The cathedral was silent at midnight. Empty pews stretched like shadows. Candles flickered near the altar, casting a soft glow over centuries of stained glass and stone saints.
She stepped inside, heels echoing with each step, the hem of her black coat swaying around bare thighs. Underneath, nothing but lace.
She wasn’t here for salvation.
The confessional was tucked in the far corner, heavy and carved, dark wood smelling of incense and old sins.
He was already inside.
The door creaked open, and she slid in, the divider between them more symbolic than real. She could feel him—his presence, the heat of his restraint.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice hoarse.
“I know.”
Her fingers brushed the screen between them, as if touching the outline of his jaw through shadow. “But you always listen so well, Father.”
Silence.
Then: “This is sacrilege.”
“So don’t forgive me.”
She heard the shift of his weight, the way he exhaled like it pained him. Like he was trying not to picture her on her knees, coat falling open, lace slipping from shoulders.
“I dream about your mouth,” he whispered. “I wake up hard. Every night.”
She smiled—slow, wicked. “I’m not here to confess. I’m here to tempt.”
The divider opened.
He reached through—hands desperate, trembling. Her coat slid off her shoulders. She pressed her chest to the screen, breath catching as his fingers ghosted over the curve of her breast. The wood creaked as he leaned in, lips meeting hers through the gap, teeth grazing, tongues tangling with the hunger of men who’ve prayed too long.
She guided his hand lower.
“I want your sins,” she whispered. “Not your forgiveness.”
And oh, did he sin.
Right there, on hallowed ground, with her hands in his hair and his name swallowed in moans. The old wood groaned under them, saints watching. Statues unmoved.
He’d repent tomorrow.
Tonight was for indulgence.