Chapter 19: The Vacation Pact
The city air didn’t smell of salt and decay. It smelled of exhaust, of fried food from a vendor down the block, of the damp concrete of the alley below their second-story window. Riley stood there, breathing it in. It was ugly, and ordinary, and perfect.
The apartment was small, a railroad layout with peeling paint and floors that creaked with authenticity. Paul had already drifted into the bedroom, his fingers tracing the sun-warmed wood of the door frame. He looked like a ghost in a new haunt, fascinated and out of place.
“It’s not much,” Riley said, dropping his duffel bag with a heavy thud.
“It’s everything,” Paul replied, his voice soft with wonder. He turned, and a real, unguarded smile broke across his face. It was a rare thing, that smile. It erased centuries of guilt, if only for a second. “It’s ours. For a while.”
They unpacked with a quiet efficiency born of having few possessions that mattered. Riley’s clothes were dark, practical. Paul’s were mostly black, a cleric’s wardrobe stripped of its collars. A few books. A vintage Fender guitar case Riley had surprised Paul with before they left, found in a dusty shop on the mainland. The instrument was older than Paul’s true self, a fact that made them both grin.
As the last shirt was folded into a drawer, a silence settled. It wasn’t the silence of the island, heavy with grief and specters. This was a new stillness, fragile and brimming with things unsaid. The specters were inside them now, and they’d brought them along.
Riley watched Paul at the kitchen counter, staring at the single glass of wine he’d poured but wouldn’t drink. He could feel the old man’s anxiety humming beneath the youthfully smooth skin.
“She’s not here, Paul.”
Paul’s knuckles whitened on the counter. “Her voice is.”
“Yeah. I know that one, too.” Riley walked over, not touching him, just leaning on the counter beside him. “The girl I killed. She comments on my interior decorating choices from time to time.” He kept his tone dry, flat. “Tells me the place could use a rug.”
A choked sound escaped Paul, half-laugh, half-sob. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I keep waiting for the floor to open up. For lightning. For something.”
“The only thing that’s gonna hit you in here is the smell when I forget to take the trash out.” Riley nudged him with his shoulder. “Come on. First night in the new prison. Let’s christen it.”
Paul lowered his hands, his brown eyes wide and dark. “Christen it?”
“Break it in. Make it smell like us instead of the last poor bastards who lived here.” Riley’s gaze was direct, a challenge and an invitation. The undercurrent between them, which had been a slow, deep river since the rectory, since the blood and the holding, now surged to the surface. There were no parishioners at the door. No marshals. No Bev. Just four walls and a lock on the door.
He saw the shift in Paul, the moment the priest receded and the man—the ancient, hungry, desperately lonely creature—came forward. Paul reached for him, his movement fluid and sudden. His hand fisted in the front of Riley’s shirt, pulling him close. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a collision, all the pent-up dread and yearning of months pouring out. Riley met it with equal fervor, his own hands gripping Paul’s hips, slamming him back against the cabinets. The glass of wine rattled, tipping over. The red liquid spread across the linoleum like a sacrifice neither of them needed anymore.
They didn’t make it to the bedroom. They stumbled, tearing at clothes, into the narrow space between the couch and a scarred coffee table. Paul’s sweater was yanked over his head, Riley’s t-shirt following. The air was cool on their skin. Riley broke the kiss to stare, to truly look, as he had only done in frantic, fearful glimpses before.
Paul’s body was a sublime paradox. The smooth, hairless plane of his chest was interrupted by the soft, gentle swell of breasts, their presence both alien and profoundly natural. His nipples were indeed long, a dusky rose, and they pebbled tightly under Riley’s scrutiny and the cool air. Riley’s calloused thumb brushed over one, and Paul gasped, his back arching.
“You’re beautiful,” Riley muttered, the words raw and unfamiliar on his tongue. “Fucking unreal.”
He leaned down, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. Paul cried out, his fingers tangling in Riley’s hair, holding him there. Riley laved him with his tongue, teeth scraping gently, before moving to the other, giving it the same worshipful attention. Paul was trembling, whispering a litany that sounded like prayers and curses all blended together.
Riley’s hand slid down the flat stomach, past the waistband of Paul’s trousers, which were already straining. He cupped him, feeling the heat and the surprising, soft dampness through the fabric. Paul bucked against his palm with a sharp, needy sound.
“Off,” Riley growled, yanking at the button and fly. Paul helped, shoving the material down over his hips. He stood there, exposed, in the middle of their dingy apartment, more vulnerable than he had been in the rectory under Bev’s knife. This was a chosen unveiling.
Riley knelt.
He pushed Paul’s thighs apart, looking at the delicate, perfect folds of him, glistening already with his own arousal. He was completely hairless, every detail etched in surreal clarity. Riley exhaled, his breath hot against Paul’s skin. He looked up the line of Paul’s body, meeting his terrified, exhilarated gaze.
“Tell me to stop,” Riley said, his voice rough.
“Don’t you dare,” Paul breathed, his chest heaving.
Riley didn’t need more. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to him.
The taste was clean, musky, utterly human. Paul’s knees almost gave way. A high, broken moan echoed in the room as Riley’s tongue found his clit, circling it slowly, then flicking it with firm, relentless strokes. He explored him with a focused intensity, one hand gripping Paul’s hip to steady him, the other reaching up to pinch and roll a tender nipple.
“Riley… God… fuck…” Paul was babbling, his hands scrabbling at the wall behind him. His hips began to move in tiny, frantic circles, chasing the pressure. Riley obeyed the unspoken commands, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth, licking deep into his opening, drinking him in. He was methodical, relentless, mapping every sound Paul made to a specific touch.
Paul’s climax built quickly, a violent wave after centuries of drought. His cries lost all language, became pure, shuddering sound. “I’m gonna… Riley, I’m gonna come…”
Riley grunted in approval, doubling his efforts, driving him over. Paul shattered, his body seizing, a wet, hot rush flooding Riley’s tongue. He rode it out, gentling his mouth until Paul was whimpering, oversensitive, pulling weakly at his hair.
Before the tremors could fully subside, Riley surged to his feet. His own erection was a painful ache in his jeans. He spun Paul around, bending him over the back of the couch. Paul went easily, pliant, his forehead resting on the worn fabric. Riley spit into his palm, slicking himself, then positioned the head of his cock at Paul’s entrance.
“Yes,” Paul hissed, pushing back. “Please. Now.”
Riley drove into him in one slow, inexorable thrust. He was so tight, so impossibly hot and wet. They both groaned, a ragged duet. Riley’s vision blurred. He buried himself to the hilt, pausing, letting them both feel the absolute fullness.
Then he began to move.
He set a punishing pace from the start, his hips pistoning, the sound of skin slapping against skin loud in the small room. Each thrust jolted Paul forward, knocked a gasp from his lips. Riley leaned over him, biting at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to claim.
“Is this what you needed, Father?” Riley grunted into his ear, his voice thick with lust and something darker. “This what you’ve been praying for?”
“Yes! Oh, Christ, yes!”
“Forget Him. Say my name.”
“Riley!” Paul cried out, his body tightening around him. “Riley, fuck, just like that…”
Riley fucked him like he was trying to exorcise both their demons, to pound the memories of blood and scripture out of their flesh. He reached around, his fingers finding Paul’s clit again, rubbing rough, desperate circles. Paul was sobbing now, overwhelmed, his body bowing under the twin assaults.
“Come for me again,” Riley commanded. “Let me feel it.”
It was all Paul needed. His body clamped down on Riley’s cock in a series of vicious, rhythmic pulses, milking him. The sensation tore Riley’s own orgasm from him with a force that felt violent. He shouted, a raw, unchecked sound, as he emptied himself deep inside Paul, his thrusts turning jerky, then still.
They collapsed together onto the couch, a tangled, sweating heap of limbs. Riley’s heart hammered against Paul’s back. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant wail of a siren from the street below. The scent of sex and sweat and spilled wine filled the air, earthy and real.
After a long time, Paul stirred. He turned in the circle of Riley’s arms, facing him. His eyes were clear, the hauntings momentarily quieted. He touched Riley’s cheek, his fingers trembling slightly.
“Welcome home,” Paul whispered.
Riley caught his hand, kissed his palm. He looked around at the shabby room, at their discarded clothes, at the man in his arms who was both miracle and catastrophe. A slow, reluctant smile touched his lips. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t absolution.
But it was a place to stay. For a while.