The word tumbled, shattered, and crashed within the small confines of the confessional.
Lust.
That’s what it was.
Dark and terrible, forceful and wild.
We lusted, and I feared our only escape was surrender to that conquering force. Arms entwined. Legs spread. I imagined myself naked, exposed, and waiting with stolen words and false modesty as Father Raphael protected me from the sins of lust.
It hurt. Sin hurt. And that made sense, but I never knew it’d be a physical pain. It was real. Clenching. It twisted deep in my core, pulsing in a quiet rage that tore through me in a quick sweat and parted lips. Everything tingled and warmed, including my chest and the tightening buds hidden beneath my prim and proper blouse.
I wore the only shirt I owned that was able to be ripped open. I wished I hadn’t thought of it while dressing this morning. I wished it was simply the only blouse I had which matched my black skirt. But I’d planned it, down to the exact detail. This skirt was the easiest to accidentally slip up my leg where it would reveal too much.
What was wrong with me? I shouldn’t have imagined him tickling my thighs, kissing my skin, or savoring the heat pounding the secret I hid with crossed legs. The thoughts overwhelmed me.
I sighed, trembling and hot.
This was all wrong. No matter how many times I practiced the confession in my mind, nothing compared to sitting so close to him, separated by only a thin cherry wood wall and a mesh screen sculpted with tiny Celtic crosses.
He was there. I could feel him. I could sense him.
And I wished we had touched.
The shame overwhelmed me, but I wasn’t a woman who hid from rightful punishment. I accepted my responsibilities and actions. Still, no penance could be worse than speaking this confession.
“Father, I can’t let this happen again. I can’t go to bed tonight and think of…”
“Of what, Honor?”
“Of you.”
“Do you assume I have not thought of you?”
“Father, stop.”
“You think I have not suffered the same desires? Wanted the same darkness? Craved just a moment of indulgence—”
“We can’t speak like this.”
“Honor, it is temptation, nothing more.”
“And I have failed to fight it,” I said.
“Then I will guide you. I will help you.”
My heart beat too fast. I couldn’t hear anything over the rumbling authority in his. His words burned through me.
He’d guide me.
He’d help me.
But I couldn’t trust myself to let such a man cleanse me of my sins.
Even if he admitted to the same feelings. The same thoughts.
Father Raphael shared my secret. He’d said he imagined me in the dark of night, when prayers faded and holy thoughts were overwhelmed by solitude’s fantasies.
What had he done when the need overwhelmed him? Had he fought it?
Or did he share the same weakness as me? What would he look like trapped in the throes of his own temptations?
I shifted against the bench. The skirt inched higher against my hips. The air conditioners breeze whipped through the confessional, so cool and surprising against my bare legs I hadn’t realized how desperately my body had betrayed me.
The sin slickened me. It heated and throbbed and craved inside me, eager to fill an emptiness I never knew existed before I met Father Raphael.
I felt his touch without his fingers, tasted his lips without his kiss.
I had to leave. It wasn’t a confession if the penitent panted, wetted, and wanted the very sins she admitted.
My body trembled. Too tensed. Too desperate. I’d have committed every sin in the world to distract myself from the ache within me.
And I’d have committed just one to ease that desire.
Did he know? Could he tell?
Why did I torture myself with thoughts of him?
As if he sensed my distress, he whispered with a calming command.
“Absolve yourself, my angel.”
I trembled. “How?”
“What will ease that temptation? What would give you clarity of thought, heart, and spirit?”
At least we were finally honest now. “Nothing, Father.”
“There is something.” His words growled, ragged. “This is my sin. I have forced this temptation upon you. Relieve yourself, and then we’ll banish this desire.”
“There’s only one way to do that, Father.”
His breath raced, a rasp that belonged to a man on the edge, straddling a line of good, evil, and sheer indifference to anything beyond the agony of our flesh.
“Do as you did last night, my angel. Pray, and whisper my name.”
“But—”
“I want you to indulge this temptation. Then I will teach you how to confront this, how to defeat it.”
“Father…”