THE SIN BEHIND HIS COLLAR

Sarah The rain lashed against the stained-glass windows of Saint Jude’s Parish, desperate to wash away the sins hidden within its stone walls. I stood in the vestibule, clutching the damp wool of my black coat. Water dripped from my veil, mirroring the tears that rolled down my cheeks. The broken woman who had just buried her wealthy, cruel husband. I had perfected the fragile slump of my shoulders, the trembling of my bottom lip. The heavy oak doors to the rectory groaned open, breaking the silence. "Thou art drenched, poor wanderer," a soft, breathy voice called out. A woman emerged from the gloom. She was small, cloaked in a thick knitted shawl despite the stifling heat of the radiator. Her face was pale, her smile warm but strained by an invisible fatigue. "I am Sarah Vesper," I murmured, keeping my chin tucked in a show of vulnerability. "I seek the counsel of the church." "Ah, the returning flock. I am Calista. Father Silas’s sister," she said, her head tilting. She reached out, her fingers icy against my wrist. "Come. Let me show thee to a room where thou might rest thy weary bones." I followed her deeper into the belly of the rectory. The air here was thick with the scent of melting beeswax, old paper, and something darker. Something metallic. As we walked down the narrow, dimly lit corridor, we passed a heavy wooden door left slightly ajar. From the sliver of darkness within, a sound escaped. Mumbles. Low, guttural, and rhythmic. It wasn't the cadence of a prayer. It was a murmur of profound, strained agony. A masculine whimper that vibrated on the floorboards. “ . . .mea culpa . . . god, help me . . . tear it from me . . .” My breath hitched. The raw, primal heat in that voice sent an unexpected shiver down my spine, but I paid it no heed. I forced my eyes forward, maintaining my mask of sorrow. "The wind howls fiercely through these old halls," Calista said loudly, though her eyes darted nervously to the cracked door. She pushed open the next room. "Rest here, Mrs. Vesper. How else may the parish serve thee?" "I need to make a confession," I said, my voice steady. "Tonight. After the evening bell." "As thou wishest," she whispered, backing away into the shadows. "The Father shall attend to thee." Hours later, the toll of the parish bell violently shook the dust from the rafters. The main sanctuary was a cavern of suffocating darkness, illuminated only by a dozen flickering vigil candles. I walked down the central aisle, my heels clicking against the marble. "Mrs. Vesper." The voice came from the shadows beside the altar. It was a low, warm resonance that seemed to wrap around my throat. He stepped into the candlelight. Father Hycent Silas. He was not the frail, graying priest I remembered from my youth. He was a towering figure, his broad, athletic chest pressing against the stark black fabric of his cassock. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, clinging to a forehead that glistened with a fine layer of sweat. But it was his face that commanded the room. A jawline carved from unforgiving granite, and deep-set, piercing blue eyes that did not look at me with pity. They looked at me with hunger. In a fraction of a second, the fragile, weeping widow I had carefully constructed shattered. I didn't want to cry anymore. Looking at the sharp, rigid tension in his neck, something deeply suppressed clawed its way out of my chest. I felt an overwhelming, dangerous urge to break him. My posture shifted. The slump vanished. I stood straighter, rolling my shoulders back, my chest pushing out against the restrictive fabric of my mourning dress. I lifted my chin, meeting his intense scrutiny with a dark, daring challenge. His eyes tracked the movement. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. "Father," I purred. The archaic reverence tasted like ash on my tongue. "I have sins that require purging." "The confessional awaits, child," he replied, though his voice rasped, entirely devoid of holy authority. He turned, leading me into the wooden box. I entered my side, the heavy curtain falling shut behind me, plunging me into absolute darkness. The wooden lattice separated us, but it did nothing to block the sudden, suffocating heat radiating from his side. I knelt. But instead of bowing my head, I leaned close to the screen. The scent of him washed over me; frankincense, myrrh, and the sharp, undeniable musk of heavy male arousal. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," I whispered, my lips brushing the wood. "It has been ten years since my last confession." Silence stretched. The air in the tiny box grew impossibly thin. I could hear his breathing, jagged, ragged, fighting for control. "Speak thy transgressions," he finally commanded, his voice trembling with a terrifying restraint. "I lied," I breathed, sliding my ungloved fingers against the lattice, knowing he could see my silhouette. "I am not grieving for my husband. I am glad the bastard is dead. And my greatest sin, Father? This is what I am thinking about doing to you right now.” “I would love to know what makes you break your hard points. How long will you last under me? Are you hard under that holy garment?”