The pull of sin

The church was silent that night. Not even the flutter of wings or the distant rustle of trees dared to interrupt the sacred air surrounding it. Yet as Father Arthur Harper stood at the altar, he could feel the tremble beneath his skin—a restless pulse that hadn't slowed since the last time Isabella had whispered his name like a sin.

It had been two days. Two days since he'd tasted the forbidden.

Two days since he'd watched her leave his confessional with her lips swollen, her voice hoarse, and her soul tangled with his.

But tonight, she returned. Not for absolution, But for something else entirely.

He saw her the moment she stepped in through the rear entrance, a shadow cloaked in desire. Her black coat hung off her shoulders like a casual afterthought, revealing the curve of her bare legs and the sin she wore like perfume. The moment their eyes met across the pews, the world fell into silence.

"You shouldn't be here," Arthur whispered, though he took a step toward her."Then why are you walking to me?" she asked, her voice as soft as candlelight.

He had no answer. Only the weight of desire clawing up his spine.

She met him halfway down the aisle. Neither spoke. Neither dared to breathe. The tension between them pulled taut like a violin string. When she reached for the collar of his shirt, he didn't stop her.

"I've been dreaming about this altar," she confessed. "And you. And what you'd do if I said I wanted to be taken here." He shuddered. His vows screamed at him. His God watched him. And yet, Arthur took her hand, Led her to the altar,Where he'd kneel in prayer too many nights, cursing the ache she left in his chest.

Now, he dropped to his knees for another reason entirely.Her hands fisted in his hair.

His lips found their way between her thighs.

And there, beneath the crucifix, Isabella Luca moaned out his name like a confession.

He stood up, slowly, like a man possessed. Every movement measured with trembling restraint, as if the sanctity of the place might ignite into flames from the fire between them. She tugged his shirt from his slacks, buttons popping, cloth rustling like dry leaves. His bare skin glowed in the candlelight, golden and guilt-ridden.

"This is wrong," he murmured, even as he leaned down to taste her again. "Then let me make it worse."

He kissed her like a man drowning—full, desperate, hungry. Their mouths devoured each other with years of pent-up longing, every touch fueled by aching restraint now completely unchained.

She wrapped her legs around him as he lifted her to the altar table, the wood creaking beneath them.

"Say it," she whispered against his lips. "Say you want me." "I need you," he groaned. "I need you like salvation."

Their bodies collided like storms. Her back arched against the polished wood as his lips found the hollow of her neck, the swell of her breasts, the trembling curve of her stomach. Her cries became hymns. His touch, a sacrament.

They moved together in rhythm, a holy desecration. The air thickened with heat and moans and whispered curses. Sweat slicked their skin. Candles flickered. Shadows danced on the walls like silent witnesses. In that moment, Arthur forgot God. All he knew was her.

He buried his face in her neck as he released, as she clutched him tighter than sin, as the altar trembled beneath them.

And when it was over, when their breaths slowed and their bodies cooled, she cupped his face and kissed him again. This time, tenderly, Reverently.Like he was the one who needed saving. But the night wasn’t done with them yet.

Arthur laid her down gently on the velvet altar cloth, her skin flushed, her breath uneven. He watched the way candlelight painted gold over her curves and bruised lips. He traced his fingers over her collarbone, his heart thudding not just from lust—but the terror of what they had just done. What they might do again.

"Do you regret this?" he asked, voice hoarse. "No," she breathed. "Do you?"

He hesitated. The answer should've come quickly. But it didn't.

He lowered himself beside her, wrapped a hand around her waist, and whispered, "Only that I didn’t do it sooner." She laughed—a soft, wicked sound. "Good. Because I’m not done." She rose, her body gliding over his. Straddling him atop the very table that once held the Eucharist. There was no shame in her gaze now. Only hunger. And it matched his perfectly.

She guided him back inside her slowly, savoring every second, every inch. He gripped her hips as her rhythm built like a prayer, a rising chorus of flesh and fire.

The church became their sanctuary of sin.

And by the time morning light crept through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured rainbows across their bare skin, neither of them had asked for forgiveness.

Because neither of them wanted it.

-----

Afterward, the silence was not awkward—it was heavy, soaked in the weight of their choices. Arthur held her, breathing in the scent of her hair and the warmth of her skin.

"What does this mean?" she asked quietly. He didn’t know. How could he?

He was a priest. She was temptation incarnate. But he did know he wouldn’t stop or rather Couldn't stop. "I don’t care," he said. "For now, it means you’re mine."

She smiled against his chest, and that smile twisted something inside him. A joy, a fear, a hunger for a life he was never supposed to have.

She sat up slowly, pulling his shirt from the floor and slipping it over her shoulders. The sight of her in his clothing was more sinful than her being naked. "I should go," she said.

"Then go. But you’ll come back." Her lips curved. "Count on it."

As she disappeared down the aisle, Arthur remained on the altar, guilt crawling up his spine like a second skin. But so did something else. A fire that wouldn’t die. A pull he couldn’t resist.

He didn’t realize the church door hadn’t fully closed. And outside, in the shadows, someone had been watching.

The silence between them stretched, crackling with an unspoken tension that buzzed in the air like static before a storm. Arthur’s breath came heavy as his hands clenched into fists at his sides, trying to grasp a thread of control that was rapidly unraveling.

“I should go,” Isabella whispered, though she made no move to leave.

“No,” Arthur said, his voice deep, hoarse with restraint. He stepped closer until the heat of their bodies clashed like fire against fire. “You don’t want to. Neither do I.”

Isabella’s eyes flicked to his lips, her heart thudding wildly. She shook her head slightly, a futile attempt to ground herself, but the dizzying pull of him, of this night, consumed her.

He reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger against her cheek. “Every time you walk away, I burn. I’m burning right now.”

“Then burn with me,” she whispered.

His mouth crushed hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was hungry, desperate, the collision of months of suppressed desire. She moaned into his mouth as he pulled her close, hands sliding around her waist, lifting her against him as if the space between them was an offense.

He backed her against the altar, the edge pressing into her thighs. The irony wasn’t lost on either of them—sacrilege against sacred things. But lust didn’t care for reverence.

His hands were everywhere—her waist, her back, the small of it, the curves he’d only imagined in the dark. Her nails dug into his shoulders, urging him closer, deeper.

The chapel air, thick with incense and secrecy, now pulsed with a different kind of incense—raw need. Their breathless gasps echoed off the stone walls, a symphony of forbidden hunger. Isabella tore open the buttons of his shirt, lips trailing down his chest. “I’ve wanted this—wanted you—since that first confessional.”

“And I’ve sinned in every thought since,” Arthur groaned, lifting her onto the altar.

The scene blurred in heat and need, morality drowned beneath the tide of longing. They didn’t stop to pray. They didn’t stop at all.