Chapter 28 Dorian
“O come, let us worship and bow down: let us kneel before the Lord our maker.”
— Psalm 95:6 KJV
Dorian spent the whole damn week in a fog. One minute he was replaying that kiss against the kitchen island—Callahan’s hands on his face, the scrape of teeth, the way the priest had groaned like a man starving—and the next he was staring at his phone, thumb hovering over a message he couldn’t send. End it now, before it ends you. He typed it a dozen times, deleted it a dozen more. Every time he almost hit send, the memory of Callahan’s mouth on his neck flashed hot behind his eyes and his resolve crumbled.
He knew how this story ended. Priest chooses God. Boy gets left in the confessional with nothing but bruises and guilt. Still, he couldn’t make himself walk away. Not yet.
“Eli.” Elara’s voice cut through the static in his head. “Eli.”
He blinked. They were parked outside Barb and Lou’s Goodies, engine ticking itself cool. He hadn’t registered the drive.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Dorian.” She was staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” His voice came out gravel. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just zoned out.”
“You’ve been zoned out since I picked you up.” She killed the engine. “Spill.”
He fiddled with the mood ring on his thumb, watching the stone shift from black to murky green. “Remember what you said? About me running from shit instead of dealing with it?”
Elara nodded, wary.
“Well. You were right. And now I’m in deep with someone I can’t have, and I’m too fucking scared to do anything about it.”
“Let me guess,” she said, soft. “Father Callahan.”
He huffed a laugh that had no humor in it. “He came over last Sunday. We cooked. We kissed. Like—really kissed. The kind where I would’ve let him do anything. And he just… stopped. Said not tonight. Then nothing. No texts, didn’t show at Nirvana’s Friday. Radio silence.”
Elara’s brows drew together. “So text him.”
“I don’t want to look desperate.”
“You are desperate.” She held out her hand. “Give me your phone.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then do it yourself.”
He grumbled, unlocked the screen, opened their thread. His thumbs hovered.
Elara snatched the phone before he could lock it again.
“Hey—”
She was already typing. Dorian lunged, but she twisted away, grinning like a demon. A second later the whoosh of a sent message made his stomach drop.
She handed it back.
Dorian stared at the bubble.
I've been thinking about you. Are you busy tonight? Maybe we can go out to Rose Lake?
The reply came almost instantly.
I have coverage for Saint Jude's tonight so I should be free. 8pm sound okay?
His heart punched against his ribs. Elara’s grin went ear to ear.
“Problem solved, lover boy.”
He arrived at Rose Lake twenty minutes early, nerves jangling. Spread the blanket Elara had scored at the thrift store—soft faded plaid—then unpacked the wicker basket. Tea plates, cups, bottled water, the charcuterie board he’d agonized over: sharp cheddar, gouda, thin folds of prosciutto and salami, little cornichons, rosemary crackers, fat purple grapes. Last, the plate of chocolate chip cookies he’d baked at two in the morning, hoping they weren’t stale. Callahan had eyed them last time, never got one. Tonight he would.
Gravel crunched. Headlights swept over the water, then cut. Callahan climbed out of the old sedan looking like sin in casual clothes. Dark gray shirt, sleeves rolled high enough to show the thorn vine tattoo curling around his forearm. Top buttons undone, silver chest hair catching moonlight. Black boots scuffed and ancient.
Dorian didn’t pretend not to stare.
“I’ve got to say you are incredibly fucking hot dressed like this.”
Callahan’s laugh was low. “Trying to remember how civilians dress.” He eased down onto the blanket with a small grunt. “Getting old.”
“Those boots have stories,” Dorian said, scooting closer.
“They do.” Callahan stretched his legs out, boots off the blanket. “Wore them back when I was still playing. Different life.”
Dorian’s pulse kicked. “Maybe I could clean them for you sometime. Get you settled in the recliner, take my time.”
Callahan’s eyebrow arched. His hand found the end of the slip chain collar Dorian had dug out of a drawer that morning—stupid impulse, but he’d worn it anyway. A gentle tug brought Dorian forward.
“Service the boots,” Callahan murmured, “or service me, puppy?”
Heat flooded Dorian’s face. The chain links pressed cool against his throat. “Maybe if you ask nicely.”
Callahan tightened the tug until the metal bit. Frankincense and something woodsy filled Dorian’s lungs. “Don’t think I won’t put you over my knee right here.”
Dorian swallowed. “Can’t punish me for nothing, Father.”
“I can punish you because I know how much you crave it.” Callahan’s voice dropped. “Glutton for punishment, isn’t that what you told me?”
Dorian’s breath stuttered. “Then do it.”
Callahan released the chain and leaned back, smug. “No.”
Dorian blinked. “No?”
“You want something, you ask properly.” He plucked a grape, rolled it between thumb and forefinger. “Until then, I’m enjoying this beautiful spread you made.”
Dorian stared a second, then decided fuck it. He swung a leg over and straddled Callahan’s lap, catching the wrist before the grape reached the priest’s mouth. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in and took the grape with his lips, tongue sliding between Callahan’s fingers to steal it. Callahan drew his fingers out slow, wet, then cupped Dorian’s cheek, thumb brushing his lower lip.
“Like having something in your mouth, pet?”
Dorian answered by parting his lips, taking the thumb in, swirling his tongue the way he wished he could do lower. Callahan’s pupils blew wide.
“Pretty pet,” he whispered. “My pretty pet.”
“Yours,” Dorian breathed. He kissed Callahan quick. “Wholly.” Cheek. “Utterly.” Jaw. “Completely.” Ear. “Yours.”
Callahan’s hands clamped on Dorian’s hips. “That’s right. Mine.”
The word shot straight to Dorian’s cock. He cupped the back of Callahan’s head, foreheads pressed. “Say it again.”
“You’re mine.” Callahan’s grip tightened. “I want all of you. Even the parts you hide.”
Dorian’s throat closed. “Then give me all of you.”
“You have me.” Callahan kissed him slow, deep, claiming. “You only had to ask.”
Dorian sank into it, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the slide of tongues, the shared breath. One day he’d tell him. Not tonight.
Callahan broke the kiss, mouth moving to Dorian’s neck. “Mark me again,” Dorian whispered.
“You know how to get what you want.”
Dorian whined. “Please, Father. Mark me. I want everyone to know I’m yours.”
Callahan groaned and bit down hard just below the jaw. Dorian gasped, fingers tightening in silver hair. The risk of someone driving by, seeing Dunwich’s golden priest with a man on his lap—it sent liquid heat pooling low.
“Please,” Dorian breathed. “I need you.”
“What do you need?”
“You touching me. Or me touching you. Let me service you. I’ll be so good.”
Callahan’s eyes darkened. “You want to be good for me?”
Dorian nodded.
“Then be a good pup and make yourself come on my thigh. No hands.”
A broken sound escaped Dorian’s throat. He dropped his face to Callahan’s shoulder, cheeks burning. “You shouldn’t be allowed to say shit like that.”
Callahan’s hand slid under Dorian’s shirt, fingers finding the nipple rings, tugging sharp. Dorian arched with a mewl.
“Not used to being denied, are you?” Callahan twisted again. “Used to getting whatever you want. But brats don’t get rewarded.”
“It’s worked so far,” Dorian managed, rocking helplessly.
Callahan pinched hard. Dorian whined high, hips jerking. “Again—please.”
“Manners,” Callahan praised, repeating the twist.
Dorian bit down on the curve of Callahan’s neck to muffle the cry. The orgasm slammed into him sudden and blinding. He rutted frantically, teeth sunk deep, riding it out until sparks popped behind his eyes. When it passed he was boneless, floating, mouth still against the fresh bite mark he’d left.
Callahan stroked his sides, slow and soothing. “Good boy. Such a good boy.”
Dorian nuzzled closer, greedy for the warmth. “Need you.”
“I’m here.” Callahan kissed his shoulder. “We can stay as long as you need, pup. I’m not going anywhere.”
Chest tight, Dorian whispered, “Promise?”
“Promise.”