GODLESS PLEASURES

Chapter 8: The Priest’s Son

“You shouldn’t be here.” That’s what Clara told herself every time she stepped inside the priest’s house. Every time she helped organize donation books, wiped down holy goblets, or folded flyers for Sunday Mass. But it wasn’t the candles or the crucifixes that made her nervous. It was Elijah. Father Emmanuel’s only son. Tall. Rebellious. Sinfully beautiful. The boy who lit cigarettes behind the chapel and played guitar like he was seducing the strings. The one who didn’t kneel when others did, who stared at her too long during community dinners, who once asked her in a whisper, “Do you ever think about doing something wrong on purpose?” Yes. She thought about it every time she looked at him. And she thought about it even more when she touched herself at night thinking of the way he looked at her like she wasn’t wearing anything at all. It was on a Wednesday afternoon. Clara was alone in the tiny church library, shelving hymn books. Her skirt was modest. Her blouse buttoned to the neck. But her thoughts weren’t. They’d kissed once weeks ago. A drunken mistake during a late night volunteer cookout. It had lasted ten seconds and haunted her ever since. He hadn’t apologized. He’d winked. She still dreamed about it. As she reached for a top shelf, a warm presence appeared behind her. She didn’t have to turn to know who it was. “You always stand like that when you’re pretending not to think about me,” Elijah murmured. Clara stiffened. “I’m not” “Thinking about me?” His voice was closer now. She felt the heat of his body behind her. “Or thinking about how good I made you feel with just my mouth on yours?” She dropped the book. He caught it. She finally turned. Elijah’s eyes weren’t mocking like usual. They were hungry. “You’re the priest’s son,” she said breathlessly. “And you’re the girl who moans in her sleep.” He grinned. “I’ve heard you.” Her face flushed. Her pulse throbbed between her thighs. He stepped forward, closing the distance. “Do you want me to stop?” She didn’t answer. She didn’t stop him. His lips met hers with a force that unbalanced her not violent, but sure. Like he’d been waiting. She melted against him, clinging to his shoulders, heart pounding in her throat. Elijah kissed like a man who had sinned a thousand times and wasn’t sorry for any of them. His hands skimmed her waist, teasing the fabric, slowly lifting it. Her thighs trembled. His fingers found her hips, her bare skin, and then... “Here?” she gasped. “Someone could walk in.” “Let them,” he growled, pressing her gently against the bookshelves. Her breath caught as he sank to his knees before her, lifting her skirt higher. “You want to confess?” he asked, kissing the inside of her thigh. “Let me listen properly.” Clara whimpered as his mouth reached her center warm, slow, maddening. His tongue explored her like a sacred text. Patient. Hungry. Unholy. She gripped the edge of the shelf, body trembling. “Elijah” “Say my name like that again,” he whispered against her. Her hips bucked. He held her steady, tongue working deeper, fingers sliding inside her slowly, perfectly. “You’re soaked,” he murmured. “Holy girls aren’t supposed to be this wet.” She came with a cry, legs shaking, mouth pressed to her wrist to muffle the sound. Her body collapsed into his arms as he stood, holding her like she was something fragile and forbidden. And then he kissed her again. Softly. Like a promise. Later That Night She thought it was over. She thought he’d walk away like he always did. But Elijah showed up at her door. No explanations. No apologies. Just want. She let him in. In her bed, under the soft moonlight, Clara watched as he undressed slowly, deliberately. His lean body carved by summer labor and silent rebellion. His eyes never left hers. He peeled her clothes off like unwrapping something sacred. When he entered her, she gasped not from pain, but from the overwhelming fullness. The sense of being consumed, entirely. “This isn’t just lust,” he whispered in her ear as he moved inside her. “This is the part of you that’s always wanted to break the rules.” Clara cried out as his thrusts deepened, as his hand found her breast and squeezed, as his mouth kissed away her shame. She wrapped her legs around his waist. And for the first time, she didn’t feel guilty. She felt alive. The Morning After Clara woke up sore, tangled in sheets that smelled like sweat and regret. Elijah lay beside her, watching. “I should hate you,” she whispered. He grinned. “But you don’t.” She didn’t. She never could. And as Sunday approached, Clara knew she’d stand in church eyes cast down, voice shaking through hymns and carry a secret deep in her body. A secret carved in moans and sweat and soft gasps in the dark. A secret called Elijah. But it didn’t end there. The next week, it happened again. In the sacristy while she was polishing the communion plates. Elijah locked the door and kissed her with his hands in her hair, lifting her onto the altar table like she was an offering. “Blasphemy,” she whispered, breathless. “You love it,” he answered, dragging her panties down. And she did. They began to find excuses to be alone. She’d volunteer for every church task that might give her five minutes in a hallway with him. A stolen kiss behind the confessional. His hand between her thighs in the storage closet while she pretended to look for candles. Every time she saw Father Emmanuel, she burned with guilt. And every time she saw Elijah, she burned with need.

The real danger began when rumors started to spread. Someone had seen them, just a glimpse. A too-long hug. A closed door. Her mother asked her, “Is something going on with the priest’s son?” and Clara had choked on her tea. But it was worse when the priest himself called her into his study. “Clara,” Father Emmanuel said gently, “you’ve been a good influence on Elijah. He’s been more… grounded lately. I see you’ve brought light into his life.” She nearly burst into tears. Elijah’s father was blessing their affair without knowing it. It all came crashing down during a youth group retreat. They’d snuck away during the bonfire Elijah pressing her into the shadows of a chapel wall, whispering filthy things in her ear, making her come with just his fingers while she bit his collar to muffle her cries. But someone had followed them. A boy named Micah. The next day, Micah reported it to the church board. Everything exploded. Clara’s parents were called. Elijah was threatened with being sent away. Father Emmanuel collapsed during a sermon from stress. Clara was told she couldn’t serve at Mass anymore. Couldn’t volunteer. Couldn’t show her face for a while. And yet… That night, Elijah showed up outside her window, throwing pebbles like something out of a movie. “I’d do it all again,” he said when she let him in. “Every sin.” She believed him. And she let him into her bed again.