Chapter 17 Charlie
CHARLIE
I wake to pale morning light filtering through Adrian’s window, my body deliciously sore in places that remind me of last night. The confessional.
The three of them surrounding me in that sacred space, their hands and mouths claiming me while Adrian’s voice commanded through the carved screen.
Heat floods my cheeks as I remember the phantom press of wood against my back, Marcus’s Spanish whispers making my skin burn, Elijah’s wicked smile as he knelt before me in the darkness.
My fingers trace my lips, remembering how Adrian kissed me afterward when we finally emerged.
Like I was salvation and damnation wrapped together.
Like he’d been drowning and I was air.
The bed beside me is empty, but I hear movement in Adrian’s small kitchen.
Voices, low and masculine, mixing with the sound of running water.
I pull on one of Marcus’s shirts that I find draped over a chair, the fabric hanging to mid-thigh, smelling like his cologne and something darker, more masculine.
My legs are unsteady as I pad barefoot across the hardwood floor.
All three of them are already awake. Adrian stands at the counter in jeans and a white undershirt, his salt-and-pepper hair still damp from the shower.
The casual clothes make him look younger, more human, less like the austere priest everyone sees during Mass.
Marcus leans against the refrigerator, tattooed arms crossed over his bare chest, wearing only pajama pants that hang low on his hips.
And Elijah sits at the small table, his golden hair mussed, wearing a thin t-shirt that does nothing to hide the lean muscle beneath.
They all turn when I enter, and the way they look at me makes my breath catch.
Adrian’s gray eyes darken as they trace the path of Marcus’s shirt on my body, lingering on my bare thighs.
Marcus’s gaze drops to where the fabric gapes at my neck, revealing the curve of my collarbone.
Elijah’s crystalline blue eyes track every movement as I cross the kitchen, his lips curving into that angel-boy smile that promises sin.
“Morning,” I manage, my voice still rough with sleep.
“Buenos días, querida.” Marcus pushes off the refrigerator, moving closer. His hand finds my waist, warm and possessive through the thin fabric. “Sleep well?”
The double meaning isn’t lost on any of us. I barely slept, my mind replaying every moment in the confessional, every touch, every whispered prayer that sounded like profanity.
“Well enough.” I lean into Marcus’s touch despite knowing I shouldn’t need the contact so desperately. “What are you all doing up so early?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Adrian admits, his voice rough. His hands grip the edge of the counter, and I notice his knuckles are still bruised from when he split his desk. “Too much on my mind.”
The weight of everything threatening us hangs in the air. Pastor Whitmore’s surveillance photos.
The PI watching our every move. The constant fear that someone will discover what we’ve become to each other.
An idea forms, reckless and domestic and exactly what we need.
“We should bake something.” The words tumble out before I can second-guess them. “Together. I’ll teach you to make my grandmother’s chocolate chip cookies.”
Elijah’s eyes light up with genuine interest. “You’d teach us?”
“It’s just cookies.” I move toward the pantry, checking what ingredients Adrian has. “Nothing complicated. And it might be nice to pretend we’re normal for an hour.”
Adrian looks skeptical, his jaw clenching in that way that means he’s fighting himself. “I don’t bake.”
“You will today.” I pull out flour, sugar, butter. “Come on. When’s the last time any of you did something just for fun?”
Marcus is already rolling up his sleeves, revealing more of those tattooed saints and sinners inked into his olive skin. “I’m in. What do you need?”
“Enthusiasm and patience.” I set the ingredients on the counter then turn to face them. All three are watching me with an intensity that has nothing to do with baking. “And you have to follow my instructions exactly.”
“We’re good at following instructions,” Elijah murmurs, his French accent thickening slightly. The way he says it makes heat pool low in my belly.
Adrian finally moves from his position by the counter, and suddenly the small kitchen feels even smaller with all four of us crowded into it.
His body radiates heat as he stands beside me, close enough that I can smell his soap mixed with something uniquely him.
“What first?” His voice is carefully controlled, but I hear the strain beneath it.
I hand him the mixing bowl and wooden spoon. “First, we cream the butter and sugar together. It takes patience and the right technique.”
I demonstrate, my hands working the spoon in practiced circles.
Adrian watches with those storm-cloud eyes, tracking every movement of my fingers.
When I hand him the spoon, his hands cover mine, and electricity shoots up my arms at the contact.
“Like this?” His body presses against my back as he follows my movements, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of every point where we touch.
The solid warmth of his chest. The way his hips align with mine. The rapid hammer of his heart that I can feel through the thin fabric of his undershirt.
“Exactly like that.” My voice comes out breathier than I intend.
Marcus moves to my other side, ostensibly to watch the technique, but his tattooed arm brushes mine as he leans in. “Looks easy enough.”
“It’s all about the rhythm.” I try to focus on the task, but Adrian’s hands are still covering mine, guiding the spoon, and Marcus is close enough that I can feel his breath on my neck. “You have to be gentle but firm.”
Elijah laughs from where he’s measuring flour, the sound low and knowing. “I think we can manage that.”
The double meaning makes all of us pause. The air in the kitchen shifts, becomes charged with something dangerous and inevitable.
Adrian’s hands tighten on mine, and I feel his body go rigid against my back. Marcus’s fingers find my hip, just resting there, possessive.
“Chocolate chips,” I say, trying to break the tension before we combust. “Someone needs to measure them.”
Elijah brings the bag over, but instead of measuring, he pops one into his mouth.
Then another.
His crystalline blue eyes hold mine as his tongue catches a smear of chocolate from his thumb, the gesture obscene despite its innocence.
“You’re supposed to put them in the dough,” I manage.
“Where’s the fun in that?” He moves closer, and now I’m surrounded by all three of them in this tiny kitchen. “Here, try one.”
He holds a chocolate chip to my lips, and I open my mouth without thinking.
His finger brushes my lower lip as I take it, lingering just a moment too long.
The chocolate melts on my tongue, but all I can taste is the salt of his skin.
Marcus reaches past me for the flour and somehow gets it on my nose. “Oops.”
“That was not an accident,” I accuse, but I’m smiling.
“Wasn’t it?” His grin is wicked as he leans in, his thumb wiping the flour away with exaggerated care.
The touch lingers, his calloused thumb tracing the curve of my cheek, and I watch his dark eyes drop to my mouth.
Adrian’s hands are still on mine, still guiding the spoon through the butter and sugar mixture, but his breathing has changed.
Deeper. More controlled.
Like he’s fighting for composure.
“I think it’s creamed enough,” I whisper.
“Is it?” His lips are close to my ear now, his voice dropping to dark and commanding. “Show me what comes next.”
I try to focus on the recipe, on adding eggs and vanilla, but it’s impossible with all three of them crowding close.
Every movement brings us into contact.
Adrian’s chest against my back. Marcus’s hip brushing mine. Elijah’s hand steadying the bowl while his fingers trace patterns on my wrist.
The flour gets added, and somehow Elijah manages to dust it across my collarbone. “I’m terrible at this,” he says, not sounding sorry at all.
“You’re doing it on purpose.” But I’m laughing, the domesticity of this moment making my chest tight with something that feels dangerously like happiness.
“Maybe.” He leans in, his mouth finding the flour on my skin, his tongue tracing a path that makes me gasp. “But you taste better than any cookie.”
Marcus groans, his hand tightening on my hip. “Dios mío. We’re supposed to be baking.”
“We are baking,” Elijah argues, but his mouth is still on my collarbone, working its way toward my throat.
Adrian’s control finally shatters.
His hands leave the spoon, sliding around my waist, pulling me back against him.
I can feel him hard against my ass, can feel the tremor running through his body as he fights himself.
“The cookies,” I try weakly.
“Forget the cookies.” Adrian’s voice is rough, desperate. His hands slide under Marcus’s shirt I’m wearing, finding bare skin, and I arch into his touch.
Marcus moves in front of me, his tattooed hands framing my face. “Tell us to stop.”
“Don’t stop.” The words escape before I can think. “Please don’t stop.”
That’s all the permission they need.
Marcus lifts me onto the counter, settling between my thighs while Adrian’s hands explore my body from behind.
Elijah’s mouth finds mine, kissing me deeply while his fingers work the buttons of the shirt I’m wearing.
The mixing bowl gets pushed aside, forgotten, as hands roam and clothes become obstacles.
“Eres tan hermosa,” Marcus murmurs against my neck, his teeth grazing my pulse point. “So fucking beautiful.”
Adrian’s hands slide higher, finding my breasts, and I gasp into Elijah’s mouth.
The counter is hard beneath me, the kitchen too small, but none of it matters.
Nothing matters except the way they’re touching me, claiming me, making me forget everything except this moment.
Elijah breaks the kiss, his blue eyes dark with hunger. “I want to taste you again.”
“Yes,” I breathe, and he drops to his knees between Marcus and me.
Adrian’s hands are everywhere, possessive and desperate, while Marcus’s mouth works my throat.
Elijah pushes the shirt higher, his breath warm against my inner thigh, and I’m about to beg him to touch me when—
A sharp knock on the door freezes us all.
“Father Cross?”
Sister Margaret’s voice cuts through the kitchen like a knife, cold and authoritative.
We all go rigid, our breathing harsh in the sudden silence. Adrian’s hands are still under my shirt.
Marcus is pressed between my thighs.
Elijah is on his knees before me.
The knock comes again, more insistent. “Father Cross? I need to speak with you about the parish schedule.”