Chapter 24 Dorian
“Thy word have I hid in mine heart, that I might not sin against thee.”
— Psalms 119:11 KJV
Dorian stepped out of the bathroom, skin still damp from the quick shower, expecting nothing but quiet. The apartment had a habit of feeling too big after someone left. He’d braced for it—the empty couch, the faint smell of sex already fading, the door locked behind whoever had just wrecked him and walked away.
Instead, Callahan stood in front of the cluttered TV stand, holding the popsicle-stick frame.
Dorian stopped dead in the hallway. The sight hit him low in the chest, a dull ache that spread fast. That cheap little frame—faded marker doodles, glitter glue half peeled off—held the only photo he kept out in the open: him at seven or eight, gap-toothed and proud, flanked by his mom and Arthur on some long-ago Mother’s Day. Back when Arthur still traveled for work more than he stayed, when the house hadn’t yet learned the sound of his anger.
He swallowed the lump trying to climb his throat and forced a grin. “I was a cute kid, wasn’t I?”
Callahan startled, nearly dropping the frame. A flush rose on his cheeks as he set it back among the scattered CDs and board games. His gaze flicked down Dorian’s bare chest and away again, quick, guilty.
Dorian let the silence hang just long enough to enjoy it, then padded into the kitchen. “See something you like?”
“That teasing of yours is persistent,” Callahan said, voice dry but not displeased.
Dorian snorted, filling a glass with water. “Takes more than one spanking to get me in line, I’m afraid.”
“So I’m learning.”
He came back into the living room and lowered himself onto the couch with deliberate care. The second his bruised ass met cushion, pain flared sharp and bright. He couldn’t hold back the hiss. “Fuck.”
Callahan watched him for a long moment, something careful in his eyes. Then he sat at the far end of the couch and patted his thigh once. “Lie down.”
Dorian hesitated, chewing his lip. The offer felt too soft after everything, too easy to sink into. But the ache in his skin and the heaviness in his limbs won. He stretched out sideways, head settling on Callahan’s lap.
Callahan’s hand came to rest in his damp curls, fingers slow and sure, massaging his scalp in small circles. The tension started leaking out of Dorian’s shoulders whether he wanted it to or not. He closed his eyes. Let himself imagine this was ordinary—coming home to this touch every night, Callahan’s thigh solid under his cheek, the quiet stroke of fingers through his hair. Stupid fantasy. Impossible with the collar and the vows and the fifty years between them. Still, he let it linger.
“Tell me about yourself,” he mumbled, words thick with exhaustion.
Callahan hummed. His fingers kept moving. “What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you feel like sharing.”
A pause. “I grew up on the Upper East Side. Two, two and a half hours from Dunwich. My childhood was… uneventful.”
Dorian shifted onto his back so he could see Callahan’s face. He pressed his cheek to the warm plane of Callahan’s stomach without thinking, nuzzling closer. Callahan didn’t pull away; if anything, his hand settled more firmly in Dorian’s hair. Something warm and unfamiliar bloomed behind Dorian’s ribs. He rushed past it. “You’ve clearly spanked someone before.”
Callahan’s mouth twitched. “I spent most of my younger years in bed with anyone who’d have me. Never stayed long. Always thought there was something more out there.”
“Sounds familiar.” Dorian’s voice came out quieter than he meant. “When I left Dunwich, I didn’t have a plan past getting the hell out. Bounced between shelters for a while. Even after I could afford my own place, I barely slept there. Bed felt too empty. Hated it.” He paused. “Since I moved back, though… it’s different.”
Callahan’s fingers drifted from his hair to trace slow lines down Dorian’s arm. “How so?”
Because of you. The answer sat right there on his tongue. He swallowed it. “I don’t know,” he lied. “Guess I’m just getting old for the playboy routine.”
“You’re twenty-five.”
“Spot on.” Dorian reached up, caught Callahan’s chin, turned his face for pretend inspection. “I’m guessing forty-one.”
Callahan’s lips curved. “Add nine.”
“Good thing I already call you Father, then.”
Callahan shook his head, but the smile stayed. “Impossible little thing.”
Dorian lifted Callahan’s hand and brushed his mouth across the knuckles. “You like it.”
A soft exhale. “A little too much, I’m afraid.”
Callahan’s gaze dropped to Dorian’s mouth, lingered, came back up. The air between them felt suddenly thinner.
Dorian pushed up on an elbow, wincing as his ass protested. “Are you actually okay doing this?” he asked. “Honestly.”
Callahan sighed. His free hand moved to his chest—probably touching the rosary hidden under the clerical shirt. “It makes me nervous. But I don’t want to stop. I just—” He met Dorian’s eyes. “I need to know you’ll stop me if I go too far. I’ve been selfish before. People got hurt.”
“I know my limits,” Dorian said. “I’ve done this enough. Not exactly like this, but close.”
A yawn ambushed him mid-sentence. He glanced toward the kitchen, trying to read the stove clock, but the numbers blurred.
“I think it’s time to call it a night,” Callahan said gently.
“Yeah.” Dorian stood, sore and slow. He walked Callahan the few steps to the door, stealing every extra second.
At the threshold he stopped. The question had been circling since the blindfold came off. “When can we do this again?”
Callahan’s hand lifted, tucked a damp curl behind Dorian’s ear. His thumb lingered against Dorian’s cheekbone. “I’ll let you know.”
Dorian nodded, throat tight.
Callahan hesitated, one foot in the hall, adjusting his glasses, staring at the floor. “Good night,” he said finally, and left.
Dorian stayed by the open door until the taillights disappeared. Then he closed it, turned the deadbolt.
The motion brought his wrist into view. The small tattoo—simple block letters—caught the hallway light. He ran his thumb over the raised skin, remembering sixteen and reckless under the bleachers, the first boy he’d ever kissed. The gym teacher’s voice sharp with scripture, promising fire and eternity if he didn’t stop. He’d begged her not to tell, promised it would never happen again.
He traced the letters once more.
I’d trade eternity if it meant I could have him.
The thought landed clean and undeniable.
Dorian froze.
Fuck me.