Missing 62 #2
Then I'd gotten home and sat with it for three hours and here he was, in my kitchen, and he was a pastor. Whatever else he was — whatever the locked doors and the fundraiser that wasn't only a fundraiser hid — he was a pastor. People brought him their worst things. That was the design of him.
“There was a flyer,” I said. “On the telephone pole outside the bakery. A missing girl.”
Nothing changed in his face.
“Celeste Taylor,” I said. “Missing since July 8th.” I paused. “I think I saw her at the fundraiser.”
Silence. The ceiling fan turned. Outside the window the heat pressed against the glass.
“What did she look like? I don’t think I remember a Celeste,” he said.
“Dark, long hair. She was wearing a light dress. Greenish, I think.”
“Kept to herself most of the night?”
My chest did a thing. Hope. “Yes.”
He nodded slowly. “That was Father Tran's granddaughter. Visiting from New Orleans. Helena. She left town early this morning. First bus out.”
I looked at him. “So, she’s not…”
“Missing?” Judah licked his lips, before letting his mouth curl into a reassuring smile.
“The girl you saw is not. The girl on the flyer, however, is a different and most unfortunate matter. Do you want to talk about it?” He came over and took a seat on the couch next to me.
“I can check in with Father Tran if that would put your mind at ease.”
The cold thing in my chest loosened. Not entirely — but enough.
“No,” I said. “It's fine. I just — the date on the flyer was recent and I thought—”
“You noticed something and you followed it.” He looked at me with something that might have been approval coming from someone else. “That's not a fault.”
“I felt stupid,” I admitted.
“Don’t.” His voice softened as he leaned back, an arm on the back of the couch. Casual. “The world needs more people who look at flyers.”
There was the other thing — the fact that when I walked out of the bakery, the flyer was gone, but I decided not to mention it. If he said it was all right, I trusted him.
“I should probably go,” he said, but he didn't move. His eyes kept watching me, less gentleness in them now.
“You don't have to.” The words escaped before I could reconsider them. “I mean — I have coffee. Or tea, if you'd prefer.”
He smirked. “You are so pure,” he whispered, his gaze darkening.
The words hung in the air between us, strange and electric. I felt my cheeks flush, unsure if I'd been insulted or complimented.
“I… don’t think I am,” I managed, closing my book. My eyes drifted to his torso — the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
“No?” Judah leaned forward slightly, his cologne reaching me — the familiar scent of cedarwood, and… vanilla. An aphrodisiac. “And what do you think you are?”
The small apartment seemed to shrink further, the air thickening with each breath. He removed his arm from the back of the couch and placed it between us, drawing my eyes to the dark ink of his tattoos. Biblical verses wrapped in thorns. Symbols of pain and devotion.
I said nothing, but he heard it anyway.
“Prove it then,” he said.
His challenge hung in the air like the humid heat pressing against my windows. I stared at him, his light eyes holding mine, daring me to break first.
I set the book aside, stood, and got in his lap, straddling him.
His hands came up immediately to steady me, gripping my waist with those preacher's fingers. The touch burned through my thin cotton dress. I could feel the rough calluses on his palms even through the fabric. Those were not the hands of a pastor.
Judah's eyes darkened, pupils expanding.
I placed my hands on his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt. I felt his thumbs on my hipbones, drawing circles. And felt something else besides. There, where the thin fabric of my panties met his crotch.
“How can I satisfy you?” I asked.
He laughed, a low sound that vibrated through me where our bodies connected. “Is that what you think this is about? Satisfaction?”
His hands slid lower, gathering the fabric of my dress, bunching it at my thighs. I could feel the heat of his palms through the thin material.
“You don't know what you're asking,” he whispered, his breath hot against my neck. His lips hovered there, not quite touching. “You think you understand the nature of desire — but you’re just a novice learning the language.”
I shifted in his lap, feeling him grow harder beneath me. The movement drew a sharp breath from him, his fingers digging into my flesh.
“Then teach me,” I said, surprising myself with my boldness.
His eyes met mine, something dangerous simmering in their depths.
“Eve asked for knowledge... She wanted a taste,” he murmured, his mouth so very close to mine.
“And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and pleasant to the eyes —” his thumb traced my jaw, slowly — “and a tree to be desired…” He let the silence finish the verse.
I kissed him. Greedily.
He devoured me in return, his mouth insistent and demanding against mine. This was no chaste pastoral kiss. His tongue slipped between my lips, tasting me in a way that made heat pool low in my belly.
My hands moved to his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands as his palms slid beneath my dress, finding bare skin. His touch was electric, raising goosebumps along my thighs as he explored higher, thumbs grazing the sensitive skin of my inner thighs.
“What will the congregation think?” I gasped against his mouth, a sudden clarity striking me — my father’s voice telling us both off.
“They don't think,” he murmured, teeth grazing my lower lip. “They follow.” His hands gripped my hips, pulling me harder against him. “Like you will.”
I moaned as he rolled his hips upward, the hard length of him pressing against my center through our clothes. The friction was maddening, not enough and too much all at once.
His hands found the zipper at the back of my dress; the sound of metal teeth parting filled the quiet room. I gasped as the fresh breeze from the window hit my skin, goosebumps rising along my spine as he pushed the fabric from my shoulders.
My bra was simple cotton, nothing meant to seduce, but the way his eyes locked on it made me feel like I was wrapped in the finest silk. His thumb traced the edge of the cup, barely skimming the swell of my breast.
“This isn't—” I started, but he silenced me with another kiss, deeper this time, more commanding.
“Don't lie,” he murmured against my lips. “Not here. Not now.”
He removed my bra.
“If… If I give myself to you—”
His palms warm against my skin as he cupped my breasts.
“I’ll take care of you,” he said.
I arched into his touch, shameless in my need for more. When his thumbs brushed across my nipples, I couldn't suppress the moan that escaped me.
His mouth replaced his fingers, hot and wet against my skin. I gasped, my head falling back as his tongue circled one sensitive peak before drawing it between his lips. The gentle scrape of teeth sent shivers cascading down my spine.
“Judah,” I breathed, my voice barely recognizable.
“Say it again,” he commanded, his breath cooling the dampness on my breast. “Say my name.”
“Judah,” I repeated, louder this time, more desperate.
His hands slid up my thighs, fingers hooking into the elastic of my underwear.
I kept hearing my father’s voice, chanting sinner, sinner, sinner in my ear, the volume increasing the further down I was willing to fall. Whore standing at Madonna’s altar! He’s a man of God! You’re corrupting him! A whore…
I pulled away. “I… I can’t.”
Judah's eyes flashed with something dangerous — frustration, desire, maybe even relief — as he held perfectly still beneath me.
“You can't,” he repeated, his voice rough. His hands remained on my thighs, neither retreating nor advancing. “Or you shouldn't?”
My chest heaved as I struggled to catch my breath. The room felt impossibly hot now.
“It’s not that simple.” I shook my head. I was half-naked in a pastor's lap. My father's warnings echoed louder.
He took a deep, careful breath; his demeanor changed. “Come here.” He pulled me against his chest. “It’s all right.”
His heartbeat thumped against my cheek, steady and strong despite what we'd nearly done. One hand traced circles on my bare back while the other reached for my dress, pooled at my waist.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, pushing the thin straps back up my arms and over my shoulders. I let him dress me like a child, suddenly exhausted by the weight of desire and shame colliding inside me.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered against his chest.
He didn’t say anything in return, but he kept holding me. Seconds, minutes, hours. And he didn’t leave. Not until the dawn of the next day, and only because he was called to administer a plumber’s last rites.
Tuesday at the church was quiet. It was the mid-week; the food bank was closed and the volunteer schedule had a gap in it.
The very building exhaled into itself, savoring the peace and quiet — just stone and old wood and the stained glass throwing its colors across the floor now, with no one particular to throw them at.
I stayed later than I needed to. Reorganized the donation ledger.
Rewrote three scheduling emails I'd already sent because the first versions had a tone I didn't like.
Made coffee, drank half of it, poured the rest out, washed the mug, set it on the rack and looked at the rack for a while, not really sure why.
Judah had been in his office all day. His door had been closed since nine. I'd walked past it three times with diminishing excuses for doing so and each time the door had been closed and each time I'd walked back to my own desk and told myself I was not doing what I was doing.
It was complicated between us — hard to say where we stood. I understood he was a priest, trust me — I knew, but I… Well, I suppose that’s where my argument ends.
At five-thirty I gathered my bag, my legal pad and turned off the lights in the food bank office.