The Confessional (Part 9 - Final) | Matteo

We'll Burn Beautifully

In the last installment of The Confessional

The Confessional (Part 8) | Lorenzo

In the first installment of The Confessional

The Confessional (Part 1) | Matteo

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Yesterday morning in the sacristy, Lorenzo fucking me as I watched my eyes—the shifting, adoration, and need in them, had imprinted itself in my mind.

Lorenzo had professed he was willing to burn the world down to keep me. That my belonging to him, that his love for me, meant he was willing to give up everything.

Everything.

His priesthood and his reputation. The respect of the diocese: other priests, the bishops, cardinals, and even the pope himself. He would risk eternal damnation for me.

I set my hand on the door to the rectory. This was where he wanted me to come to him. The other two priests were back from their pilgrimage and would wonder why I was there.

Lorenzo seemed intent on exposing us, on letting the light fall across our sin so there would be no more shadows to hide in.

I pushed the door open. The smell of coffee and toast greeted me, along with the low murmur of Father Michael and Father Xavier in the kitchen. They looked up as I stepped inside.

“Matteo?” Father Michael turned fully in his chair. “It’s early for you to be here for Mass. What can we help you with?”

“I’m here to see Father Lorenzo.”

Father Xavier stirred some cream into his coffee, eyes flicking to my face. “He hasn’t come down yet.”

I touched my throat, pulse hammering beneath my fingers. “He asked me to come upstairs.”

Father Michael frowned, the lines around his mouth deepening. “Mrs. Callahan has lodged accusations against you.”

The words landed like a slap. My knees nearly gave out on me. I opened my mouth to speak—to lie, to deflect, when the voice that commanded my every breath rolled down the stairs, deep and unyielding. “Matteo, come here.”

“Excuse me,” I mumbled and scurried toward the stairs. I pounded up them, heart slamming, and stepped into the bedroom Lorenzo had disappeared into.

The morning sun streamed through the window, gilding the made bed, sheets turned down, pillows fluffed, waiting for me like an altar.

Lorenzo closed the door behind me with a soft click, then cupped my face in both hands. His thumbs brushed my cheekbones; his fingertips slid into my hair. Then his lips were on mine, reconnecting us after having spent a night apart. The kiss was long, slow, and devastating.

I felt full of him already—his scent, his heat, his claim.

He spun me gently in the room, a dance of two souls who had chosen the flames over salvation. His hand glided down my waist, tugging me tighter against him, then released my mouth just enough to breathe.

“You came,” he said, his voice at the breaking point of breathlessness.

“I would do anything for you … for us.”

He brushed his knuckles down my cheek, tender, possessive. “I love you.”

The words struck me like a bell—clear, resonant, holy in their heresy. My heart sang louder than any hymn. I clutched the front of his shirt.

“I love you, too.”

He smiled, relieved. “Father Xavier is doing Mass this morning.” His fingers found the hem of my shirt, sliding beneath to trace the skin of my stomach. “I told him there was something I needed to do.”

I sighed, shivering as his hands roamed up my spine, then dug into my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my head back. He walked me backward until the backs of my legs hit the mattress.

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