My back hits the filing cabinet as he presses closer, his lean body solid against mine.
I can feel him hard against my hip, can feel the tremor running through him as he fights for control.
“Not here,” I gasp against his lips. “Elijah, we can’t?—”
“I know.” But his hands are already sliding under my cardigan, finding bare skin, and the touch makes me arch into him. “I know, but I can’t stop thinking about you. About this.”
His mouth finds my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
My fingers tangle in his golden hair, messing the angelic perfection, and he groans against my skin.
The sound of the church bells marking the hour breaks through our haze.
We pull apart, both breathing hard, my lips swollen and his hair disheveled.
Reality crashes back, bringing with it the weight of everything we’re risking.
“Tonight,” he says, his voice rough. “Come to my quarters tonight.”
I nod, unable to form words, and flee down the stairs before I lose what little control I have left.
That evening finds me in the sacristy with Marcus, helping him clean up after Mass.
We’ve barely spoken in days, the Bishop’s scrutiny forcing us into careful distance that’s been slowly killing me.
I’m hyperaware of every movement he makes, the way his arms flex as he lifts the chalice, how his black shirt stretches across his shoulders.
“Charlie.” His voice makes me jump. I turn to find him watching me, his dark eyes burning with barely restrained hunger. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” But I know. We both know.
He moves closer, and suddenly the small sacristy feels suffocating. “About this charade. About pretending you don’t exist. About how I can’t breathe when you’re in the same room and I can’t touch you.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “Marcus?—”
“I’m done pretending.” His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones. “I don’t care who’s watching anymore. I can’t do this.”
Then his mouth is on mine, desperate and claiming, and I’m lost. My back hits the wall as he presses closer, his body solid and warm against mine. I can feel every hard plane of him, can taste the desperation on his tongue as he kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m air.
“Te necesito,” he murmurs against my lips, his accent thickening. “I need you,querida. I need you so badly it’s destroying me.”
My fingers find the saints and sinners inked into his arms beneath his thin sleeves, tracing the lines I’ve memorized in stolen moments. His hands slide down to my hips, pulling me harder against him, and I gasp at the friction.
“Marcus,” I breathe, and his name on my lips makes him shudder.
His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, the curve where my neck meets my shoulder.
I arch into him, my head falling back against the wall, completely lost in the sensation of finally being touched after days of aching distance.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway freezes us both.
We break apart just as the door opens, but not fast enough. Sister Margaret stands in the doorway, her sharp blue eyes taking in every detail. My mussed hair. Our ragged breathing. The way we’re standing too close, bodies still angled toward each other.
The knowing look on her face says everything.
She smiles slowly, and the expression is colder than anything I’ve ever seen. “How convenient to find you both here.” Her voice is ice wrapped in false sweetness. “I’m sure the Bishop will want to speak to the both of you.”
32
