17
CHARLIE
I wake to pale morning light filtering through Adrian’s window, my body deliciously sore in places that remind me of last night. The confessional.
The three of them surrounding me in that sacred space, their hands and mouths claiming me while Adrian’s voice commanded through the carved screen.
Heat floods my cheeks as I remember the phantom press of wood against my back, Marcus’s Spanish whispers making my skin burn, Elijah’s wicked smile as he knelt before me in the darkness.
My fingers trace my lips, remembering how Adrian kissed me afterward when we finally emerged.
Like I was salvation and damnation wrapped together.
Like he’d been drowning and I was air.
The bed beside me is empty, but I hear movement in Adrian’s small kitchen.
Voices, low and masculine, mixing with the sound of running water.
I pull on one of Marcus’s shirts that I find draped over a chair, the fabric hanging to mid-thigh, smelling like his cologne and something darker, more masculine.
My legs are unsteady as I pad barefoot across the hardwood floor.
All three of them are already awake. Adrian stands at the counter in jeans and a white undershirt, his salt-and-pepper hair still damp from the shower.
The casual clothes make him look younger, more human, less like the austere priest everyone sees during Mass.
Marcus leans against the refrigerator, tattooed arms crossed over his bare chest, wearing only pajama pants that hang low on his hips.
And Elijah sits at the small table, his golden hair mussed, wearing a thin t-shirt that does nothing to hide the lean muscle beneath.
They all turn when I enter, and the way they look at me makes my breath catch.
Adrian’s gray eyes darken as they trace the path of Marcus’s shirt on my body, lingering on my bare thighs.
Marcus’s gaze drops to where the fabric gapes at my neck, revealing the curve of my collarbone.
Elijah’s crystalline blue eyes track every movement as I cross the kitchen, his lips curving into that angel-boy smile that promises sin.
“Morning,” I manage, my voice still rough with sleep.
“Buenos días, querida.” Marcus pushes off the refrigerator, moving closer. His hand finds my waist, warm and possessive through the thin fabric. “Sleep well?”
The double meaning isn’t lost on any of us. I barely slept, my mind replaying every moment in the confessional, every touch, every whispered prayer that sounded like profanity.
“Well enough.” I lean into Marcus’s touch despite knowing I shouldn’t need the contact so desperately. “What are you all doing up so early?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Adrian admits, his voice rough. His hands grip the edge of the counter, and I notice his knuckles are still bruised from when he split his desk. “Too much on my mind.”
The weight of everything threatening us hangs in the air. Pastor Whitmore’s surveillance photos.
The PI watching our every move. The constant fear that someone will discover what we’ve become to each other.
An idea forms, reckless and domestic and exactly what we need.
“We should bake something.” The words tumble out before I can second-guess them. “Together. I’ll teach you to make my grandmother’s chocolate chip cookies.”
Elijah’s eyes light up with genuine interest. “You’d teach us?”
