Then again, who would have the energy to fight heretics on a steady diet of Mrs. Luty’s amazing food and when the bed invited post-breakfast and afternoon naps instead?
Emil still remembered the time before his granddad died, back when he didn’t have to fend for himself. As his late grandma’s old friend, Mrs. Luty had always treated both him and Granddad to lunch, and then sent them home with plastic boxes filled with food for supper. If she was in the mood, she’d add dessert, and even if there was no love left anymore between him and Mrs. Luty, he had to admit her cakes were divine.
He followed Pastor Marek to the small church filled with benches and the scent of stale holy water. It was a small structure, built almost entirely of dark wood, and its floor creaked, begging for renovation. A single chandelier made of antlers hung above the altar, which, while small, looked impressive in the cozy space. But the sight of its elegant stonework, trims of gold paint and flowers would not fill Emil’s stomach.
“I know it’s much to ask, but I was wondering if there was a possibility for a loan,” he said, deciding to face the issue head-on instead of starting with the buttering up.
The pastor faced him, his flushed face full of compassion. “Is it the roof again?”
“Yes. And no.” Emil hated having to ask for help. He despised it, but with Radek gone, he was getting desperate for a chance to breathe.
The pastor sat in one of the benches and patted the wood next to him. “What is actually the matter, Emil? You know you can talk to me.”
No, he couldn’t. Nor did he want to. He didn’t want to talk to the pastor about one of his few friends leaving for a big city, nor that he felt lonely in an old house that held so many fond memories yet had become a museum of a happier time long gone.
Emil smiled and pulled the bottles out of his backpack to detract from the pastor’s serious tone. “I wanted to show you these, Father. They’re made with Grandad’s recipes.”
The glint of interest in pastor Marek’s eyes was the relief he’d craved.
“I can’t make more without a little investment, and we’re almost in strawberry season.”
“Oh. You know, everyone’s so tight-fisted nowadays. The church struggles as it is. I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t make any promises,” the pastor said, but he didn’t hesitate and took both bottles out of Emil’s hands.
If only Emil had been willing to offer Father Marek a sob story, cry, roll over to show his wounded belly, maybe he would have gotten what he’d come for, but when he thought of sharing the reality of his situation, nausea clutched at his throat like a noose. And he said nothing, letting Father Marek take the fruits of his labor, as if they were a gift, not an obvious bargaining chip.
But he said nothing, bound by pride he couldn’t afford.
When the pastor left to attend to his duties, Emil felt stupid that he hadn’t even remembered to ask about the tourist staying at the parsonage. He left the church with sagging shoulders, certain he’d achieved nothing, but when he walked out into the yard, Adam was right there, with a broom in hand.
And dressed in a cassock.
Emil stared at the handsome priest with blood pounding in his head. If Emil had had moral boundaries, he would have walked away, embarrassed that he’d flirted with a man of the cloth last night.
But as someone who didn’t believe in religion, he didn’t have any objections when it came to fucking priests. When their eyes met across the yard, his head immediately filled with filthy images of Adam bent over the nearby well, glancing over his shoulder as he pulled up the thick black cassock to uncover shapely legs and a round ass. In the real world, Adam most likely wore pants under all that fabric, but Emil was the master of his fantasies.
In the sunlight, Adam’s eyes were as bright as the blue sky above, his hair—the color of wheat at the peak of summer. He sported a light tan, and was far too handsome to be wearing a priest’s collar, but there was also something else about him that drew Emil closer. Something he couldn’t pinpoint, something beyond wanting to suck on the long fingers or finding out what Adam’s cock looked like.
As if Adam held secrets not only under the cassock but also beyond his smooth features. He wore a mask Emil couldn’t wait to take off him.
Chapter 4 - Adam
Adam woke up sweatier than he’d been during his last run-in with the flu. He’d appreciated the heavy down comforter when he slipped under it at night, but once the air temperature had gone up, so did the heat trapped around his body.