The Saint

“Did that happen?” Wyatt asked, holding himself up over her.

“Did what happen?” She decided to play innocent.

“Did you come?”

“I take the Fifth.”

“Elle …” Wyatt gave her a serious, almost pleading look.

“Yes, I did.” She laid her hand on the side of his face.

“That was the sexiest thing that has ever happened to me.” Wyatt pressed his forehead to hers.

She grinned and kissed him quick. “It happened to me more than you.”

“It happened to us. With us. I like saying us. Can I say it some more?”

“Wyatt, he’s back in three days.” She dreaded the conversation she and Søren would have about Wyatt, but not telling him seemed unthinkable.

“I don’t care about him. I care about us. We weren’t even having sex and you came underneath me. It was so f**king sexy, and I’m about to come from talking about it.”

“You can come if you want.”

“Do you want me to?”

“You’re asking my permission?”

“You’re the woman. You make the sex rules.”

She grinned up at him. She made the sex rules? She kind of liked the sound of that.

“You can. I want you to.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He brought his mouth down to hers again and kissed her with a roughness that shocked her. She wrapped a leg around his back and pushed her br**sts into his chest. He moaned in the back of his throat as he ground his pelvis into hers. She turned her head to give him access to her neck. The sight of his tattooed hand and forearms against the sheets made her question her “sex off the table” rule. Right now she wanted him—on the table or off.

Wyatt’s breathing grew ragged as he moved against her. God, she wanted to push him onto his back right now and hold him down. She’d love to pin those tattooed forearms to the bed. She’d work her hips against him, bring him close to coming and then stop … bring him close to coming again and then stop again…. She’d torture him like that until he begged her to let him come. And maybe if he begged enough, she’d let him.

Instead she held him as his body trembled from his own orgasm before going still. He lay on top of her, barely moving, only lightly kissing her neck as he caught his breath.

“I am going to fall in love with you,” Wyatt whispered. “Right … now.”

He closed his eyes and she said nothing. What was there to say?

She shimmied out of her jeans. With him in nothing but his boxers and her in nothing but her panties and his Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt, they spooned in his bed and slept together. She’d known Søren for almost four years, and she’d never slept in his arms. She’d been with Wyatt five days and she’d fallen asleep in his arms and woken up still wrapped up in them. She’d felt so cherished and so wanted and so … normal—for once—that it killed her to leave his arms and his bed. Since she was fifteen she’d felt Søren’s love for her like a blessing. That morning in Wyatt’s bed was the first time loving a priest felt like a burden.

That Friday evening she went to Kingsley’s like always. She and Søren would stake out the music room and Søren would talk to her about various aspects of S&M she needed to understand. He also made her write for him. He wanted to know what she most desired when she imagined them as lovers. Those were her favorite homework assignments he’d given her—writing out sexually explicit fantasies of erotic bondage and torture. She loved their Friday-night training sessions, counting down the minutes until she could be with him again. But Søren had been in Rome for three weeks now. She came to Kingsley’s tonight simply to be alone with her thoughts, her fears, her terrifying feelings for Wyatt.

Wyatt had asked her to go out with him that night, but she’d lied and said she had to work. Some sort of dinner party was happening in Kingsley’s dining room. Eleanor avoided it, hiding out in the music room. She sat near the piano, hoping to feel closer to Søren. It didn’t work. From her backpack. she pulled Søren’s most recent letter to her.

My Little One,

I wish you could be here with me. I strolled through the Galleria Borghese today and tried to imagine all the inappropriate remarks you would make about the statues in their various states of undress. It’s a special kind of torture to be without you among great beauty. I’ve seen the statues before and marveled at them. What I missed today was seeing you seeing them. This city is old and tired, but it would become young again in your eyes. I don’t know if we could ever come to Rome together, although I dream of such a day. I have friends here. I seem to bump into them wherever I go. The city is crawling with priests. After a feast day, sometimes literally.

I hope your classes are going well. I’m sorry I had to be gone so long. I think of you every day, every night. I hope you aren’t too lonely and that Kingsley is behaving himself in my absence.

I passed some graffiti today I knew you’d find amusing—cloro al clero. You see it painted near Vatican City. It means “poison the clergy” but please don’t let it give you any ideas.

My trip here has been successful. I left you as Rev. Marcus Stearns, SJ. I’ll return to you Rev. Dr. Marcus Stearns, SJ. You are under orders never to call me Reverend, Doctor or Marcus. You may call me Father Stearns at church, Sir in your collar and Søren when I’m inside you.