I tilt my head. “And what is that?”
His mouth twists. “A safe place. A shepherd. Someone people can trust, even when they can’t trust themselves.”
“And you think kissing me makes you unsafe?”
He doesn’t answer, but the look on his face says everything. He takes a step closer. His hand twitches, like he wants to reach out but is afraid to touch.
“Less of a shepherd?’
“Sarah,“ he says, and the way he says my name is enough to undo me.
We stand in the middle of the kitchen, both waiting for the other to break first. In the end, it’s me. I close the distance, my hands reach out to the back of his neck, and I pull him down to me.
The kiss is different this time. It's slower, hungrier, and more deliberate. His lips are soft, but his hands grip me hard, hisfingers dig into my waist like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. I want to tell him he doesn’t have to be afraid, but instead, I open my mouth and let him in.
He tastes like coffee and something bittersweet, like regret. I run my hands up under his shirt, feel the curve of his spine, the heat of his skin. I want to memorize every inch of him, just in case this is the only time I get.
When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed.
“This isn’t right,” he whispers. “But I don’t want to stop.”
“Then don’t,” I whisper back.
He makes a sound, half-laugh, half-sob, and kisses me again, harder this time. He backs me up against the counter, his body pressing to mine, all restraint gone. I feel the edge of the countertop dig into my hips, and I welcome it, the pain a reminder that I’m real, that this is happening.
He lifts me onto the counter, his hands under my thighs, and I let my legs wrap around his waist. The hoodie slips off my shoulders, and he buries his face in the curve of my neck, breathing me in. I shiver, not from the cold, but from the intensity of it all. It's the way he holds me, the way I want him to.
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice ragged.
I nod. “Yes,” I say, and I’ve never meant anything more.
He scoops me up, cradling me against his chest, and carries me down the hall to the bedroom. He lays me down on the narrow bed, careful as if I might break, but I pull him down with me, wanting every part of him at once.
He strokes my hair, his touch so gentle it almost makes me cry, but the apprehension is undeniable.
“I’m sorry,” he says. "You're a virgin and deserve more than the desperate release of my pent-up years of priesthood."
“You don’t have to be sorry,” trying to let him know I'm not upset with us stopping. “There's always tomorrow.”
He laughs, his sound softer now. “What happens tomorrow?”
“Maybe tomorrow we’ll figure it out,” I say. “But for tonight, let’s just be here.”
He kisses me again, sweet and lingering, and for the first time in my life, I believe that maybe, just maybe, I deserve this.
We fall asleep like that, limbs entwined. I close my eyes, and this time my mind is reminded of the virginity he's not taking. I’m not losing.
I can wait, and I will wait.
I wake to the sound of rain against the window and the slow, steady heartbeat of the man beside me. The world outside is cold and gray, but in here, there is only warmth.
Tomorrow will come, and perhaps … so will I.
6
MICHAEL
The cabin is a hush of amber and blue shadows, the only light the slow pulse from the wood stove. On the bed, Sarah is half-curled, watching me with a wariness I can feel in my own bones. She shifts, letting the blanket slip to her lap. The hem of the hoodie slides up her thighs, baring the pale skin above her knees.
