CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 22

DORIAN

The booth door clicked shut.

Ezra was gone.

And I was hard.

So fucking hard it hurt.

I pressed my palms against the wood, breathing heavy, trying to steady myself. What the hell did you just do, Dorian?

I kissed him.

Not just kissed. I grabbed him. Choked him. Lost control like some animal.

I dragged a hand down my face. My chest heaved.

“This is wrong,” I muttered.

But my cock throbbed against the fabric of my pants, begging, screaming for release.

I sank onto the seat, head in my hands. Images slammed through me—Ezra’s wide eyes, flushed face, the way he whimpered when I squeezed his throat.

“Fuck.”

I pressed my hand over my crotch. Just one touch and I groaned. My hips jerked like I’d been starving.

“No. No. Stop. You’re a priest. You swore—”

But I was already undoing my belt.

My cock sprang free, hard and red and aching. I hissed, gripping it tight.

“God forgive me,” I whispered, even as I started stroking.

The first pull made me grunt, low and deep. My head slammed back against the wall.

All I could see was Ezra. On his knees. Looking up at me with that pretty mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” I groaned, pumping faster. “Ezra…”

I shouldn’t say his name. I shouldn’t even think it. But it poured out of me like a prayer.

I imagined his lips wrapped around me, his voice breaking as he tried to take me deeper. I imagined him gasping, trembling, begging me to touch him more.

“Shit,” I muttered, stroking harder. My hips lifted off the seat, chasing the feeling.

My breath came in sharp pants. Sweat broke across my skin.

I wanted him. Not just wanted—I needed him. His soft voice. His innocent eyes. His body I hadn’t even seen bare yet.

My grip tightened. My strokes turned rough. “You’d look so good like that, Ezra. On my cock. Taking it. Begging for it.”

I bit down on a groan, but it still escaped. Loud in the empty church.

I imagined bending him over the confessional itself, fucking him deep, making him scream my name where no one could hear. I wanted him so bad. I needed him to bounce on my cock.

The thought made me shake.

“God—” I gasped, thrusting into my hand. “Forgive me, forgive me—”

But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

My balls drew tight, my whole body locking up.

“Ezra,” I groaned, spilling over my fist. Hot, thick, dripping down my hand.

I kept stroking through it, milking every last pulse until I sagged against the wall, panting, wrecked.

The booth smelled of wood, incense—and sin. My sin.

I stared at my hand. Sticky. Dirty. Shameful.

I wiped it with my handkerchief, tucking myself back in, breathing hard.

“This can’t happen again,” I muttered.

But the worst part—the ugliest truth—was that even as I said it…

I knew I wanted it to.