of his broad shoulders through the carved screen.
Charlie appears from the hallway, her dress swirling around her thighs as she moves.
The fabric clings to her curves in ways that make my dick harden.
I can see the outline of her nipples through the thin material, and I wonder if she’s wearing a bra.
The thought makes my dick even harder.
Her hazel eyes find mine, more green than gold in the dim light, and I see the same reckless hunger reflected there.
We’ve been so careful for weeks, stealing glances during Mass, brief touches when no one’s watching.
But Pastor Whitmore’s surveillance photos have made us realize how little time we might have left.
If we’re going to be destroyed anyway, we might as well burn completely.
Marcus moves first, opening the penitent’s side of the confessional. The booth is small, meant for one person kneeling in prayer.
The three of us will barely fit.
Charlie steps inside, and I follow, my body pressing against her back.
Marcus enters last, closing the door behind us.
The darkness is absolute except for the faint light filtering through the carved screen separating us from Adrian.
I can hear Adrian’s breathing on the other side, already uneven. The sound sends electricity shooting through me.
“Forgive me, Father,” Charlie whispers, her voice trembling. “For I have sinned.”
The ritual words sound obscene in her mouth, and I feel Marcus’s body go rigid behind me.
My hands find Charlie’s waist, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breathing beneath my palms.
She’s wearing that cardigan she always has, slightly too big, and I want to slide it down her shoulder and bite the soft flesh at there.
“Tell me your sins, child.” Adrian’s voice is strained, barely controlled. I can picture him on the other side of the screen, his gray eyes dark with hunger, his rosary beads wrapped around his white-knuckled fist.
Charlie’s breath catches as my hands slide higher, finding the swell of her breasts through the thin fabric of her dress. “I’ve been having impure thoughts, Father. About men I shouldn’t want.”
“What kind of thoughts?” Adrian’s voice drops lower, more commanding.
Marcus’s hands join mine, one sliding down to grip Charlie’s hip, the other moving to her throat.
Not squeezing, just holding, possessive. I feel her pulse racing beneath his palm.
“I think about their hands on my body,” Charlie continues, her voice growing breathier as I trace the curve of her breast with my thumb. “I think about their mouths. I think about all three of them claiming me at once.”
Adrian makes a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a prayer. “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”
I push Charlie’s cardigan off her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet.
The dress underneath has a zipper down the back, and my fingers find it, sliding it down slowly.
The sound is obscenely loud in the small space.
“Tell me more,” Adrian commands. “Confess everything.”
Charlie’s dress falls away, 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.
“I want Marcus’s hands on me,” she whispers. “His tattooed arms holding me down while he speaks to me in Spanish. I want to taste the words on his tongue.”
Marcus groans, his hand sliding from her throat down between her breasts, feeling her heart hammer beneath his palm. “Dios mío,” he breathes against her ear. My God. “Eres tan hermosa.” You are so beautiful.
My hands trace the curve of her waist, her hips, memorizing every detail. “And what else do you want?” I ask, my French accent thickening with desire.
“I want Elijah’s mouth on me.” Charlie gasps as my fingers hook into the waistband of her underwear. “I want him to make me sing the way he makes the piano sing.”
I slide her underwear down slowly, kneeling in the cramped space to help her step out of them.
From this angle and closeness, I can see everything through the dim light, pink and glistening and perfect.
The scent of her arousal fills the small booth, and I have to grip her thighs to steady myself.
“Tu es parfaite,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. “So fucking perfect.”
Through the screen, I hear Adrian’s breathing grow more ragged. “And what do you want from me?”
Charlie’s voice breaks slightly. “I want Father Cross to lose control. I want him to stop being so careful, so restrained. I want him to claim me like he owns me.”
Adrian growls, and the possessiveness in his voice makes all three of us shudder.
Marcus’s hand slides between Charlie’s thighs from behind, and she cries out softly.
I stand, pressing my body against her front while Marcus works her from behind.
We’re a tangle of limbs in the darkness, the carved screen the only barrier between us and Adrian.
“Tell me what you need,” Adrian commands, his voice rough with barely restrained violence.
“I need all of you,” Charlie gasps, her body trembling between Marcus and me. “I need to feel claimed. Owned. Loved.”
“Eres nuestra,” Marcus murmurs against her neck. “You’re ours, querida. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” Charlie breathes. “All of yours.”
My fingers join Marcus’s between her thighs, and the sounds she makes are better than any music I’ve ever played. I can feel her climbing toward release, her body tightening, her breathing becoming desperate gasps.
“Come for us,” Adrian orders through the screen. “Let us hear you.”
Charlie shatters between us, her body pulsing around our fingers, her cry muffled against my shoulder.
Marcus and I hold her steady as she trembles, our hands gentle now, soothing.
Through the screen, I hear Adrian’s ragged breathing, and I know he’s fighting himself, fighting the urge to burst through the door and claim her himself.
When Charlie can stand again, we help her dress with shaking hands.
The intimacy of it, the tenderness after the desperation, makes my chest tight.
Marcus presses a kiss to her temple.
I button her cardigan with careful fingers. We’re all breathing hard, the small space thick with the scent of sex and sin.
“Go,” Adrian says quietly through the screen. “Before I lose what’s left of my control.”
We emerge from the confessional into the darkened church, and reality crashes back.
What we just did, the line we just crossed, the sacred space we just profaned.
Charlie’s legs are unsteady, and Marcus steadies her with a hand on her lower back.
I can still taste her on my lips.
None of us speak as we make our way through the church.
There are no words for what just happened, for how far we’ve fallen, for how little we care about the consequences anymore.
The next morning arrives too quickly.
I’m exhausted, having barely slept, my mind replaying every moment in the confessional.
But I have choir auditions scheduled, and life continues despite the chaos we’re creating in the shadows.
The parish hall fills with hopeful voices, mostly older parishioners and a few teenagers.
I sit at the piano, running through scales and simple hymns, making notes about range and tone.
My mind keeps drifting to Charlie, to the sounds she made, to the way her body felt beneath my hands.
Then Sarah Chen walks in to audition for the choir.
She’s seventeen, homeschooled, with long black hair pulled into a high ponytail and dark almond-shaped eyes that watch me with unnerving intensity.
She’s wearing a modest skirt and cardigan, a silver cross necklace catching the light.
When she opens her mouth to sing, the sound that emerges makes me close my eyes in appreciation.
Her soprano is pure, the kind of voice that could make angels weep. She moves through the audition piece with technical precision and genuine emotion, and I find myself nodding before she’s even finished.
“That was extraordinary,” I tell her, making notes on my clipboard. “You’re definitely in the choir.”
Her face lights up with a smile that transforms her from awkward teenager to confident. “Really? Thank you so much, Brother Moreau!”
“Please, call me Elijah during rehearsals.” I gesture for her to sit beside me at the piano. “Have you had formal training?”
She shakes her head, moving closer than necessary. I can smell her perfume, something floral and young. “Just what my mom taught me. She used to sing professionally.”
We talk about music theory, about breathing techniques, and about the pieces we’ll be performing for Christmas Mass.
Sarah leans in when I demonstrate proper posture, her body angling toward mine.
I’m patient, encouraging, standing close to show her how to support her breath from her diaphragm.
“Tell me about Paris,” Sarah says suddenly, her voice breathless. “I heard you studied there.”
I describe the conservatory, the city, and the music that fills every corner.
She listens with rapt attention, asking questions about my life, my training, my journey to St. Michael’s.
I answer honestly, enjoying her genuine interest in music and art.
When the audition ends, she lingers at the door. “Thank you for today. You’re an amazing teacher.”
“You’re a talented student,” I reply, already turning back to my notes. “I’ll see you at rehearsal next week.”
She leaves, and I don’t think about her again. My phone buzzes with a text from Marcus.
Charlie’s stress-baking. Come to the kitchen.
I smile, gathering my sheet music.
The thought of Charlie in the kitchen, flour dusting her dress, her hands working dough with practiced precision, makes my body respond immediately.
I adjust myself, trying to think of anything except the way she tastes.
The parish hall is empty when I return to collect my things.
I’m organizing sheet music when I notice something tucked between the pages of a hymnal. A folded piece of paper, the handwriting careful and feminine.
I open it, expecting a note from Charlie or maybe a prayer request someone left behind.
Instead, I read. Thank you for today. You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met. I can’t wait for next rehearsal. –S.
My stomach drops. It’s from Sarah Chen.
The note is innocent enough on the surface.
Just a teenager thanking her choir director.
But something about the phrasing, the intensity, makes warning bells sound in the back of my mind.
I stare at the careful handwriting, at the way she’s dotted the ‘i’ in ‘amazing’ with a small heart, and feel the first whisper of unease.