NO SAINTS HERE

It was nearly 10 PM when the cathedral doors creaked open. The wind pushed them just enough for the scent of rain and something forbidden to slip inside. The Friday confessions were over hours ago, and the candles on the altar had long since burned out. Father Matteo had stayed behind. Again. His fingers were knotted around the rosary beads in his lap, whispering quiet Hail Marys, hoping the rhythm would drown out the ache in his body a craving that had nothing to do with hunger or sleep. Then he heard it. Heels clicking across the marble floor. Slow. Deliberate. Female. Matteo's fingers froze mid-prayer. The confessional booth creaked open on the other side. Someone had stepped inside. He hesitated. "Confession is closed," he called, voice low but steady. No response. Only silence, heavy and seductive. Drawn by something darker than duty, he entered the booth and slid the screen open. "It's late," he said. A voice purred through the screen. Soft. Feminine. Familiar. "Forgive me, Father, for I am about to sin." His throat dried. He recognized her voice Luciana D'Amico. Twenty-three. Daughter of a wealthy patron. Devout, spoiled, untouchable. And dangerously beautiful. "I've done something wicked," she continued, voice almost a whisper. "But not wicked enough." "What... have you done?" he asked, torn between fear and fascination. She exhaled. "I touched myself in your pew. Thought of your hands. Your lips. Thought of how your collar would look... undone." His stomach tightened. Heat pooled below the waistline of his black clerical pants. "Luciana" he began. "Do you want me to stop, Father?" She was toying with him. Testing the limits of the collar he wore and the man beneath it. He should have walked away. Shut the screen. Prayed harder. Instead, he leaned in. "Tell me everything," he said, voice barely audible. She smiled behind the screen. He could feel it. "I slid my hand beneath my skirt while you gave communion last Sunday. The bread melted on my tongue... and so did I." He shuddered. "I imagined you leaning over me," she went on, "whispering Latin prayers against my bare skin." "Luciana, this isn't right," he rasped, hand gripping the edge of the screen so tightly his knuckles turned white. "But it feels right," she whispered. "I'm dripping, Father. I didn't wear any panties under this coat." His eyes closed, head tipping back against the wooden wall. "Do you want to see me?" she asked softly. "God help me" he breathed. She stood and stepped out before he could stop her. Moments later, the velvet curtain of the confessional booth rustled. And then she was in his side of the booth. Luciana dropped her coat. All she wore was sin. She straddled him before he could protest, pressing her warm, naked skin to his black cassock. His resistance was thin. Shattered. Their lips collided. Her hands found the back of his neck. His mouth devoured hers like the Eucharist had never existed. "Forgive me, Father," she whispered, rocking her hips against him, "but I'm not confessing because I regret it." He pressed his lips to her throat, voice thick with desire. "You will after this." She grabbed his face and stared into his eyes. "No," she said. "You will." His collar came undone. Buttons scattered. Her moans echoed through the empty cathedral like a prayer no saint would dare answer. And when it was over, sweat, breath, and guilt tangled between them he looked into her eyes and realized something terrifying. This wasn't her first confession. And it wouldn't be her last.