In the last installment of The Confessional
In the first installment of The Confessional
The rectory clock ticked past three in the morning, each second a small, deliberate accusation. I sat at the desk in my bedroom, still wearing the black shirt and collar Iâd put on for evening confessions, Matteoâs letter spread open before me like a wound I couldnât stop touching.
The paper was soft from my fingers tracing the same lines over and over. The tearstains that had blurred his careful script, the way his handwriting trembled on âI love youâ and steadied on âlet me go.â I pressed my thumb to the dried salt of one drop and felt my chest crack wider.
He thought he was saving me. He thought walking away would leave me clean, unburned, still wearing this collar like it meant something without him in the world.
He was wrongâbecause my world had already become him.
Heâs the only thing Iâd ever stolen from God. The boy I helped raise after his father died, the one who looked up at me from the altar rail like I was holy instead of just another man drowning in black wool. I had fallen in love with Matteo long before I ever touched him.
The love I felt for my stepbrother had cracked every vow I ever made, and I had chosenâwith my whole heartâto let it.
The garden had terrified me more than any rough claiming ever could. That softness, that tenderness, the way heâd whispered âI love youâ like it was the only truth left between usâit had undone me completely.
I didnât need to ruin him to keep him. I needed him to know how deeply I loved him, how completely he owned me in return.
So tomorrow night, when he came to me again, I would hold him gently, show him with my hands and my words that this love was realâthat it was worth every risk.
This isnât sin anymore.
This is love. And love has become my only survival.
The next morning, Mass dragged like a penance I didnât want. Every word of the liturgy tasted hollow; my need to serve the altar paled beside the deeper, darker need to have Matteo serve me.
To love me with the same helpless devotion I felt for him.
I let him fuss in the sacristy afterward: folding linens with those careful hands, hanging his cassock and surplice like they were still sacred.
Only when the last fold was perfect did I step behind him, slide my hands under the hem of his shirt, and lift. He raised his arms without a wordâobedient, eager, already yielding.
I pressed my lips to the warm, bare skin of his shoulder, tasting salt and faint soap.
âGet undressed for me, my love.â
His eyes flicked toward the open sacristy doorâhalf fear, half thrill. Anyone could walk in. A server. Another priest. Mrs. Callahan with her sharp gaze.
Iâd left it ajar on purpose. Let fate decide if we were caught.
Let the risk make every second burn brighter.
When he stood naked before me, skin flushed, and goose-bumped in the cool air, I turned him to face the full-length mirror in the corner.
Our reflections stared back: him trembling, beautiful, mine; me still half in black, cassock parted, eyes dark with hunger.
I reached around his waist, wrapped my fist around his cockâalready thickening, and stroked it slowly. âWatch what Iâm doing to you, Matteo.â
A ragged breath shuddered out of him. âYes, Father.â
Those two words sank into me like wineâsweet, heady, mine.