Chapter 12 Dorian
“I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service.”
— Romans 12:1 KJV
Dorian barely got behind the counter before Bianca’s gaze locked on his neck like a heat-seeking missile. The Sunday lunch crowd was thick enough to keep her pinned to her station for the first couple hours, every time she edged toward him some drunk waved an empty glass or a kid needed more crayons. He kept hoping the chaos would hold, that they’d keep missing each other, but the second he reached for a pint glass she materialized at his elbow.
“Who, what, when, where, and why?” She punctuated each word with a hip-check.
Dorian smirked, tilting the tap. “The who is none of your business, the what is complicated, and the when, where, and why are also none of your business.”
“You suck.” She pouted hard enough to make her lip gloss crack. “Give me something. One dirty detail. I’m dying here.”
“My sex life isn’t group discussion.” He slid the beer across the wood and turned away before she could grab him.
Bianca spun, snatched her bar rag off the hook, and whipped it at his back. It snapped against his shoulder blade. “Don’t kiss and tell my ass!”
A couple regulars swiveled on their stools. Maverick appeared out of nowhere, arms folded. “Bianca. Dorian. Quit acting like you’re twelve.”
Dorian stuck his tongue out. She flipped him off.
Maverick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ, I really did hire children.”
“Technically,” a quiet, familiar voice said behind him, “they’re adults.”
Maverick jolted. “Shit—sorry, Father. You can’t just materialize like that.”
Callahan offered the small, apologetic smile that always looked like it hurt. “Tea, please.”
Dorian’s pulse kicked. He busied himself with the hot water, grateful for something to do with his hands. The mark on his neck throbbed under the collar of his shirt, a dull, delicious reminder. He carried the cup down to the far end where Callahan had settled on a stool away from the TVs.
Their fingers brushed when he set the cup down. Just that—just skin—was enough to send a hot wire straight to Dorian’s gut.
Callahan kept his voice low, barely louder than the hockey game overhead. “I wanted to apologize. I lost myself yesterday. Got carried away. I’m sorry.”
Dorian pretended to reorganize the straws. “Don’t be. I liked it.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Heat crawled up his throat, worse than the bruise itself. Callahan’s gaze flicked to the mark and stayed there, dark and unreadable.
“I wish you hadn’t said that,” Callahan murmured. His knuckles were white around the cup.
Dorian leaned in, rag in hand, close enough to feel the warmth coming off the man. “Why’s that, Father? Worried you’ll leave fingerprints next time?”
Callahan inhaled wrong and choked on his tea. The cough was rough; when it passed he pressed a hand to his sternum and rasped, “Fuck.”
The curse hit Dorian like a slap. Low, ragged, involuntary. His cock twitched hard against his zipper. He had to grip the edge of the bar to stay upright.
Callahan recovered enough to fix him with a steady look. “How’s your penance coming along?”
Dorian went still.
“Behave,” Callahan said quietly. “For the rest of it. I’d hate to extend the sentence.”
Dorian swallowed. The warning slid down his spine and pooled hot in his stomach. He managed a nod and retreated before Maverick noticed how long he’d been gone.
A week into the penance, Dorian couldn’t think straight.
The first few days had been manageable—annoying, but manageable. He’d gone longer without touching himself for fun, just to make the eventual orgasm sharper. But by Sunday every nerve felt flayed. He flinched when Bianca snapped the towel at his ass as a joke; the sting went straight to his dick and nearly dropped him. He was hard half the shift, leaking, miserable.
He stood in the shower with his forehead against the cold tile, letting icy water hammer his back. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. The ache between his legs was constant, animal, humiliating. He needed release the way he needed air.
He needed Callahan to say yes.
His phone buzzed on the counter—Elara, wondering where he was. He’d promised to help at Saint Jude’s again. He shut the water off, toweled dry, threw on the rattiest band tee he owned and gray sweatpants that had lost their drawstring months ago. The boots came last. He caught his reflection on the way out: eyes too bright, mouth swollen from biting it, the bruise on his neck fading to a mottled plum but still impossible to miss.
Maybe he’ll be there, Dorian thought, sliding into Elara’s passenger seat. Maybe I can get him alone.
Elara launched into a rant about her thesis advisor before he’d even buckled. Dorian nodded in the right places, stared out the window, and rehearsed begging in his head the whole drive.
The second the car stopped he was out, striding through the shelter doors like a man on a mission. He beelined for the supply closet. Jackpot—Callahan stood in the middle of the narrow space, back to the door, sorting paint cans.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Dorian said.
Callahan startled, turned. “Very funny.” A pause, softer. “How are you, Dorian?”
Dorian checked the hallway both ways, stepped inside, and pulled the door shut behind him. The click sounded loud in the small room. “About that.” He took a breath. “I need to talk about the penance.”
Callahan crossed his arms. “Changed your mind about punishment?”
“Not this one.” Dorian closed the distance until only a foot separated them. “I don’t think I’m gonna make it to next Tuesday.”
Callahan’s eyebrow lifted. Amusement flickered in his eyes—real, sharp pleasure. He’s enjoying this.
“Please, Father,” Dorian said. The words came out rough. “Have mercy. I’ve been good since Saturday. So good.”
Callahan caught the hand Dorian slid up his chest. He didn’t push it away. “Beg all you want. The penance stands until Tuesday.”
“Father—”
“No.” Callahan’s fingers shifted from Dorian’s wrist to his chin, grip firm, tilting his face down until their eyes locked. “That’s final. But if you’re very good the rest of the way, I’ll consider lifting it when you come to confession.”
Dorian’s knees actually wobbled. The praise and the threat tangled together and yanked hard.
“Yes, sir,” he whispered.
Callahan’s thumb brushed the corner of Dorian’s mouth. “Try again.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good boy.”
The words landed like a brand. Dorian’s breath hitched; he felt himself throb, helpless, obvious. Callahan released him, stepped around, and walked out without looking back.
Dorian stood there a long moment, heart hammering against his ribs. He snatched the tool bag off the shelf, muttering, “One more fucking week,” and went to find Elara before he did something stupid like chase the priest down the hall and drop to his knees right there.