Scarlett's POV
"Mom, please. Not here."
"I don't care who's listening." Her nails dig into my arm as she hauls me toward the confessionals. "You're gonna talk to Father Dominic about those things I found in your nightstand. Those... sex toys, Scarlett."
Heat floods my face.
She said it loud enough for half the church to hear.
"I'm twenty-one," I snap, trying to yank free. "You can't force me to do this."
"I pay your tuition. Your apartment. Everything." She doesn't even glance at me. "So yeah, I absolutely can."
"Mrs. Thorne? Scarlett?"
Every muscle in my body locks up.
That voice.
Deep. Warm. Devastatingly familiar.
I turn slowly.
Father Dominic stands a few feet away, dark hair falling across his forehead like he's been running his fingers through it. He's tall—really tall—broad shoulders stretching the black cassock in ways I've noticed way too many times.
"Father." Mom's voice goes sweet and syrupy, the kind of fake nice that makes me want to scream. "Thank God. I was just bringing Scarlett to see you."
"Everything okay?" His gaze shifts between us.
"Scarlett needs confession," Mom says, grip tightening. "It's urgent."
My face burns hotter.
Did he hear her mention the toys? Please, God, tell me he didn't.
"I see." His eyes find mine. Brown and kind. "Scarlett, you wanna talk?"
I shake my head fast. "I'm fine. Really."
"She's not fine," Mom cuts in. "She's been avoiding Mass for months. She needs guidance."
"Mom, stop—"
"No." She pushes me forward slightly. "Father Dominic, please. Talk to her."
He looks at me again. That same gentle concern. "Only if Scarlett wants to."
I should say no.
I should turn around and walk out.
But Mom's grip tightens and I know she won't drop this. She'll make my life hell until I cave.
"Fine," I mutter. "Let's just get this over with."
***
The confessional is tiny.
Cramped.
I sink onto the wooden bench and the door clicks shut behind me, cutting out the light.
I can hear him on the other side of the partition. The rustle of fabric. His breathing.
We're so close.
Just a thin screen between us.
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
"Amen."
Silence.
I press my palms against my thighs, trying to steady myself. My heart's hammering so hard I swear he can hear it.
"Take your time, Scarlett." His voice is soft. Patient. It makes everything worse.
"I don't know what to say," I admit.
"Start wherever feels right."
I close my eyes. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been three months since my last confession."
"What's been weighing on you?"
Everything.
YOU.
The fact that I can't stop thinking about you. The fact that I touch myself every night imagining it's your hands instead of mine.
"I've been having... thoughts," I say quietly. "Bad thoughts."
"What kind of thoughts?"
"About someone." My voice cracks. "Someone I shouldn't think about that way."
"I see." He pauses. "Can you tell me more?"
I swallow hard. "I've felt this way for a long time. Since I was younger. But it's gotten worse lately. I can't control it anymore."
"These feelings. Are they romantic? Sexual?"
The bluntness catches me off guard.
Heat spreads through my chest.
"Both," I whisper.
"And this person. Do they know?"
God, no. "No. I could never tell them."
"Why not?"
"Because it's wrong." My hands clench into fists. "Because of who they are. What they are. It would ruin everything."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"What do you mean by 'what they are'?" His voice sounds different now. Careful.
I bite my lip.
Hell no. I shouldn't say more.
I should stop right here.
Chapter 2
But Mom's sitting right outside. Waiting. If I leave too soon, she'll know I didn't really confess.
"He's someone whose entire existence forbids my thoughts," I say slowly. "Someone I shouldn't even look at that way. He'd never feel the same."
Even in the dim light, I see him shift. The bench creaks.
"I imagine him touching me," I continue, barely above a whisper. "His hands on my skin. I imagine what it would feel like. What he would feel like."
"Scarlett." His voice sounds strained. "Maybe we should talk about redirecting these feelings."
"I've tried." My throat tightens. "I've tried everything. I stopped going places where I'd see him. Avoided anything that reminded me of him. But it doesn't help. It just makes it worse."
"I touch myself," I say quietly. "At night. During the day sometimes when I can't focus. I imagine him above me. His weight pressing me down. His hands everywhere."
"Scarlett, I don't think this is appropriate—"
"You asked what was troubling me." My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. "This is what's troubling me, Father. I can't stop. I've tried praying. I've tried everything. But every time I close my eyes, he's there."
My hand moves to my thigh.
I don't even realize I'm doing it at first.
Just pressing my palm against my leg, trying to ground myself.
But then my fingers curl into the fabric of my skirt.
Pulling it up slightly.
"I imagine his voice in my ear," I whisper. "Telling me what to do. How to touch myself. Where to touch."
"We should stop." His voice sounds rough now. Different. "This isn't—"
"I'm wet right now," I cut him off. "Sitting here talking to you. I'm so wet I can feel it soaking through my panties."
Heavy silence.
I can't hear him breathing anymore.
"Victoria! I didn't know you were here today." Sister Margaret's voice filters through.
"Oh yes, Scarlett's making her confession right now. With Father Dominic." Mom's voice carries through the thin wall.
Mom could burst in here any second.
I should stop.
Stop this ache building low in my core.
But I can't.
And worse—the danger of it makes everything hotter. The thought of Mom finding me like this, of Sister Margaret hearing something, makes me throb.
I'm sick.
I have to be sick to feel this way.
But I can't stop.
My hand slides higher. Under my skirt. My fingers brush my inner thigh and I bite back a sound.
"Should I stop?" I ask breathlessly. "Should I stop telling you?"
I wait for him to respond.
Wait for him to tell me to stop.
But his next words shock me.
"No," he says, barely audible.
The word sends a shiver through me. "What?"
"Don't stop." His voice is rough. Strained. "Tell me more."
My fingers find the edge of my panties.
They're soaked.
"I think about him constantly," I breathe. "In class. When I'm trying to sleep. In the shower with my fingers between my legs."
I slip my hand inside.
The moment my fingers touch my pussy I press my other hand against my mouth to stay quiet.
I'm so wet.
So swollen and sensitive.
"I imagine it's his fingers," I whisper. "Not mine. I imagine him touching me like this. Feeling how wet I am. How desperate I am for him."
One finger slides inside easily and my walls clench around it.
"Scarlett." His voice cracks. "You shouldn't—"
"I know." My finger starts moving. Slow and careful. "I know it's wrong. I know I shouldn't feel this way. But I can't help it, Father."
I add another finger, stretching myself. My thumb finds my clit and I bite down hard on my lip.
"Sometimes I imagine him here," I continue, voice shaking. "In this church. Bending me over the altar. Pulling up my skirt and—"
"Stop."
The word comes out harsh.
Commanding.
I freeze.
My fingers still buried inside myself.
"I should go," I whisper, my whole body burning. "I should—"
"No," he says, and I hear rustling. "Don't go. Just... give me a second."
Movement.
Then wood scraping against wood.
A click.
The small partition between us slides open.
I can see him now.
Really see him.
His face inches away through the opening.
But there's something in his gaze.
His eyes aren't kind anymore.
They're dark.
Hungry.
"Let me see," he says.
"What?"
"Your hand. Let me see what you're doing."
My breath catches.
This is wrong.
SO WRONG.
Chapter 3
I should pull my hand away. Close my legs. Run.
But I don't.
Instead, I angle myself slightly, letting him see my hand disappear under my skirt. With my other hand, I lift the fabric off my thigh.
His eyes follow the movement.
Until my thigh is bare.
Satisfaction floods through me when his gaze doesn't turn away as my fingers move between my folds.
"I should stop. But it's too much. Too good."
"Don't stop," he says quietly. "Keep going."
"This is what you do to me, Father," I whimper as my finger finds my swollen clit. "Do you like it? Do you like watching me fall apart?"
Fuck.
This is bad.
Really bad.
I can't even control myself in front of him.
Shame slams into me.
Hot tears burn behind my eyes and streak down my cheeks. I yank my hand free and slam my thighs together. A sob rips out before I can stop it. I clap my palm over my mouth but it's loud enough for her to hear.
"Scarlett? What's going on in there?" Mom's voice. Right outside the door.
Father Dominic's gaze snaps to the door, then back to me—skirt bunched high, panties soaked.
If she comes in now, everything's over.
God, why do I have to be like this?
He rises without a word.
The confessional creaks as he moves, then he's crowding into my side. The space tightens.
"Come here," he says, voice rough.
His arms come around me, firm, pulling me against his chest. I tense for a second, then break. My face presses into rough black fabric as my body shakes. Tears soak into his cassock.
"She's remembering something painful," he calls toward the door, tone steady. "We're working through it. She needs time alone."
The latch rattles softly.
"Is she okay?" Mom's voice wavers. "Why can't I see her? I want to see her."
My pulse slams.
My hands clutch his cassock.
What if she catches us?
I'd ruin his whole life—just because I couldn't control myself.
The thought makes the tears come harder.
His voice sharpens. "Victoria, confession is sacred. You will not interrupt. Please step back."
Silence stretches.
"I'm sorry, Father. I'll leave you to it." Her footsteps fade.
I'm still pressed against him, breathing too fast.
He doesn't let go.
In the dark, our hearts beat hard and close.
Almost in rhythm.
He leans back just enough to look at me. Tears cling to my lashes. He lifts his thumb and brushes one away, touch lingering at my cheek.
Our eyes lock.
Neither of us moves.
He bends his head, but freezes when his lips are inches from mine. For a second, I think he won't do it. My heart twists—I think he finally sees how disgusting I am.
But then his expression changes.
Raw desire takes over.
Before I can speak, his lips crash into mine.
His lips are warm.
Everything I imagined.
More.
I rise onto my knees, arms slipping around his neck. He presses me against the wall, gentle but firm. One hand cups the back of my head. The other traces my side, over my hip, until his fingertips reach bare skin above my knee.
I gasp into his mouth.
He captures the sound and kisses me deeper.
"Shh, Scarlett," he whispers.
His hand moves higher.
He circles my clit with slow precision, eyes fixed on my face. Heat coils tight. I bite my lip to hold back noise, but a whimper slips free.
"How does that feel?" His voice comes rough, breath warm against my ear.
"Fuck, your hand feels so good," I whisper, trembling. "Please don't stop."
His palm covers my mouth as two thick fingers slide into my slick pussy. The heel of his hand presses my clit. "Tell me," he says, gaze locked on mine, dark with want. "Tell me exactly."
"Your fingers feel so good," I moan into his palm, already dripping saliva as I bite into his flesh.
"Should I keep going?"
"Yes—please," I cry softly.
