All Chapters of Craving Forbidden Pleasures : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

The first time I knelt in the booth, it wasn’t to confess.It was to watch.The church was always mine after dark. I had the keys, the mop, the silence. The pews glowed faintly from the candlelight that Father Joseph insisted stay burning at all times. They flickered like guilty eyes. The scent of incense clung stubbornly to the wood, heavy and ancient, as though the air itself had sins to remember.I should’ve hated cleaning the confessional most—it always gave me chills. The carved doors, the heavy velvet curtains, the small lattice where whispers became judgment. But that night… something was different.The curtain was drawn.Someone was inside.I froze. My mop squeaked against the stone floor before I caught myself. My heart began to pound—not with fear, not at first. With curiosity.I leaned closer.And then I heard it.Breathing. Low. Rough. Masculine.It curled into me like smoke.Then—rustling. The metallic slide of a zipper being drawn down, slow, deliberate.My first though

The note burned a hole in my pocket all week.“Next Thursday. Same time. Bring your shame.”I read it so many times the words tattooed themselves into my skin. Shame. That was what she wanted. That was what he wanted. That was what I couldn’t stop thinking about.Every night, I imagined their voices. The deep growl of his commands. The soft, sinful moans spilling from her throat. The wet, slick sounds that haunted my ears when I lay in bed, thighs pressed together until I trembled with the need to obey something I didn’t even fully understand.Shame became its own kind of hunger.By Thursday, I couldn’t take it anymore.I came early.No panties. Just a skirt, bare thighs, and the shame I carried like an offering.The church was quiet, empty—at least it looked empty. The flickering candles painted the walls gold. The pews were empty rows of judgment. The booth loomed like it had been waiting for me all along.And he was there.Leaning against the confessional like a man carved from sha

The chapel smelled of smoke and incense, the lingering perfume of sanctity fighting with the truth of my sins. My thighs still ached from the hours before, a dull soreness that pulsed whenever I shifted on the wooden pew. The candles flickered in their sconces, throwing restless shadows across the painted saints. They watched me, their eyes wide, their mouths frozen in solemn silence—as though they could see what I had done, what I had allowed to be done to me.I was not meant to return so soon. The ritual of confession was supposed to be a cleansing, a way of emptying the filth of desire from the soul. Instead, I came back swollen with it, dripping with it. I sat there, clutching my rosary, trembling not from guilt but from the craving that had followed me from the booth.The confessional door opened with its familiar groan. I slid inside, heart hammering, the velvet curtain falling shut behind me like the closing of a trap. The small chamber felt different this time, not just holy b

The confessional was no longer a booth. It was a tomb.Wood groaned like old bones as Joseph leaned back against the wall, his chest slick with sweat and sin, his collar askew, his crucifix dangling low against the hollow of his sternum. I knelt before him, my lips red with more than lipstick, my thighs trembling as though every nerve in my body had been tuned to one blasphemous note.The booth reeked of incense and salt, of lust rubbed raw into the wood. It was no longer a place of confession—it had become an altar, and I, the gospel.“Say it again,” I whispered, my voice ragged, urgent, begging him to wound me with his words the way his hands had already marked me.He looked down at me, eyes dark as the sanctuary at midnight. “You are my scripture", he confessed. I gasped, arching, as though the words themselves had been thrust into me. My spine bent in prayer, my hair a halo of ruin against his thighs.“Every inch of you,” he said, voice low, shaking with hunger, “is a verse. A ps

His fingers trembled as they brushed the warm skin beneath her skirt.It should have ended there — a startled gasp, a sharp rebuke, a whispered prayer to close the gates of temptation before they swung all the way open. That was how Gideon had always imagined he would handle such a moment if it ever came.But this wasn’t imagined.This was real.Delilah shifted closer, the movement deliberate, the heat of her body wrapping around him like incense smoke, seeping into every breath. Her thighs parted just a fraction more, and he could feel the pulse of her heartbeat in the bare skin beneath his palm.“I’m not a child anymore,” she murmured. Her voice was soft but sure, as if she had been preparing this truth for years. “You don’t have to protect me from this.”He drew back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes. They were shimmering — not with innocence, but with hunger.“This isn’t salvation,” he warned, his own voice frayed, tangled in the storm gathering in his chest. “It’s damna