The ancient oak of the confessional booth felt cool and smooth against Leah Leighton's forehead. She wasn't sure why she was here. Faith was a foreign language to her, one she'd never learned to speak. Yet, the hushed, sacred darkness of the booth felt like the only place she could scream into the void and be heard.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," she began, the ritual words feeling clumsy and false on her tongue. "It's... it's been never since my last confession."
A low, smooth voice filtered through the lattice divider. "We all find our path in time. Speak, child. I'm listening." Father Logan Carson's voice was a warm rumble, a sound that seemed to vibrate deep in her bones, a stark contrast to the dusty, still air.
And she did. She spilled everything in a shaky whisper. Not sins of commission, but sins of wanting. The detailed, Technicolor fantasies that played behind her eyes at night. The specific, aching emptiness between her legs that her own fingers could never quite satisfy. She described the kind of fucking she craved—not sweet, not gentle, but raw and possessive and a little mean. She told the faceless voice about the dirty things she wanted a man to say to her, the places she wanted him to touch, the way she wanted to be used for his pleasure until she forgot her own name. Her confession wasn't one of guilt, but of desperate, unfulfilled need.
On the other side of the screen, Logan Carson leaned back, a slow, predatory smile cutting across his sharp jawline. Innocent eyes, the Bishop had said. A reformed soul. They saw what they wanted to see. He'd spent a decade mastering every vice known to man before trading his tailored suits for a priest's collar; he could spot a kindred spirit of decadence a mile away. This girl's whispered confessions weren't pleas for absolution. They were a fucking invitation. Her voice, laced with a scared curiosity, painted a picture of a perfect, untouched canvas waiting for a corrupted artist.
Later that night, long after the church was locked, a faint scraping sound echoed in the vast nave. Logan, unable to sleep, investigated and found her. Leah, bathed in the ethereal blue light of a stained-glass window, kneeling alone at the altar rail. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists on the cold stone. She wasn't praying. She was trying to, and failing spectacularly.
The click of his dress shoes on the marble floor made her jump, her eyes flying open. She spun around, scrambling to her feet. They stood ten feet apart in the moonlit silence, the air suddenly thick and charged.
He was taller than she'd imagined. The faint light caught the careful gel in his dark hair and the striking planes of his face. His smile was small, a dimple appearing in one cheek, but his eyes held a dark, knowing fire that made her stomach clench. She was younger than he'd pictured from her voice, all wide eyes and a tremulous mouth, a beautiful contradiction of youthful innocence and a deeply carnal hunger she couldn't hide.
"You," she breathed out, her voice a mere wisp of sound.
"Me," he confirmed, his voice low and intimate in the hollowed space. He took a step closer. Then another. The gap between them closed, not with haste, but with an inevitable, terrifying pull. The scent of her—nervous sweat and sweet perfume—cut through the smell of old wood and incense. His gaze traveled over her, a slow, deliberate inventory that made her skin flush hot. "You come to pray, Leah? Or did you come for something else?"
She couldn't answer. Her throat was too tight.
He was in front of her now, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. He reached out, not touching her, but gesturing to the empty, silent church around them. "There's no one else here to hear you. No one to judge. Just you... and me." His eyes dropped to her lips. "Do you want me to make you believe in God, Leah?"
The question wasn't holy. It was a threat. A promise. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of panic and wild excitement. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
That was all he needed.
His hand, which had been hovering near her face, shot out and fisted in the hair at the nape of her neck. It wasn't painful, but it was utterly controlling, holding her in place as he crushed his mouth to hers. The kiss was nothing like she'd ever known. It was hard and demanding, all teeth and dominance and the slick, hot invasion of his tongue. It tasted of mint and sin. A shocked, guttural sound was torn from her throat, a moan that she immediately swallowed down, her own hands coming up to clutch at the rough wool of his clerical shirt.
He broke the kiss as suddenly as he'd started it, his breathing slightly ragged. His eyes were black with want. "On the rail. Now. Bend over it."
A shiver of pure, undiluted lust racked her body. Wordlessly, she turned, her back to him, and bent forward over the cold, polished oak of the altar rail, her ass presented to him, her cheek pressed against the smooth wood. She heard the soft clink of metal. The stopper being pulled from the small vial of holy water kept near the candles. She held her breath.
The cold was a shock, a sudden, dripping wetness that soaked through her thin cotton panties, making her gasp and jerk against the rail. He had poured the holy water onto her cunt. The liquid felt icy against her heated skin, a contrast so sharp it made her teeth ache.
"This hallowed ground needs consecration," he murmured, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper right by her ear. His free hand slid around her hip, his fingers slipping effortlessly under the soaked fabric of her panties. They were pushed aside. "And this sweet, naughty cunt needs to be purified."
His fingers found her, and Leah cried out, a sharp, broken sound that echoed toward the vaulted ceiling. One long finger, then two, pushed into her without preamble, sliding deep into her tight, clutching heat. The stretch was divine. He worked them in and out in a slow, cruel rhythm, the holy water making every movement a slick, obscene squelch in the silent church.
"You confessed such dirty things, Leah," he growled, his mouth against her neck now, his teeth grazing her skin. "You told me you wanted to be fucked like a worthless slut. You begged for a man to take control." He curled his fingers inside her, pressing hard against a spot that made her vision whiten at the edges. "I heard you. I am listening. Your prayers are answered. I am your god now."
The blasphemy was the hottest thing she'd ever heard. Her hips began to move of their own volition, fucking herself back on his hand, desperate for more. His other hand came up, groping and kneading her breast over her shirt, his thumb circling her nipple until it was a hard, aching pebble. The rough treatment sent jolts of pleasure straight to her core, making her clench rhythmically around his thrusting fingers.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough with his own hunger. "Take your communion. Fuck yourself on my hand like the desperate little sinner you are. You feel so good, so tight and hot around my fingers. I can feel your fucking cunt pulsing for me."
He was everywhere—his fingers inside her, his hand on her tit, his hot breath on her neck, his dominating words in her ear. The sensations overloaded her, coiling the tension in her belly to a breaking point. She was so close, teetering on a precipice she'd only ever dreamed of.
He felt it too. With a grunt, he withdrew his soaking fingers from her aching pussy. She whimpered at the sudden emptiness, but it was only for a second. The sound of his zipper was obscenely loud. He shoved his own pants and briefs down just enough to free his cock. He was already leaking, his dick thick and hard and veined. He didn't enter her. Instead, he pressed the weeping head against her slick, swollen folds, grinding against her clit for one breathtaking moment.
"This is your blessing," he snarled, and his hand on her breast tightened almost painfully as his hips gave one final, sharp thrust.
The first hot, wet stripe of his come landed on her naked pussy, and Leah shattered. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent, seismic event that locked her muscles and stole the air from her lungs. He continued to pump his cock, painting her trembling flesh with thick, ropes of his release, groaning as he emptied himself onto her, marking her, consecrating her. His grip on her breast was possessive, anchoring her through the storm of her climax.
