Page 25 of Savior

I’ve always been a very hypersexual person, and I blame everything I’ve been through in my life. I’m sure that for others, their experiences make them the opposite, and they’d much rather never be touched again.

To me, being touched and coveted keeps the darkness from creeping over the edges of my soul and encompassing it entirely.

I have to keep that part of me in check, though.

He’s a priest.

He’s off-limits.

When I walk into the kitchen, my eyes run the length of his body, clad in gray sweats. His torso is not covered with a shirt.

He’s brewing coffee, and I smell something with cinnamon in the toaster oven.

I clear my throat, and he jumps slightly. “Good morning. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

My hands wring, my nails itching to dig into the side of my nail bed and pick at the skin there, something I’ve always done.

I’m sure it’s an anxious tick.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” He looks me over as if cataloging the same thing I had just perused in the mirror.

The damage wasn’t evident last night, but it’s clear in the light of morning.

“I slept well, thank you.” It was a lie, but I swallowed thickly over how it made my throat burn to lie to a priest.

I cried my way through each flash when I tried to close my eyes before I could shove it away and tell myself I’d deal with it another day.

There’s so much shoved to the edges of my psyche that sometimes I wonder what will happen if and when I deal with it.

“Good, I’m glad.” His tone is flat, as if he knows I was lying, but he’s choosing to let me have my lies and use them as my shield.

The toaster oven dings, and he jumps again.

“That’ll be the muffins,” he says, turning and opening the oven, only to grab the small metal pan they’re on bare-handed and burn himself.

“Oh, shoot!” he hisses.

I giggle, and tension dissipates out of my heart.

“Are you alright? Run your fingers under cold water,” I tell him.

He flings the sink water on, and cool water rushes over his skin. The immediate relief has his shoulders dropping. “I’m not usually this clumsy,” he says, looking at me over the top of his muscular biceps.

I only grin as the coffee machine beeps. “Don’t touch that. It’s hot,” I joke.

He smiles, and I swear the clouds in my soul part, and sunshine breaks through for the first time in years.

You can’t do that.

He’s off-limits!

I clear my throat as if he’s heard my inner monologue and turn away.

There are already two mugs set out for the coffee, so I make each of us a cup and splash mine with cream and far too much sugar than is healthy before snagging a muffin and sitting down at the bar.

Once he removes his hand from the water, he wraps it in a towel to dry it.

“Thank you for this,” I tell him, waggling my muffin before biting.

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