Chapter 32 Dorian
“My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies.”
— Song of Solomon 2:16 KJV
Dorian couldn’t see Callahan come back into the living room. He stayed bent over the arm of the couch, forehead pressed to the cushion, ass in the air like an offering. The only warning was the soft pop of the lube bottle. Then a slick finger circled his hole, slow, deliberate.
“Since you begged so nicely for me,” Callahan said, voice low and steady, “I’ll give you a reward.”
Dorian pushed back before he could stop himself. “Fuck, please.”
The finger slid in. One smooth push, no hesitation. Dorian’s breath caught, knuckles whitening against the couch edge. Callahan was inside him. Finally inside him. He dropped his head, a whimper slipping out. “More,” he rasped. “Please.”
Callahan added a second finger, stretching him open with that same calm patience. A burn licked up Dorian’s spine, sharp and perfect. Callahan’s free hand settled on the small of his back, thumb stroking the skin there like he was soothing a spooked animal.
“You’re doing so well,” Callahan murmured. “Taking my fingers in this tight little hole.”
Dorian’s cock twitched against the couch, leaking steadily now. Every slow drag of those fingers built the pressure higher, coiling tight in his gut. He spread his legs wider, chasing more. “Jesus,” he moaned. “Deeper, please.”
Callahan tsked, soft and fond. He pushed in to the knuckles, grinding slow circles against Dorian’s rim. “Greedy boy. How does it feel, pet?”
“Good,” Dorian panted. “So fucking good. Don’t stop.” Then Callahan brushed that spot inside him, the one Dorian could never quite reach on his own, and the coil snapped tight. “Oh fuck—”
“Did I find something?” Callahan’s voice curled with amusement. He pressed again, harder.
“Yes—” Dorian shoved back, riding the fingers shamelessly. Callahan picked up the pace, steady and relentless. “Yes, please, fuck, I’m gonna—Father—”
“Go on,” Callahan said, almost gentle. “Make a mess for me, pet.”
The orgasm slammed through him, white-hot and blinding. Dorian cried out, hips jerking as he came untouched against the couch. His legs shook; the room spun. Callahan slowed, easing him through it, then carefully pulled out. The sudden emptiness made Dorian whine.
Callahan pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades. “You did so well.” Another kiss, lower. “Now let me take care of you.”
Dorian hadn’t expected a bath.
He’d pictured a quick shower, maybe Callahan joining him, hands wandering again. Instead Callahan peeled off Dorian’s work clothes with careful fingers, ran the water hot, and knelt beside the tub in Dorian’s gray sweatpants and faded Nirvana tee like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The steam smelled like Dorian’s cheap eucalyptus soap. Callahan rolled up the sleeves and washed him—shoulders, chest, down his arms—like Dorian was something precious. When he reached Dorian’s hair, he listened to the instructions without teasing: wet it thoroughly, shampoo twice, conditioner on the ends only, let it sit.
No one had ever done this for him. Not like this. Not with quiet focus and gentle hands that said you’re safe, I’ve got you.
“Still awake, pup?” Callahan asked, dragging a warm washcloth across Dorian’s neck.
“Mm-hmm.” Dorian’s eyes were half-closed, body loose and heavy.
“Time to get out.” Callahan stood, grabbed a towel. “Pull the plug for me, darling.”
The new nickname hit Dorian low in the chest. He obeyed, water swirling down the drain. He stood, reaching for Callahan without thinking. Callahan steadied him, toweled him dry with the same care, then wrapped the towel around Dorian’s waist and kissed him—soft, slow, like they had all the time in the world.
Dorian leaned in for another. Callahan gave it to him, lips lingering. When he pulled back, Dorian chased a third.
“It’s time for bed, darling.”
“Stay,” Dorian whispered against his mouth.
Callahan hesitated. Dorian felt it in the way the hands on his hips tightened, then loosened.
“You can,” Dorian said. He cupped Callahan’s cheek. “Just tonight. Come to bed with me.”
Callahan’s eyes searched his. Something raw flickered there—want, fear, exhaustion. Then he turned his head and kissed Dorian’s palm, the same way Dorian had kissed his weeks ago.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Let’s go to bed.”
Dorian’s heart flipped. He stepped around Callahan, grabbed his hand, and pulled him down the hall. Callahan followed without a word, fingers laced tight. In the bedroom they crawled under the covers still half-dressed, limbs tangling until Dorian’s head rested on Callahan’s chest. The steady thump of Callahan’s heart under his ear felt like a promise.
He fell asleep thinking this could be forever.
Sunlight woke him.
Warm stripes across his face, dust motes drifting. Dorian blinked, rolled over—and found cold sheets.
The ache hit immediate and familiar. He’d known it might happen. Callahan had Mass, responsibilities, a life that didn’t include waking up next to a man. Still, the empty space beside him felt like a bruise.
He stared at the rumpled pillow for a long minute. The church would always come first. Always.
Eventually he reached for his phone on the nightstand. His fingers brushed paper instead.
He unfolded it.
I’m sorry I left without waking you up. You looked so peaceful sleeping, I didn’t want to disturb you. I hope you don’t mind, but I left wearing the clothes you gave me last night and one of your baseball caps. I’ll bring them back when I see you again. See you soon, darling.
Dorian traced the careful handwriting. A small smile tugged at his mouth—Callahan sneaking out in borrowed clothes and a beat-up cap, trying not to get recognized. It was almost funny.
Almost.
Because the note didn’t change the truth. This thing between them couldn’t survive in daylight. Not while Saint Jude’s belonged to Revived Faith. Not while Callahan belonged to the church.
But what if Saint Jude’s didn’t belong to the church anymore?
The thought struck like a spark. Dorian sat up, heart racing. If the shelter were independent, Callahan wouldn’t have to choose between the work he loved and…whatever this was becoming.
He grabbed his phone off the charger, scrolled to a contact he hadn’t called willingly in years, and hit dial before the nerves could stop him.
“Hello?” Arthur sounded half-asleep.
“Hey. Sorry it’s early. Can you and Mom meet me for breakfast? Like, now?”
Silence. Then a soft laugh, surprised and warm. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Where?”
“Same cafe as last time. Thirty minutes?”
“We’ll be there.”
The cafe was nearly empty—just a couple of old guys in the corner and a bored barista. Dorian ordered a hazelnut coffee and a cinnamon muffin he didn’t really want, then joined his parents in their usual booth.
“Morning,” he said, kissing Lauren’s cheek before sliding in across from them.
“You’re never up this early,” Lauren said, worry creasing her brow. “Everything okay, hon?”
Dorian wrapped both hands around the warm cup. “Sort of.” His leg started bouncing under the table. “I’ve been seeing someone. For a while. It’s…getting serious.”
Lauren’s smile was cautious. “That’s wonderful. When do we meet him?”
Dorian chewed his lip. “It’s complicated. He works at Saint Jude’s. If the church found out about us, he’d lose his job. He’s dedicated his whole life to that place. I can’t ask him to give it up.” His voice cracked on the last word. “But I don’t want to lose him either.”
Arthur leaned forward. “Saint Jude’s is still under Revived Faith, right?”
Dorian nodded.
“And the shelter’s funding is garbage,” Arthur said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.”
Arthur tapped his coffee cup thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking about starting a nonprofit. We could make an offer to buy the shelter outright—transfer ownership to an independent organization. My legal team can have the paperwork ready in a week.”
Dorian’s pulse spiked. “You think the church would sell?”
Arthur’s smile was sharp, confident. “Everyone has a price. We give them one they can’t refuse, contract already drawn up, no effort on their end. Done.”
Hope fluttered, fragile and bright. “It could actually work?”
“Trust me,” Arthur said. “I wasn’t a good father for a long time. Let me be a good one now.” He paused, softer. “We can even put you and Elara on the board.”
Dorian excused himself, stepped outside into the cool morning air, and dialed Elara.
She answered groggy. “Somebody better be dead.”
“How would you feel about helping me steal Saint Jude’s from the church?”
A beat of silence. Then muffled laughter. “You’re serious.”
Dorian explained—Arthur’s plan, the nonprofit, the board seats.
Elara’s laugh turned delighted. “Dorian Koller is so down bad he’s staging a corporate coup. You really will do anything except tell the man you love him.”
Dorian leaned against the brick wall, watching his parents through the window. Lauren’s hand rested over Arthur’s on the table. He wanted that. Open. Easy. Permanent.
He took a breath. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do love him.”
Elara went still. Then, soft: “Then you’ve got me. All the way.”
Dorian closed his eyes, the morning sun warm on his face. For the first time in weeks, the ache in his chest felt less like fear and more like possibility.