Saint of Sin

f**k—” The word didn’t belong in his mouth, not in this place, not while I slid into the chapel like a shadow dressed in silk and sin. But it slipped from him anyway, unholy and delicious. He was beautiful. That was the problem. Eli Thorn stood at the pulpit, rosary clenched in one hand, righteousness in the other. But his eyes? His eyes were already undressing me. “Forgive me, Father,” I purred, stepping out from the archway. “For I’m about to sin.” The air shifted. Candles flickered. His jaw clenched. “What are you doing here?” he rasped. I didn't answer. I just walked, hips swaying under the open slit of my stolen habit. Black lace garters peeked with every step. My veil slipped just enough to hint at chaos beneath it. “Are you lost?” he asked, voice shaking. “No,” I whispered. “I’m exactly where I need to be.” His back hit the altar. “Are you real?” he muttered. I smiled. “You tell me.” Then I dropped to my knees. His breath caught. But I didn’t touch him. Not yet. I just watched the battle rage across his face—between virtue and craving. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, fists tightening at his sides. “This is sacred ground.” “So am I,” I said, brushing my lips over his belt. “But I’ve been defiled before.” He flinched like I’d slapped him with scripture. “You want to stop me?” I asked, standing slowly, pressing against him. “Say it.” He didn’t. Instead, his hands found my waist. Hesitated. Then gripped. “God is watching,” he whispered. “So let Him see what you really are.” I pushed him into the confessional, slammed the wooden door, and crawled into his lap, veil falling between our mouths like a thin, holy wall. His hands were on my thighs now. Hot. Desperate. Wrong. “Say my name,” I dared. He didn’t ask how I knew his. He just choked, “Seraphine.” The moment it left his lips, something snapped. I rocked against him—slow, obscene—and his head fell back with a groan. Fingers slid up my inner thighs, under the lace, testing the edge of damnation. “You came here to seduce me,” he growled, voice like thunder wrapped in silk. “No,” I whispered in his ear, biting it lightly. “I came here to ruin you.” His fingers found my heat, and I gasped, clutching his collar as if it could save me. It couldn’t. He worked slowly, deliberately, watching my every reaction like it was scripture. “Wet already,” he murmured. “You came to confess, but you’re dripping with sin.” “And you’re still wearing your collar,” I shot back. He didn’t smile. “Because I need a reminder,” he said, voice low, “of how far I’m about to fall.” I moaned as his fingers moved inside me, gentle, then cruel, then gentle again—like punishment disguised as pleasure. My head hit the confessional wall. Nails dug into his shoulders. This wasn’t just seduction. This was war. “You don’t know what you’ve started,” he said. “Then show me,” I dared. “Show me what kind of monster wears God's skin.” But instead of f*****g me—he stopped. Pulled away. Left me panting in silence. “Why?” I demanded. He leaned in, lips brushing my jaw. “Because I want you to crave me. I want you to beg. And I want you to remember—this was your idea.” Then he slipped from the confessional, adjusted his collar, and walked out—leaving me shaking, soaked, and furious. And on the wooden floor between my knees, where he’d been sitting— Was a single black card. Unmarked. On the back, scrawled in red ink: “The next sin is yours.”