The breaking point
2057 Words
(Luna POV)
The week crawled by like a slug on Valium. Grey skies, Mildred’s endless baking (seriously, how many scones could one village consume?), and the constant, low-level thrum of boredom mixed with leftover rage.
My little stunt in the confessional? Zero visible effect. Father Vale remained the village’s resident Ice Monument. I saw him twice: once striding past the pub like Death on a lunch break, another time unlocking the church sacristy door, his profile sharp and closed-off against the stone.
He didn’t look at me. Didn’t acknowledge my existence beyond the necessary minimal nod if our paths crossed too obviously to ignore. The indifference was starting to feel… personal. Aggressive, even. Like he’d decided I wasn’t worth the energy of disdain. Just background noise. Static.
It pissed me off. More than the turnips. More than the drizzle. More than the memory of Professor Creepy-Hands’ sweaty palm on my thigh. This man, hiding behind his collar and his cold eyes, dismissing me?
No. Hell no.
Saturday rolled around again. The drizzle had turned into a proper downpour, hammering against the cottage windows.
Perfect. Confession in a thunderstorm. How f*****g dramatic.
Mildred was elbow-deep in bread dough.
“Going out, dear?” she asked, flour dusting her nose.
“Confession,” I announced, grabbing my jacket. I didn’t bother with the ‘least offensive outfit’ today. Screw it.
I pulled on a black, slightly-too-tight t-shirt under my open jacket. My jeans were the ripped kind. My boots were muddy. My hair was a damp tangle from just dashing to the shed for firewood.
Let him look through this.
“Oh! In this weather? Be careful, the path’s slick!” Mildred called after me, but I was already slamming the door.
The walk was miserable. Rain lashed sideways, soaking my jeans to the knee within minutes. The wind tried to steal my jacket.
By the time I shoved open the heavy church door, I was shivering, dripping, and vibrating with a weird cocktail of anger and determination.
The church was empty again, just the drumming of rain on the roof and the flickering red eye of the sanctuary lamp.
The confessional booth waited in its shadowy corner. My coffin.
I stomped down the aisle, water squelching in my boots, leaving muddy footprints on the ancient stone floor.
Take that, holiness.
I yanked open the sinner’s door and practically fell into the dark, cramped space, slamming the little door shut behind me. The familiar smells hit me – wood, dust, incense, and that clean, sharp scent that was him.
It was stronger today, mixed with the damp wool of my jacket and the metallic tang of rain.
I was breathing hard. From the walk, from the anger, from the sheer stupid audacity of being here, looking like a drowned, pissed-off rat.
The screen separating us felt thinner today. Flimsy. I could almost feel the heat radiating from the other side. Or maybe that was just me, steaming.
The rustle of fabric. The low, quiet voice, smooth as stone, but… was there a slight edge?
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. You may begin.”
No preamble. Straight to business. Fine.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” My voice came out breathless, ragged. Not faked this time. “It’s been… one week since my last confession.”
I leaned forward, my forehead almost touching the cool wood of the screen. My wet t-shirt clung uncomfortably.
“I’m still angry. So angry it feels like it’s burning me up from the inside.”
I wasn’t lying. The frustration, the helplessness, the boredom – it was a live wire under my skin.
“I can’t sleep. I just lie there… thinking. Feeling… restless.”
Silence. But it felt different. Thicker. Charged. Like the air before lightning strikes.
“I think about what you said. About fleeting satisfaction. Hollow gods.”
I let out a shaky breath, fogging the screen slightly.
“But Father… what if the emptiness is already there? What if the wanting… the feeling… is the only thing that makes it stop? Even for a second?”
My voice dropped lower, huskier than I intended.
“I touched myself again. Last night. In the dark. Thinking about… friction. Heat. Something real. Something that makes me forget.”
The silence this time was absolute. No rustle. No breath. Just the pounding rain on the roof and the frantic thud of my own heart against my ribs.
I pressed my palm flat against the screen, the wood cool beneath my heated skin.
“Do you ever feel it, Father? That emptiness? That… ache? Or are you too holy to feel anything at all?”
A sharp intake of breath from the other side. Audible. Tight. Then nothing.
I pushed. Leaned closer, my lips almost brushing the carved wood. My voice was a whisper, rough with challenge and something else I couldn’t name.
“Does the collar keep you warm at night? Or does it just remind you how cold you are?”
The click of the latch on his side of the confessional was shockingly loud in the silence.
Not the door opening. Just the latch releasing. Like a safety catch coming off.
My breath hitched. Adrenaline spiked, hot and electric.
Then, the sound of him standing. The heavy fabric of his cassock whispering against itself. The soft tread of his shoes on the stone floor outside the booth.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird.
What was he doing?
The latch on my side clicked.
The door swung open.
Light flooded the small space, blinding me for a second.
He stood there, framed by the dim church gloom. Tall. Impossibly tall.
His face was pale, carved from ice, but his eyes… His eyes were black fire. Burning.
Not indifferent. Not cold. Furious. Hungry. Terrifying.
He didn’t speak. He just looked at me, his gaze raking over my soaked clothes, my damp hair plastered to my neck, the rapid rise and fall of my chest under the thin, clinging t-shirt.
The intensity of it pinned me to the worn velvet kneeler. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
He stepped into the confessional.
There wasn’t room. It was meant for one kneeling sinner, not a standing priest.
His presence filled the tiny space, overwhelming the scent of wood and incense with his own clean, sharp smell and the damp wool of his cassock.
He was so close. Heat radiated off him, a shocking contrast to the cold stone at my back.
He reached out. Not slowly. Not gently.
His hand, large and strong, closed around my upper arm. His grip was iron. Not painful, but undeniable. Possessive.
He hauled me up from my knees. My boots slipped slightly on the smooth wood floor of the booth. I stumbled forward, my free hand landing flat against his chest.
Through the thick black wool, I felt the solid wall of muscle, the frantic, hammering beat of his heart.
It matched mine.
His other hand came up, fingers tangling roughly in my wet hair at the nape of my neck, tilting my head back.
I gasped.
His eyes locked onto mine, dark, dangerous, stripped bare of all pretense of piety. I saw the storm there. The hunger. The years of rigid control splintering.
“You play with fire, child,” he growled.
His voice wasn’t smooth stone anymore. It was gravel. Raw. Husky with something primal. The sound vibrated through me, low in my belly.
“I’m not a child,” I breathed, defiance warring with the sheer, terrifying thrill coursing through my veins.
His grip tightened in my hair. Not hurting. Owning.
His gaze dropped to my mouth. Lingered.
The air crackled. The rain drummed a frantic rhythm on the roof.
My lips parted on a shaky exhale. I could feel the heat of his breath on my skin. Cassock wool scraped against the thin cotton of my t-shirt. My n*****s tightened painfully against the damp fabric.
I was achingly aware of every point of contact: his hand on my arm, burning through my jacket sleeve; his fingers in my hair, sending sparks down my spine; the solid heat of his body inches from mine.
He leaned down. Slowly. Deliberately.
His eyes never left mine, holding me captive.
The world narrowed to the dark fire in his gaze, the scent of him, the overwhelming heat, the pounding of our hearts.
The gap between us vanished.
His mouth crashed down on mine.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tentative. It was a claiming. Hard. Desperate. Consuming.
His lips were firm, demanding, moving against mine with a fierce urgency that stole my breath. He tasted like strong tea and something darker, something uniquely him – sharp, clean, forbidden.
A low groan tore from his throat, vibrating against my lips, sending a shockwave of pure, molten desire straight to my core.
My hands flew up, not to push him away, but to grip the rough wool of his cassock, anchoring myself as the world tilted.
I kissed him back with everything I had – all the anger, the frustration, the restless ache, the sheer, blinding need to feel.
My tongue met his, tangling, exploring, setting my nerves alight.
His hand slid from my arm, down my back, pressing me flush against him.
I could feel the hard length of him through our clothes, pressed against my belly, and a whimper escaped me.
He deepened the kiss, one hand still fisted in my hair, the other splayed possessively low on my back, holding me impossibly close.
His body was a furnace.
The kiss was a wildfire – hungry, consuming, threatening to burn us both to ash. It was guilt and fury and desperation and raw, untamed lust, all colliding in the suffocating darkness of the confessional.
I arched against him, lost in the heat, the taste, the sheer, terrifying power of him unleashed.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
He tore his mouth from mine, breathing ragged, harsh in the small space.
His chest heaved against mine.
His eyes, when they met mine, were wide, dilated with shock and horror. The fire was still there, banked but smoldering, but it was now mixed with something else – a dawning, sickening realization.
Of what he’d done. Of who he was. Of where they were.
He looked at me – really looked at me – for the first time. Not through me. Not at me as a nuisance. But at me as a woman he’d just kissed with devastating intensity in the house of God.
The raw vulnerability, the self-loathing in his expression was almost more shocking than the kiss itself.
He shoved himself back, stumbling out of the confessional, crashing against the opposite pew.
He looked… wrecked. His hair was dishevelled, his lips slightly swollen, his collar askew. His chest rose and fell rapidly under the black wool.
I stood frozen in the doorway of the booth, my lips tingling, my body humming, my mind a chaotic whirlwind.
I touched my mouth, my fingers trembling. I could still taste him.
He stared at me, his face a mask of anguish and fury – directed inward.
Then, without a word, he turned and strode towards the sacristy door, his movements stiff, jerky.
He vanished inside, slamming the door behind him with a sound that echoed like a gunshot in the silent church.
I was left alone in the nave, dripping onto the stone floor, the scent of him still clinging to my skin, the phantom pressure of his lips on mine.
The rain hammered on the roof.
My knees gave out.
I sank onto the cold stone step of the confessional booth, trembling violently.
Not from cold. From the aftershocks.
I’d wanted him to feel something. To break that icy control.
Mission f*****g accomplished.
He’d kissed me. Hard. Like a man starving.
And now… he hated himself for it. Probably hated me too.
A shaky, breathless laugh escaped me, echoing slightly in the vast, empty
space. It sounded slightly hysterical.
Game definitely on.
But the rules had just changed.
And I had no idea what the hell to do next.
Except feel the wild, terrified, exhilarating thrum of my own pulse where his mouth had been.
- Writer
