Page 36 of His Elder

Words were useless. Doctrine was a weapon. Prayer was his poison. There was only one thing left. I couldn't tell him he wasn't evil. I had to show him. I had to take this thing he feared, this terrible desire, and prove it could be something other than an instrument of shame. That it could be a comfort. That it could be a gift.

It was long past midnight when his prayers finally ended. He climbed into his bed with a sigh that was more a shudder, the sound of a man surrendering to a battle he could never win. I waited. I listened to his breathing, ragged and uneven at first, then slowly deepening into the fitful cadence of sleep. The room was dark, but the perpetual twilight of the city seeped through the thin curtains, painting everything in shades of grey and silver.

My own heart hammered against my ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage. This was a line. Once I crossed it, there was no going back. Not for me. Not for him. The mission, my promise to my mother, his entire world—it could all burn down from this single spark. I thought of my forehead against his shoulder. I thought of the self-loathing in his eyes that morning.

The floorboards were cold under my bare feet. I rose from my bed. I reached his bed.

He was on his back, a sheet pulled up to his waist. His face, in the dim light, was younger, the lines of worry smoothed outby sleep. I knelt beside him, my shadow falling over him. I reached out, not for his arm or his shoulder, but for the part of him that met the earth. My hand closed, gently, around his ankle.

His skin was warm. He stirred, a low murmur in his sleep. I stilled, my heart hammering against my ribs like a wild bird trapped in a cage. Then, so slowly, I began my work. I wasn't guessing. I had seen the way his focus would sometimes drift downward, the way he seemed to brace himself through his feet when a conversation grew too intense. It was a long shot, an intuition born of a thousand stolen glances.

My thumb found the delicate, bird-like bone on the side of his ankle. I let my fingers trail upward, tracing the long cord of his Achilles tendon, and then slid my palm down to the high, sensitive arch of his foot. I pressed my thumb into the soft hollow there, a slow, circular motion.

The effect was instantaneous and electric.

A violent shudder wracked his body, a jolt of pure, unadulterated sensation. His eyes flew open, wide and dark in the gloom. He stared at me, terror warring with a dawning, unmistakable heat. His breath hitched, and a soft, wounded sound escaped his lips. His toes curled, flexing into my palm with a strength that was pure, instinctual need. His entire leg trembled.

“Eli,” he breathed, the word a feather of sound, half-plea, half-warning.

I didn’t stop. I held his gaze, my thumb continuing its steady, knowing pressure. He was right there, the real him, behind the fortified walls of his faith. He was terrified, yes, but he was also awake and wanting. His body was singing a song his mind had forbidden.

I moved my other hand to his knee, just a steadying weight on the sheet. My own fear was a metallic taste in my mouth,but the desire to ruin him—to save him—was stronger. I hooked my fingers on the edge of the sheet, my eyes asking the question my mouth couldn't form.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, a single tear escaping to trace a silver track into his hairline. Then he opened them again, and they were dark with resolve, with a surrender that was also a choice. He gave a sharp, definitive nod.

I pulled back the sheet. He was wearing thin, church-approved cotton sleep pants, but the fabric could do nothing to hide the state of him. A dark stain had already bloomed on the cotton at his groin. When I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of his pants, he arched his back, lifting his hips to meet me, to help me. It was an unmistakable invitation.

I dragged the fabric down past his hips and his thighs, baring him to the cool night air.

His erection sprang free, pressing tight against his stomach, violent and beautiful. In the gloom, his skin was pale marble, but his cock was flushed a deep, furious red, thick and veined. It looked angry, twitching with his pulse, the head swollen and glistening with a clear bead of fluid. He was so perfectly groomed, so modest in every aspect of his life, but here, in the dark, he was obscenely, perfectly hard.

I leaned forward, letting my breath ghost over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. He smelled of soap and sleep and the heavy, musky scent of arousal. I tracked the line of hair up his thigh with my nose until I reached the base of him.

I didn't hesitate. I opened my mouth and licked the very tip of him.

He cried out, a strangled, guttural sound, his back bowing off the mattress. I tasted salt and musk, the bitter tang of his pre-cum hitting my tongue. I swirled my tongue around theslit at the head, gathering the fluid, before opening wider and sliding down.

His hands came up, not to push me away, but to grasp my head, his fingers tangling in my hair, holding me there. He was anchoring himself to the source of his undoing. I took him deep, fighting the gag reflex as he hit the back of my throat. He was thick, filling me completely, stretching my jaw until it ached.

The war was not in his body. His body had already surrendered. It was a willing casualty. The fight was in his eyes, in the frantic way his head turned on the pillow, as if looking for an escape he knew he no longer wanted. His free hand flew to his own mouth, his knuckles pressed hard against his lips, trying to stifle the moans that were already escaping.

I began to move, bobbing my head, using the suction of my cheeks to drag the pleasure out of him. I could taste the smooth texture of his skin, the pulsing vein on the underside of his shaft. With one hand, I gripped the base of his cock, pumping in time with my mouth, while my other hand slid down to cup the weight of his balls, feeling them tighten and draw up.

A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, agonizing pleasure. He began to fuck my mouth, his hips snapping up in a rhythm that quickly grew desperate. It was a question and an answer all at once. He was an active participant in his own beautiful ruin.

"Oh God, Eli," he choked out against his fist. "Please."

I quickened my pace, taking him deeper, letting him hear the wet, sloppy sounds of my worship. I wanted him to know this was real. I wanted him to feel the wet heat of it. I moved my free hand down to his foot again, my fingers interlacing with his toes, grounding him in the sensationthat had unlocked him. A broken sob tore from behind his hand at the contact.

He was so close. The muscles in his thighs were rock hard, trembling against my shoulders. The grip in my hair tightened, no longer frantic, but possessive, a silent, desperate command.Don't stop.

I worked him harder, swirling my tongue against the sensitive ridge of the head, sucking hard as his hips began to stutter.

The explosion was total. He ripped his hand away from his mouth and cried out, a raw, broken sound that was half my name, half a prayer. His back bowed off the mattress, a perfect, strained arc of submission. A profound shudder seized him, a seismic event that shook the cheap bed frame.

I felt the head of his cock swell to bursting in my mouth, and then the hot, thick ropes of his release hit the back of my throat.

He came with a desperate, guttural sob, pumping his hips as jet after jet of cum flooded my mouth. It was hot and viscous, coating my tongue, tasting of salt and heavy musk andhim—pure, concentrated Price. I didn’t pull away. I swallowed it all, drinking him down, taking his shame and his pleasure inside of me where it belonged. I milked him dry, draining every last drop until he collapsed back onto the mattress, boneless.