The Confession Booth

The dim sanctuary echoed with silence, the only sound the faint rustling of robes and the crackle of wax candles left burning too long. Arthur Harper stood before the altar, eyes locked on the crucifix above. But it wasn't salvation he sought.It was her.

Isabella Luca—the woman he should not want. The woman who had come to him with trembling hands and a voice like velvet sin, seeking grace… and dragging him straight into temptation.

He’d thought last night in the rectory had been a fever dream. Her lips, warm against his neck. Her confession, whispered not to God, but to him. Her eyes,dark, drowning pools of desire that dared him to break every vow he’d ever sworn.And he had.

Tonight, she returned, Not as a penitent. But as a storm.

He watched her slip inside the church, her figure hidden beneath a rain-drenched coat, clinging to every sinful curve. Her hair fell in damp waves around her shoulders, her eyes wild and searching.

She didn’t kneel. She didn’t pray.She walked slowly, deliberately toward the confessional.

Arthur’s chest tightened. He should have turned away. He should have locked the door and sent her home.But he didn’t. He stepped into the other side of the booth. The screen separating them was thin. Too thin. He could smell her perfume—jasmine and danger.

"Forgive me, Father," her voice trembled, not with fear… but something hotter.

"I've sinned."His breath caught. "What have you done?"

There was a pause. Then a sultry whisper."Last night… I touched myself."

He gripped the edge of the seat. His mind reeled, heart slamming against his ribs.

"I thought of you," she continued. "Of your voice… your hands. Of how you looked when you told me to repent."Arthur swallowed hard. Every nerve in his body burned.

"Isabella…" he began, voice low and rough.

She pressed her fingers against the mesh screen. "Tell me what to do, Father. Punish me… or save me."

Arthur's breath came in shallow bursts. The booth felt tighter now, like the shadows were pressing in, suffocating him with the weight of his restraint. Her voice was a spell, wrapping around his self-control and unraveling it thread by holy thread.

"Isabella," he whispered, his voice a cracked prayer. "This is wrong".

"Then why does it feel like the only thing that's right?" she asked, leaning closer, her silhouette a ghost behind the screen. "Don’t lie to me. Not here. Not in this sacred place."

He gritted his teeth. She was testing him dragging him to the edge of ruin with soft words and dirty confessions. And he was letting her. Worse, he wanted it. He wanted her.

He could hear the rustle of fabric as she shifted. A gasp escaped her lips soft, breathy, desperate.

"Isabella?" he choked out."I’m kneeling," she said. "Like you told me to."

His eyes fluttered shut. Visions he had no business entertaining flooded his mind. Her on her knees. Her lips parted. Her fingers..."Tell me what you see when you close your eyes, Father," she said, voice soaked with wicked sweetness. "Tell me how you imagine me."

He should have stood. Should have left. Should have begged God for forgiveness.

Instead, his hand moved on its own. He unlocked the booth.

She was on the other side, head bowed, hair falling like a veil. When she looked up at him, her eyes sparkled with heat and mischief.

"Arthur," she whispered, dropping the formality like a silk robe. "Touch me. Or I swear I’ll go mad." His resolve shattered.

He stepped into the booth fully and took her face in his hands. Her skin was cold from the rain, but her lips,God, her lips were fire. He crushed his mouth against hers, kissing her like a man starved. Like he hadn’t tasted anything real in years.

She clung to him, fingers fisting in his cassock. He felt the moment she let go of all her restraint, pressing her body flush against his, heat to heat, sin to sin.

The kiss deepened, grew messier, more frantic. There was no more pretending.

He was no priest in that moment. Just a man. Just Arthur, And she was his forbidden fruit.mHer hands slid beneath the folds of his robe, grazing the skin of his hips. He groaned into her mouth, breaking the kiss only to trail fire along her jaw, down her throat. She arched against him, needy, reckless. He backed her against the wooden wall of the confessional. The creak echoed through the silent church, a sound so wrong it thrilled them both. His fingers explored the curves he’d imagined in the darkest corners of his mind.She moaned his name, over and over, each time more breathless. Her lips found his again, biting, begging.

"You’re not supposed to be here," he growled against her throat."Then stop me," she whispered. But he didn't. He couldn't.

Her coat slipped off her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She wore a thin dress, soaked and clinging to every contour. He cupped her thighs, lifting her up. She wrapped her legs around him without hesitation, her mouth never leaving his. His control snapped.

He laid her gently on the floor of the confessional, the ancient wood groaning under their weight. Candlelight flickered across her face as he hovered above her, drinking her in. Her eyes burned with hunger, not just for his body—but for the truth he hadn't spoken aloud. He wanted her. Needed her. With trembling hands, he slid the dress up her thighs, revealing bare skin that made his mouth water. She gasped as his fingers found her heat, already wet and wanting."Arthur," she panted. "Please."

He didn't need more permission.Their bodies moved in frantic unison, matching breath for breath, moan for moan. He kissed every inch of her he could reach, branding her with lips and hands. She clung to him like salvation, like sin, like both at once.

Time dissolved.When it ended, they lay tangled in silence, breathless, spent, and irrevocably changed.

Arthur stared up at the confessional ceiling, chest heaving. Beside him, Isabella curled into his side, one leg draped over his. "What have we done?" he whispered.

She looked up at him, a soft, dangerous smile playing on her lips. "We've set the altar on fire.