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Suddenly, he was moving toward me, his steps hurried as he reached out to gently stroke my bleeding lip. His touch was soft, almost tender, and it sent a wave of warmth through me. I stared into his eyes for a brief moment, our gazes locked, and something flickered behind them, something that had my stomach filled with butterflies.
“Are you hurt?” he asked tenderly.
I shook my head. “I’ve had worse.”
He exhaled loudly. “I should have made him suffer more.”
I laughed, tears still in my eyes to hear that he’d do that for me.
“You deserve so much better,” he murmured, his shaking hand on mine.
I’d never really swooned for anyone before, but I was certain that was happening to me at that moment. There was an awareness of him, a pull I couldn’t resist. It reminded me of an invisible elastic connecting us in a way that both thrilled and scared me. Every cell in my body seemed to be attuned to him, responding to his slightest touch, his smallest movement.
I melted for him, desire for him cascading through me, and it was absolutely addictive.
Before I could comprehend what was going on, he scooped me into his arms, his hold strong yet gentle. I wrapped my arms around his neck instinctively, my heart fluttering as he rushed me down the hall. His cologne, a mix of cedar and his personal fresh scent, wafted into my nostrils.
I glanced over his shoulder to the small group of girls watching me with a strange expression in their narrowing gazes. They were out of sight just as fast as Father Bridge walked me quickly into a room with oversized windows, bathing everything in its bright sunshine.
Feeling oddly out of breath, I sat on the sterile bed of the institute’s medical room where the Father had placed me. He was busying himself around the place, fetching a damp cloth and a bottle of disinfectant. Each movement he made was precise, careful, yet so naturally fluid, it was impossible not to admire him, but it was more than that.
I couldn’t tear my attention from him, and I craved his touch more than I wanted to admit to myself.
As he neared me, his dark-framed glasses kept slipping down the bridge of his nose. Each time he pushed them up, a slight frown would crease his brow, and it was oddly endearing.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, as he studied me unblinkingly.
“Not really. It just feels swollen like I have those puffy, injected lips.”
He released a surprised laugh, the sound wrapping around me in its warmth like a lover’s embrace.
“You’re very cute, making jokes, considering you were just attacked. It’s a good way to be.”
I shrugged, thinking perhaps I’d experienced my stepdad’s treatment for so long, I learned to live with it.
Father Bridge’s presence was calming and soothed the unease lurking in the back of my mind. He leaned forward and studied the cut on my lower lip, his touch feather-light as he cleaned the wound with the moist towel. His fingers brushed against my skin in a way that melted me, and I found myself completely entranced by him.
My mind flew to the blowjob incident, to how much I loved having his cock in my mouth, to how drawn I was to him that I knew deep down I was already too far gone.
His eyes were studying my lips as though he wanted to do more than bandage them. My stomach fluttered as I took in a sharp breath. Was it just my imagination, or was there something more in his gaze? But it was wrong, so wrong. He was a priest, my teacher, my protector. I was his student. However, I couldn’t ignore the fire jolt that ran through me every time our eyes met.
“Your stepfather is a real piece of work,” he commented, his voice barely above a whisper.
I sighed, nodding in agreement. “He’s always been like that.”
“Has he ever... hit you before?” The question hung heavily in the air.
I didn’t answer right away, my mind flashing on a memory I hated remembering…
My textbooks and class notes were strewn across the bedroom desk. The quiet hum of concentration filled the house, along with the soft ticking of the wall clock, counting down the hours until my crucial exam in the morning.
A loud bang came from downstairs from the door shutting, shattering the calm atmosphere. The house trembled at the impact, and I froze in my seat. A second bang echoed, followed by the bellowing voice of my stepdad.
“Katerina, get the fuck down here!”
I sighed, my hand pausing over the pages of my textbook, the words blurring before my eyes. He was drunk again.
With a final glance at the text I was reading, I pushed my chair back and reluctantly headed down the stairs, my pulse thumping in my ears. When I reached the kitchen, my stepdad was in the middle of the room, stumbling on his feet, his face flushed from alcohol. His glare landed on me, then on the sink filled with dirty dishes.
