CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 65

DORIAN

I tried calling Ezra three times.

No answer.

He had replied to my message earlier — short, distant, polite. “Yeah. Just got in. Tired.”

Tired. That was all he’d said. Nothing else. No teasing. No warmth.

Now I was pacing my study like a restless animal. The rain outside had stopped hours ago, but the air still smelled like thunder. My jaw ached from clenching.

He wasn’t ignoring me, was he?

No… he wouldn’t.

Unless Genevieve—

A sharp ring sliced through my thoughts. I glanced at the phone on the table, the screen flashing a name I hadn’t seen in months.

Adrian Cross.

I stared at it for a full five seconds before I picked up. “Adrian.”

“Father Dorian,” came that low, velvety drawl that always sounded like mockery. “Or should I say… ex-lawyer Dorian Vale?”

My grip tightened around the phone. “What do you want?”

A soft chuckle. “Straight to business, as usual. You never change.”

“Adrian,” I warned. “I asked what you want.”

He sighed dramatically. “Relax. I just wanted to catch up. I saw your little choir on the news. First place, wasn’t it? You looked radiant in your collar. Almost holy.”

“Adrian—”

“Must be hard though,” he continued smoothly, ignoring me, “pretending every day. Living the lie. I bet the robes chafe after a while.”

I exhaled slowly, forcing my temper down. “If you have something to say, say it.”

“I’ll make it simple,” he said. “Leave the priesthood.”

My pulse spiked. “What?”

“I said—leave it. Walk away before it destroys you. You and I both know you’re not built for obedience. You’re built for control.” His tone sharpened. “And you can’t control yourself where that boy’s concerned.”

My blood ran cold. “What did you just say?”

“Oh, come now,” Adrian murmured, and I could practically hear the smirk. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at him? It’s obvious. The sweet-faced choir boy, the one who can’t stop blushing every time you speak his name.”

“Watch your mouth,” I hissed.

He laughed, low and rich and infuriating. “What? Did I hit a nerve? Dorian, you’re not meant for sermons. You’re meant for sin. You’ve always been. Come work for me again. We could run the city together this time. No rules, no collars.”

I could almost see his smug face. The same expression he’d worn the night I’d walked out of his firm — the night I’d sworn never to become the man I’d been.

“I’m not interested,” I said flatly.

Adrian’s voice dropped. “You’ll regret this. That collar won’t save you when your pretty boy ruins you.”

The line went dead.

For a second, I just stood there, frozen, the echo of his words burning through my skull. Then the rage hit — sharp, hot, suffocating.

I slammed the phone down so hard it cracked against the desk. “Bastard,” I muttered under my breath.

He’d said ruin. Like Ezra was something dirty. Like what we had — whatever the hell it was — was nothing more than a scandal waiting to happen.

I turned and punched the wall. The sharp sting grounded me, barely.

Adrian Cross. I ran a hand down my face, pacing, my thoughts snapping like live wires.

I stopped in front of the window, watching the rain-soaked courtyard outside the rectory. My reflection stared back — tired eyes, clenched jaw, the collar sitting too tight around my throat.

I whispered, almost to myself, “You think you can ruin me, Adrian? You think I’d let you touch him?”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “Over my dead body.”

My phone buzzed again — another text.

Adrian: You can’t save both your soul and your boy. Choose wisely.

I stared at the words until they blurred.

Then, slowly, I deleted the message.

There would be time for revenge later. For now, I had to think. To plan.

Because if Adrian Cross was stepping back into my life, that meant the past I’d buried was digging its way out of the grave.

And this time, it wasn’t just my soul on the line.

It was Ezra’s.

*****

The morning light filtered through the stained-glass windows of my bedroom, casting fractured colors across the floor. I’d barely slept. Adrian’s words had looped in my head all night, a poison I couldn’t purge. You can’t save both your soul and your boy. Choose wisely.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand, my fingers trembling slightly as I typed out a message to Ezra.

Morning. You okay? Call me when you wake up.

I hit send and stared at the screen, waiting for the little “read” notification that never came. Minutes dragged into an hour. Nothing. My chest tightened with a mix of worry and frustration. Was he still asleep? Or was he pulling away again, like last night?

I set the phone down and forced myself out of bed. The routine grounded me—shaving, splashing cold water on my face, slipping into the black cassock and crisp white collar that felt more like armor than cloth some days. Breakfast was a hurried affair: black coffee and toast I barely tasted. The rectory was quiet, the other priests already out or in their studies. I had confessions scheduled in an hour. Perfect. Something to distract me from the storm brewing inside.

By the time I reached the church, the sky had cleared to a crisp blue, but my mood was anything but. I nodded politely to Mrs. Harlan as she arranged flowers at the altar, then slipped into the confessional booth. The wooden partition smelled of polish and old incense, a familiar cage that both soothed and suffocated. I knelt on the cushioned bench, murmuring the opening prayers under my breath, my mind half on the ritual, half on Ezra.

The door on the other side creaked open. Footsteps—light, hesitant. Then the kneeler groaned as someone settled in.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” a voice whispered. Soft. Familiar. My heart slammed against my ribs.

Ezra.

I froze, my hand midway to the screen. 

“Ezra,” I said, low and urgent, keeping my voice just above a murmur. “Come to my side. Now.”

A pause. Then the door opened and closed again. My side of the booth creaked as he slipped in, the space suddenly too small, too charged. He stood there in jeans and a hoodie, his hair tousled, eyes wide and shadowed with exhaustion. Before he could speak, I grabbed his wrist and pulled him close, crashing my mouth against his.

The kiss was desperate, all teeth and tongue, pouring out the fear and anger I’d bottled up since last night. He melted into it, a soft whimper escaping him as his hands fisted in my cassock. I broke away just enough to breathe, my forehead pressed to his.

“What happened?” I demanded, my voice rough. “You didn’t answer my calls. My text. Nothing.”

He swallowed hard, his cheeks flushing that perfect pink I loved. “I’m sorry. I wanted to, but… Genevieve gave me this curfew now.”

 “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

His eyes darkened, that hungry spark igniting. “Father Dorian… I need you.”

The words undid me. In this sacred space, with sin written into every shadow, I didn’t care about vows or consequences. I kissed him again, slower this time, savoring the taste of him—mint and something sweeter, uniquely Ezra. My hands slid down his back, pulling him flush against me until he was straddling my lap on the narrow bench.

He ground against me instinctively, a gasp muffled against my neck. I could feel him hardening through his jeans, matching the ache building in my own pants. “Ezra,” I groaned, my resolve crumbling like ash.

“Let me,” he whispered, sliding off my lap to kneel between my legs. His fingers trembled as he undid my cassock buttons, pushing the fabric aside. The air was cool against my skin, but his touch burned. He freed me from my boxers, my cock springing hard and heavy into his hand.

God, the sight of him there—innocent face, devilish intent. He looked up at me through his lashes, then leaned in, tongue flicking out to taste the tip. I hissed, threading my fingers through his hair. “Fuck, yes.”

He took me into his mouth, slow at first, lips stretching around me as he sank down. The heat, the wet suction—it was torture and heaven. I bucked my hips, unable to help it, and he moaned around me, the vibration shooting straight to my spine. “That’s it, boy. Take it all.”

He did, hollowing his cheeks, bobbing faster, his hand stroking what he couldn’t swallow. I guided him, gripping his hair tighter, thrusting deeper into that perfect mouth. The booth echoed with wet sounds, my ragged breaths, his muffled whimpers. He was messy, eager, saliva dripping down his chin, and it drove me wild.

“Deeper,” I growled, losing control. I fucked his mouth hard, the bench creaking under us, my balls tightening with every slide over his tongue. He gagged once, twice, but didn’t pull away—eyes watering, locked on mine, begging for more.

I was close, so close. “Swallow,” I ordered, and he nodded frantically. One more thrust, and I came with a guttural groan, spilling down his throat. He gulped it down, every drop, milking me until I was spent and shuddering.

Panting, I hauled him up, kissing him fiercely. I could taste myself on his tongue, salty and raw. “Good boy,” I murmured against his lips. “So fucking good.”

He grinned, breathless and wrecked. “Your turn.”

Before I could respond, he was pushing me back, yanking his jeans down just enough. No underwear—cheeky bastard. His ass was perfect, pale and smooth. I spun him around, bending him over the bench. “Hold on.”

I dropped to my knees behind him, spreading him open. He was already slick with want, hole twitching under my gaze. I dove in, tongue lapping at him, circling the tight ring before pushing inside. He cried out, pushing back against my face. “Dorian—fuck!”

I ate him out like a starving man, tongue fucking him deep, then sucking on his rim until he was sobbing with need. My hands gripped his hips, bruising, as I added fingers— one, then two, scissoring him open. He was tight, clenching around me, begging in broken whispers. “Please… need you inside…”

I stood, slicking myself with spit— no time for anything else. But he turned, eyes wild. “Let me ride you.”

Fuck. I sat back, pulling him onto my lap. He straddled me, lining up, then sank down slow. The stretch made him gasp, head falling back as he took me inch by inch. “So big,” he whimpered, but he didn’t stop until I was buried to the hilt.

We moved together, frantic— him bouncing, me thrusting up to meet him. The booth shook, wood groaning in protest. His cock bobbed between us, leaking onto my cassock. I stroked him in time, thumbing the slit. “Come for me, Ezra. Let go.”

He was close, body tensing, when—

The door on the other side creaked open.

“Father? Are you there? I… I need to confess.”

We froze. Ezra’s eyes went wide, panic flashing as he clamped a hand over his mouth. I was still inside him, pulsing, our hearts pounding in sync.

Shit. It was Mrs. O’Leary.

Mrs. O’Leary’s voice wavered through the lattice, thin and trembling. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession.”

Ezra’s thighs flexed around my hips, a slow, deliberate roll that dragged me deeper inside him. His eyes were glassy, lips bitten raw, and he mouthed a silent please. I gripped his waist to still him, but he only smirked, tiny and wicked, and sank down again, inch by torturous inch.

“I… I lied,” Mrs. O’Leary continued, oblivious. “To my sister. About the money I borrowed. I said it was for the roof, but it was for the cruise. I feel terrible.”

Ezra’s breath hitched. He rose up, almost off me, then slid back down, slow enough that the bench didn’t creak. My cock throbbed inside him, every nerve screaming. I swallowed a groan and leaned toward the screen.

“Mrs. O’Leary,” I managed, voice gravel-rough, “for your penance, say three Hail Marys and one Our Father. Reflect on honesty. Go in peace.”

She murmured gratitude, the kneeler creaked, and the door shut with a soft click.

The second her footsteps faded, I yanked Ezra off my lap and spun him around. “Touch your toes.”

He obeyed instantly, bending forward, palms flat to the floor, ass high and open. The sight of him, stretched and glistening, undid me. I drove into him in one brutal thrust. He choked on a cry, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wood.

I didn’t hold back. I fucked him hard, hips snapping, the slap of skin echoing in the tiny booth. Each thrust punched a broken sound from his throat, muffled against his own arm. His hole clenched around me, greedy, milking me with every stroke.

“Quiet,” I snarled, fisting his hair and yanking his head back. “You want the whole parish to hear how much you love my cock?”

He shook his head frantically, tears streaking his cheeks, but his body pushed back to meet me, desperate. I reached around, wrapped my hand around his leaking dick, and jerked him in time with my thrusts. He came with a strangled sob, spilling hot over my fingers, his walls fluttering around me.

That was it. I slammed deep, once, twice, and let go, flooding him with pulse after pulse of cum. He shuddered, taking every drop, until I was empty and he was trembling, stuffed full and dripping.

I pulled out slowly, watching my release trickle down his thighs. He stayed bent over, panting, until I tugged him upright and kissed him, slow and filthy, tasting salt and sin.

“Next time,” I whispered against his mouth, “you come to me before curfew.”

Ezra straightened slowly, legs shaking like a newborn foal. My cum slid down the inside of his thigh in a pearly trail, stark against flushed skin. He glanced down, cheeks crimson, and let out a shaky laugh. “I’m a mess.”

I watched him fumble for the box of tissues wedged behind the missal on the tiny shelf. The booth smelled of sex and candle wax, a heady mix that made my pulse throb again. He wiped at himself with trembling fingers, the tissue sticking to the slick mess between his legs. When he bent to tug his jeans up, the motion pulled his hoodie higher, exposing the dimples at the base of his spine. My cock, still half-hard, twitched.

“Stop,” I said, voice rough.

He froze, jeans halfway up his thighs, and looked over his shoulder. “What?”

I stepped forward, crowding him against the confessional wall. The wood was cool against his palms as I pressed him there.  I dragged my thumb through the mess on his thigh, smearing it higher, then pushed two fingers into him without warning. He gasped, knees buckling.

“Dorian, someone could—”

“No one’s coming for twenty minutes.” I curled my fingers, stroking that spot that made his eyes roll back. “You’re still open. Still dripping with me.” I freed myself again, already aching, and lined up. One thrust and I was buried to the hilt, his slick heat swallowing me like it was made for this.

He whimpered, forehead thumping the wall. “Fuck, I can’t—”

“You can.” I set a brutal pace, the slap of my hips against his ass muffled by the thick wood around us. His jeans trapped his thighs together, making him tighter, and I groaned at the drag. “You’ll take it again, won’t you? My greedy boy.”

He nodded frantically, pushing back to meet every thrust. I reached around, found him hard again—impossible, perfect—and stroked him in time. His breath fogged the lattice screen, fingers scrabbling for purchase. “I’m gonna come again,” he sobbed. “Dorian, please—”

“Do it.” I slammed deep, grinding against his prostate. He came with a broken cry, clenching so hard I saw stars. I followed seconds later, pumping another load into him, marking him twice over.

We stayed locked like that, panting, until the church bell tolled the quarter hour. Reality crashed in.

“Shit.” I pulled out gently, watching my cum spill out of him in a slow trickle. He whimpered at the loss, then scrambled to clean up properly this time—tissues, frantic wiping, jeans yanked up with a wince. I tucked myself away, buttoning the cassock with shaking hands.

He turned, face flushed, hair a wreck, lips swollen. “I look like I’ve been fucked senseless.”

“You have.” I kissed him once, hard, then nudged him toward the door. “Go out the side exit. Garden path. No one’ll see.”

He slipped out, hoodie pulled low, and I watched through the crack as he disappeared into the sunlight. My heart hammered against my ribs, the taste of him still on my tongue.