sucking on his precum in the same way. When the flush ran up from his black collar to his cheeks, I relented. “But it’s been a long time and I am interested to remember your version of flavors.”
“It’s just a breakfast sandwich,” he said, retreating to the couch, sitting down in its deep cushions and watching me.
“Where do you get the food?” I asked. The world was ravaged.
“We grow it. Bread is...kind of a commodity since there’s only so much wheat we can grow, but we thought today was a good day.”
“As an apology for letting me in?” I asked, and Zach hummed. The sandwich was dripping with some kind of fat and I brought up to my lips, moaning with the first bite, eyes growing wide briefly before falling shut. “Oh, Zach.”
His throat cleared uncomfortably and I resisted the urge to laugh, simply enjoying the added headiness of his lust with my gifted meal. Something broke and dripped onto my lips with my next bite and I looked down to see a bright orange yolk, quick to lap it up. Slowly as I ate, the conversation replayed in my head.
“You brought me something precious,” I said, tipping my head. If bread was rare, and it had been made to console the people of this town, Zach had probably brought me his portion of it.
“It’s just a sandwich,” he muttered, frowning at his own lap.
“Do you want to know what it tastes like?” I asked.
He looked up, puzzled, and shrugged. “I know what food tastes like Dey—” He stopped himself from saying my name for some reason, but I liked the abbreviation.
“Bread tastes like...good rest? Laziness, maybe? The indulgent kind. Fat is like the comfort of wealth. This yolk is similar, but more about safety I think. I’m not sure, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a lick of that,” I said.
Zach’s mouth hung slightly open as I explained myself, but it wasn’t flavors he asked about. “Why aren’t you in the Bible?”
I licked my thumb again, lingering, holding his gaze. I wasn’t going to get much to eat while I was here perhaps, and Zach didn’t seem to realize I was drawing out his lust intentionally. Kais would’ve noticed. Stavros probably wouldn’t have needed any inducement at all.
“Hmm, maybe because I’m too old. Maybe because God doesn’t like admitting to mistakes,” I said, biting out the last word.
“God doesn’t make mistakes,” Zach said.
I laughed and finished my gifted sandwich, wondering what Zach would think if I licked the paper. It wasn’t filling, but it was fucking good and I would enjoy what I could.
“What do you call what happened with, you know, the Big Bad Honcho?” I asked, waggling my eyebrows.
“Lucifer, the Devil?” My eyes slid away at the name and Zach sat forward. “Are you scared of him?”
“I am… respectfully wary,” I murmured.
“Lucifer’s sins are his own.”
“Are they?” I asked, frowning and wishing Zach would quit using the name. “Are humans the only creature of God allowed to doubt and be forgiven for it? My kind aren’t in the Bible because God created us to love, but not each other, not the angels. Just our maker. Why make a being with free will if you only want it to be used for one thing? We failed as an experiment, so we got the boot.”
“The teachings of Christ are about loving one another, caring for one another,” Zach argued.
I sniffed and tossed my hair back. “The teachings of Christ are, as long as it’s not with your body parts.” My eyebrows waggled suggestively. “And look where he ended up,” I said, pointing to the painting behind me.
Zach huffed and stood marching for the door. Shit, too far, Deyva.
“Wait! You can’t… Please don’t just leave me locked in this room,” I said, jumping up from the desk, moving to meet him at the door and pressing myself against the jamb. He stumbled back, unable to close the door, unable to leave the room without passing close to me. “Please. I’ll stay in the church, within the grounds’ gate at least, but not this…”
Cage. Prison. This single fucking room.
Zach’s jaw ground and I went ahead and let him read the desperation on my face. He was close enough that I had good sips of him, not taking, just appreciating what came off of him naturally. Frustration, mostly with himself. The angry disbelief with me. The decadent sexual attraction. And just enough sympathy that I could make use of it.
“Please,”