🔥 First Sunday 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from Pastor’s Prize
by Chase Power

The morning after the proposal. The rosary. The ring on a chain. The filthiest praise Daniel’s ever delivered — knowing this man said yes.

Set between Chapter 23 (the proposal) and the Epilogue of Pastor’s Prize. A scene too hot for Amazon.

Thank You for Reading! 💙

You made it to the bonus content — which means you’ve survived the back pew, the confessional kneeler, the desk that wobbles, the moonlit pew, “good boy” whispered in the dark, a rosary that’s not used for prayer, a sermon that made Jim Aldridge walk out, a board vote that could have ended everything, a kitchen window that did end everything, a mother who stood up in a board meeting and said not again, a father who learned to abstain before he learned to accept, a ring on a chain around a man’s neck, and a love story built one confession at a time in a church that almost didn’t survive it. Thank you for giving Daniel and Noah your time.

← Back to Pastor’s Prize

First Sunday

Noah

Noah woke to sunlight and the smell of coffee and the weight of a gold ring on a chain around his neck.

He blinked. The parsonage bedroom was bright — June morning, early, the sun coming through the curtains Ruth had installed and Noah had left open because the open curtains were a statement and the statement was we are done hiding. The light fell across the white sheets and the theology books on the nightstand and the rosary beside them and the man lying next to him, propped on one elbow, watching him sleep.

“You’re staring,” Noah mumbled into the pillow.

“I’m memorizing.”

“You’ve been memorizing me for ten months. Your storage must be full.”

“I upgraded.” Daniel’s hand found Noah’s chest. Not touching — hovering. His fingers an inch above Noah’s skin, tracing the shape of the ring on its chain where it lay against Noah’s sternum. “You said yes.”

“I said yes approximately fourteen hours ago. Has the information not propagated to all systems?”

“I need to verify. Periodically. For the rest of my life.”

Noah opened his eyes fully. Daniel was above him — shirtless, the cross necklace on, the morning light catching the silver in his beard and the green in his eyes and the expression on his face that Noah had catalogued a hundred times and never gotten used to: the look of a man seeing something he couldn’t believe was his.

Noah lifted his left hand from the sheet. The ring glinted. Simple gold, warm from his skin, catching the June light.

“Verified,” Noah said.

Daniel kissed his palm. Then his wrist — the inside, where the pulse jumped. Then the ring finger, his lips closing around the gold band for a moment, tongue touching metal and skin simultaneously, and Noah’s breath caught because it was nine in the morning and the gesture was both chaste and filthy and Daniel Kane had never been able to separate the two and Noah had stopped wanting him to.

“We’re getting married,” Daniel said against his hand.

“We are.”

“In this church.”

“In this church.”

“And this morning —” Daniel’s hand descended. Palm flat on Noah’s chest, over the ring, over his heart. “This morning is our first Sunday. As fiancés. In our church. In our bed.”

“Daniel.”

“I have a theological position on first Sundays.”

“Do you.”

“The position is that they should begin with worship.”

Daniel’s hand slid from Noah’s chest to his stomach. Slow — the deliberate, measured pace that Noah’s body recognized as the prelude. His fingers traced the line of hair below Noah’s navel, following it downward with the focused attention of a man reading scripture.

Noah was hard. Had been since waking — sharpened now by Daniel’s hand and Daniel’s voice and the ring on the chain and the particular quality of light that made everything look sanctified.

“You said yes,” Daniel murmured. His hand bypassed Noah’s cock entirely — a deliberate omission, a denial that was its own form of promise — and traced the crease of his hip, the sensitive hollow.

“I said yes. I’ll keep saying it. Daniel —”

“Not yet.” The command voice. Low, unhurried, Sunday-morning register. “I’ve waited ten months to worship you as my fiancé. I’m not rushing this.”

He reached for the nightstand. Not the drawer — the rosary. The dark wooden beads, century-old, hand-carved, the leather cord supple from use. He lifted it and Noah’s stomach clenched with a want so specific and so Pavlovian that his hips rolled off the mattress involuntarily.

“The rosary,” Noah breathed.

“It’s nine AM on a Sunday.”

“The most sacred hour of the week.” Daniel drew the beads through his fingers. Click, click, click. “And I am going to count every bead. Every prayer. Every inch of you. Because you said yes, and the yes deserves a sermon.”

He pushed the sheet down. Noah was naked underneath. Daniel’s eyes tracked the reveal — slow, comprehensive.

“Arms up,” Daniel said.

Noah raised his arms above his head. Wrists crossed on the pillow. Daniel looped the rosary around Noah’s wrists. Not tight. The leather resting, the beads pressing gently. Decorative. Symbolic. Removable with a flex — the restraint was a choice, not a cage, and the choosing was the holiest part.

“Stay,” Daniel said.

Noah stayed.

Daniel started at his throat. Mouth on the pulse point — a kiss, then a scrape of beard, then the flat of his tongue dragging across the tendon. Down. The collarbone — teeth, gentle, the mark that would be visible above a collar tomorrow. The chest. Daniel’s mouth found Noah’s nipple and closed around it — slow, wet, the suction building while his thumb circled the other. Noah arched off the bed and the rosary beads bit into his wrists and the sound he made was loud in the morning-quiet room.

“The walls,” Noah gasped.

“Are ours. The house is ours. The bed is ours. The morning is ours. Scream if you need to. The only person listening is God, and He already knows.”

He resumed. Down Noah’s stomach — tongue tracing ridges of muscle. The hip bones — scrape of teeth. And then Daniel’s mouth was on the inside of his thigh. Kissing. Biting. Marking territory that was already claimed.

“Daniel — please —”

“First bead.” Daniel reached up and turned one of the rosary beads at Noah’s wrist. A tiny click. “Fifty-eight to go.”

“You are not going to count every —”

Daniel took him in his mouth.

The argument died. Noah’s entire body went rigid — hands clenching the headboard through the rosary, hips jerking upward, a sound torn from his chest that was Daniel’s name and God’s name and a formless vowel that meant more, please, don’t stop, I love you.

Daniel worked him with the patience that was his signature — slow, thorough, each stroke deliberate. His hands held Noah’s hips down — firm, the message clear: stay where I put you.

“Daniel — I need — I want you inside me. Please.”

Daniel lifted his head. The cross swung forward and brushed Noah’s thigh — metal on skin, sacred on profane.

“Wear it,” Noah said. “The cross. Keep it on. I want to feel it on me while you’re inside me. I want the whole thing. All of you. The pastor and the man.”

Daniel’s breath left him. He kissed Noah deep and reached for the nightstand drawer. The familiar sounds — the cap, the foil. He prepared Noah with focused gentleness — two fingers, slow, the free hand stroking Noah’s thigh. The cross necklace brushed Noah’s stomach every time Daniel leaned forward and the combined sensation was a sacrament no institution had ever sanctioned and that felt holier than any Noah had received.

“Ready,” Noah said.

Daniel positioned himself. Face to face. Eye to eye. He pushed in. Slow. Their foreheads pressed together. Noah’s hands found Daniel’s shoulders through the rosary and held.

“Stay with me,” Daniel whispered. “Don’t close your eyes.”

Noah kept his eyes open.

Daniel moved. Deep, measured, the sermon cadence translated into the language of bodies. The cross necklace swung between them with each movement. Noah reached up and caught it. Held the cross in his fist against his own sternum. Daniel’s hand covered his — both of their hands around the cross on Noah’s chest.

“You’re everything,” Daniel said, voice breaking.

“Don’t invoke God when you’re inside me.”

“There is no moment in my life when God is more present than when I’m inside you.”

Noah’s eyes filled. “Then pray, Pastor. Pray for both of us.”

Daniel did. Not with words. With his body — each thrust a verse, each breath a hymn. The cross between their clasped hands was the covenant, and the bed was the sanctuary.

“Together,” Noah gasped. “Daniel — together.”

Daniel’s hand wrapped around Noah’s cock. Stroked in time with his thrusts. “I love you. Whatever happens. I love you and this is real and nothing can change what we are.”

Noah came. The orgasm crested like the final chord of a hymn, washing through him in long, shuddering waves while Daniel’s voice said his name like a prayer.

Daniel followed — seconds later, his forehead dropping to Noah’s, coming deep inside him with the cross caught between their clasped hands, and the sound he made was something older than words. Something that knew only: you are here and I am home.

They lay in the aftermath. The rosary still looped around Noah’s wrists. Daniel cleaned them both with the warm cloth that had become ritual.

“How many beads did you count?” Noah asked.

“I lost count at three.”

“Some monk you’d make.”

“I’m a better pastor.”

“You’re a better everything.” Noah pressed back against Daniel’s chest. “We have approximately forty-five minutes before we need to shower and put on collars and go be pastors.”

“What does a man do with forty-five minutes on a Sunday morning?”

Daniel’s hand slid down Noah’s stomach. The touch that was answer enough.

“He worships,” Daniel said.

And did.

Want more Daniel and Noah? Read their full story in Pastor’s Prize.

← Back to Pastor’s Prize

Never Miss a Release

Get new release alerts, exclusive bonus content, and reader-only giveaways.