I stare.
I do not pretend otherwise. In the dimness, her bruises look like the work of an old master, Rembrandt maybe. Yellows and deep violets bleeding into blue and rose. I’m supposed to protect her. Instead, I want to undo her. Claim her.
“Michael?” she says, and the sound of my name, no Father, just the raw syllable, burns through me.
I let go of the doorframe. My hand leaves a sweat print on the wood. I take a step in. Then another. Each footfall is a commitment to letting go of pieces of my old life. When I reach the bed, I stand over her, unsure if I should touch her first orask permission. She solves it for me by reaching up, two hands bracing my hips, tentative as a child petting a stray.
I am shaking.
I sink to my knees. I mean it as submission, maybe even penance, but the effect is erotic, her gaze hungry and uncertain as she looks down at me. I take her hand and press it to my jaw. Her fingers flutter, then settle, mapping the stubble, tracing my mouth.
I kiss the inside of her wrist, a priestly benediction twisted into something carnal.
“Sarah,” I say, tasting her name, “I can’t stop.”
She nods, her pupils blown wide, and I can tell she’s bracing herself, too.
The first kiss is dry and awkward. It doesn’t matter. We do it again, slower, and I feel the charge gather, the surrender and the dare. She opens for me on the second pass, her tongue tentative and curious. I let her set the pace. When she pulls away, she’s breathing hard, mouth wet.
“Can I?” she says, but loses the thread.
I know what she’s asking. I cup her cheek, fingers spread into her hair, and kiss her again. This time I’m the one who can’t hold back. I kiss her the way I’ve thought about for months. Deep, almost bruising, my hand sliding from her face to her neck, thumb tracing the tendon. Her breath hitches, then melts.
I break away, not because I want to, but because I have to say it. “Sarah, if you want me to stop.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Her voice is small but fierce. “I want to.”
I nod. It’s not the first time I’ve crossed a line, but it’s the first time I want it to matter.
I move to the bed, sitting beside her. The mattress creaks under my weight. For a moment, I just let our knees touch, not rushing the reveal. I don’t want to scare her or myself.
I reach for the top button of my shirt, but my hands are useless, clumsy with nerves. She notices. She helps. Her hands cover mine, guiding my fingers to the first button, then the next. I have not been undressed by another in more than a decade, and the sensation is both terrifying and wildly tender.
When she gets to the collar, she hesitates. I take over. I undo the tab, the little plastic square that marks me as holy, and place it in her open palm. She looks at it, then at me. Her lips part, and I can feel the question forming, the theology of it. I kiss her before she can speak, a silent answer.
I strip off the shirt, exposing a torso that is far from priestly. Her hands go to my skin, feather-light, and I shiver. She traces my chest, fingers splaying, as if reading braille.
“Is this okay?” she says.
“Perfect,” I answer, and mean it.
I touch her knee, following the arc of her thigh up under the hoodie. The muscles are tense, flexed. I want to worship her, to take every slow inch. I rest my palm above her knee, and she leans into my touch. I squeeze, gentle but firm. Her legs part, just a little.
I slide my hand up, cupping the outside of her thigh. Her skin is so soft it’s like touching water. She’s trembling, and I want to slow it down, but my own pulse is out of control.
I push the hoodie higher, and she raises her arms so I can pull it off. She’s not wearing anything underneath. Her breasts are full, high, the nipples pink and puckered from chill or anticipation.
She flushes, looking down at herself, then back at me. “Don’t laugh,” she says, voice barely audible.
“Never,” I say, and kiss the hollow between her breasts.
She gasps. I do it again, then drag my tongue up to her collarbone, nipping at the skin, marking her as mine. I look at her face. Her eyes are closed, mouth slack.
I guide her back onto the mattress and lay her flat. I work my way down, kissing every bruise, every mark left by the world. When I get to the hem of her underwear, I pause.
