The incense in the chapel always made me dizzy.

Or maybe it was the guilt.

My heels clicked too loud on the marble floor as I crossed the nave. I wrapped my coat tighter even though I was burning from the inside.

Sunday Mass had ended. Everyone else had gone. The silence swallowed me whole as I made my way to the confessional booth, heart hammering like a drum in a hollow church.

I shouldn't have come back here.

But I couldn't stop dreaming of it this scent, this space. The wooden screen. The idea of being on my knees.

Of someone listening as I confessed the filthiest parts of me.

I knelt slowly. My bare thighs met the cushion, cold and worn from years of prayers.

The tiny screen between the booths lit softly from the other side.

A pause. Then, a voice, smooth as velvet but low and deep, settled like a storm behind the lattice.

"My child," he began, steady and commanding, "you've come to confess?"

That voice wasn't old. It wasn't weary or soft or gentle. No, this wasn't Father Reynolds or the others I remembered. This was dangerous.

My lips parted.

"Yes, Father."

"Tell me your sins."

My pulse thudded in my throat. My confession wasn't for God. It was for him. Whoever he was behind that screen.

"I've had impure thoughts."

A long pause.

"Continue."

"About submission. Hands pinning me down. Being taken without mercy."

Another silence.

Then, a shift. Wood creaked. My skin prickled.

"And do you seek forgiveness?"

"No."

Silence again.

"What do you seek then?"

"Punishment."

A breath on the other side. Thick. Slow. Measured.

"Leave the booth. Third door past the altar. Do not knock."

My breath caught.

"Now."

I obeyed before my body even realized it was moving. I crossed behind the altar like I was walking into Hell and Heaven at once.

Door three. A heavy oak. Already open, barely.

Inside: a simple room. Bookshelves. A desk. A single chair.

And him.

A tall, young priest with curling black hair, rolled up sleeves, and dark, thundercloud eyes that locked onto me the moment I entered.

"You knelt for God," he murmured. "Now kneel for me."

I sank to the floor.

"Open your coat."

I unbelted it with trembling hands.

Underneath, I had worn nothing but lace. Black. Transparent.

"Did you wear this for confession?"

"No," I whispered.

He tilted his head.

"Then God must have known you'd end up in my hands tonight."

He stepped forward and placed two fingers under my chin.

"Look at you. Sins leaking out of your skin."

His fingers found my mouth. I opened instinctively.

He slid them deep, coating them with my spit.

Then he brought them down between my thighs, pressing the soaked lace.

"Soaked already. So desperate to be used."

I gasped as he tore the panties clean off with one tug.

Then he lifted me by the throat effortlessly and bent me over the desk.

The Bible fell with a dull thud onto the stone floor.

He didn't bother with pleasantries.

His palm cracked down on my ass, the sound echoing like a hymn warped in hell.

"One. For every thought you didn't confess."

Slap. "Two."

Slap. "Three."

By five, I was grinding against the desk.

By seven, I was begging.

"Please, Father."

He yanked my hips back, parting me open.

"You're dripping down your thighs," he murmured.

Then, I felt his breath hot and unholy between my legs.

And then his tongue. Long, slow, tormenting licks that lapped at my clit like it was communion.

He ate me like salvation, gripping my hips so tight I knew I'd feel him tomorrow.

"God won't hear you down here," he whispered before slamming two fingers inside me.

"I don't want God," I panted.

He stood and undid his belt with a quiet, brutal snap.

Then I saw it his cock.

Thick, flushed, heavy. Veins pulsing.

He aligned himself with my entrance.

"No protection," I breathed.

"No forgiveness either."

He slammed in.

I arched, gasping. He filled me completely in one savage thrust.

He didn't ease in. He didn't give me time.

He took.

Every inch felt like blasphemy. Every thrust was a prayer I couldn't say aloud.

"Say it," he growled.

"I want you to ruin me."

"Louder."

"I want you to fuck me where I should pray."

He drove deeper, harder. The desk creaked with every impact.

My climax came fast so intense I nearly blacked out.

He didn't stop. He fucked me through it, one hand wrapped around my throat.

I felt the moment he lost control his rhythm faltered, hips stuttering.

He slammed in deep and poured inside me with a long, low groan of relief and corruption.

We didn't speak.

Only our breathing filled the space.

Then he pulled out and whispered against my ear:

"Same time next Sunday, little sinner."

I was not supposed to be here.

My best friend, Harper, had gone to pick up pizza. I was left alone in the house I'd practically grown up in, and only now, everything felt different.

Or maybe i did.

Maybe it was the man who had just walked in from the back porch, a towel around his waist, hair still wet from a swim.

Mr. Reed.

Harper's dad.

He wasn't just hot for his age he was devastating. Forty-five, salt and pepper stubble, broad shoulders, thick forearms. There was gravity to him. A weight in the way he moved and looked at people that made my stomach tighten.

We had always been friendly. He'd call me "sweetheart" in that warm voice of his, and I used to giggle and blush when I was younger.

But now?

Now I watched him, stared, swallowed too hard when he reached for a drink or scratched the edge of his abs under his shirt.

And I was pretty sure he'd started watching back.

Like today, when he walked in and caught me sunbathing in the backyard with Harper, my bikini untied. I'd felt his eyes stick. Just for a second. just long enough.

And now?

Now we were alone. I was wearing a loose crop top and short cotton shorts that clung when I sat down.

And he was watching me again.

"You two girls drinking my beer again?" he asked with a smirk.

I smirked back, playful. "Maybe just one"

He walked closer, that towel dangerously low on his hips.

"You're not a little girl anymore," he said softly, stopping right in front of me.

Something electric passed between us.

"No," I said, eyes locking with his. "I'm not."

His gaze dipped. I watched his jaw clench. A muscle in his neck twitched.

"Your friend's gone for what, twenty minutes?"

I nodded, heartbeat racing.

His eyes darkened.

"I shouldn't," he muttered.

"You already are."

Then I reached for the towel.

And he didn't stop me.

It dropped to the floor.

He was hard already. Thick. Heavy. And fuck, big.

"Jesus," I whispered.

"Not here," he growled. "On your knees. Mouth open."

I dropped, adrenaline flooding my veins.

I gripped the backs of his thighs as he pressed the tip against my lips.

"Been dreaming of this," I said, voice shaking. "Since I was eighteen."

"You're twenty one now."

I smirked. "Old enough to know how to swallow."

He didn't ease in.

He fed me his cock like he was starving to feel my throat. My lips stretched, jaw wide, as he buried himself deep. I gagged tears pricking but I didn't stop. I loved the sound he made when I took him all the way.

"Fuck, sweetheart. Look at that mouth."

He fisted my hair, controlling the rhythm, using me.

He pulled out with a wet pop and yanked me to my feet.

"Bed. Now."

We didn't make it to the guest room. He bent me over the kitchen island and shoved my shorts down.

"Been wanting to taste this tight little cunt since the day you turned legal."

He spread me open. Groaned.

"You're soaked."

"Because I knew you were home."

He dropped to his knees behind me.

The first lick made me scream.

His tongue wasn't gentle. It was brutal. Messy. Worshipful.

He sucked and fucked me with his mouth like he was making up for lost time.

"You taste like sin."

"Then confess with your tongue," I moaned, grinding back.

He licked me through an orgasm so intense I saw stars.

Then he stood, grabbed my hips, and thrust in no condom. No hesitation.

"Fuck!"

His cock stretched me wide, filling every inch.

He held my wrists down, chest pressed to my back, voice in my ear.

"Tell me you've thought about this."

"Every night."

"Tell me you touched yourself to me."

"Every time I heard your voice downstairs."

He growled.

Then he slammed into me. Harder. Rougher. Like he wanted to brand me from the inside.

"You like being fucked like this, little slut?"

"Yes, Daddy."

His hips stuttered.

"You're gonna be the death of me."

"Then die in me."

He grabbed my throat, turned my head, and kissed me dirty, desperate.

When he came, it was with a shout into my neck and a full, hot flood that made me dizzy.

We stayed tangled, breathless.

Then we heard the front door open.

Harper's voice: "Got the pizza!"

I looked up at him, wide-eyed.

He smirked, still inside me.

"You're mine now," he whispered. "Better keep your mouth full so you don't moan next time."

I'd always wondered what his hands would feel like without the gloves.

Day in, day out, Nolan wore them. Sleek, black leather over fingers I imagined were rough from work and discipline. His jaw stayed tense, his eyes never lingered too long, and his voice when he rarely spoke was firm and low enough to ruin me.

He was thirty-eight. Stoic. Private. My father's chauffeur for six years.

I was twenty-one. Barely allowed to drink, let alone climb into the front seat with the man I had undressed with my eyes since I was sixteen.

Tonight, I climbed in anyway.

It started with my voice. Whispered and syrupy, a little too close to his ear as I leaned forward from the backseat.

"Drive the long way."

His eyes flicked up to the mirror. A pause.

"Yes, Miss Arden."

Miss Arden. My last name. Cold. Detached. That mask he wore like skin.

I wasn't wearing any underwear. And my dress was tight cut just high enough that if I crossed my legs the wrong way, he'd notice.

And I wanted him to.

Ten minutes into the drive, with the rain coming down and city lights streaking the windows, I pressed my thighs together and whispered again.

"You always keep both hands on the wheel, Mr. Nolan?"

"I'm paid to keep them there."

I smiled. "But what if I asked you to use them somewhere else?"

A sharp inhale. No answer.

I reached forward again. Fingers grazing his shoulder.

"You ever wanted to touch something you weren't supposed to?"

"Every fucking day," he muttered, finally meeting my eyes in the mirror.

Then he swerved off the main road. No hesitation. No questions. Just heat.

We stopped under an overpass, engine humming.

The rain hammered down above us.

He turned to me slowly, face unreadable but his eyes dark with decision.

"I lose my job for this."

"I won't tell," I whispered, crawling into the front seat, into his lap.

He caught me by the waist, hard and fast, like he'd been starving for years.

His mouth crushed mine.

No pretense. No buildup.

Just raw, pent up lust that shattered any line we were pretending to stay behind.

"I've watched you grow into a little fucking tease," he growled, hand under my dress already. "Parading around without panties? You wanted me to see."

"I wanted you to touch."

He hooked a finger inside me deep.

"Goddamn. You're soaked."

"All for you."

Then he lifted me slightly, pushed his pants down just enough, and let his cock slap against my bare heat. Thick. Heavy. Already dripping pre cum.

"Fuck," I gasped. "You're huge."

He didn't respond. Just aligned himself and slid inside in one long, punishing thrust.

I arched. Cried out.

"Shh," he whispered against my throat. "Unless you want the cops to find us like this."

That only made it hotter.

He bounced me on his cock like the car was his bed my hands braced on the dashboard, my moans muffled by his shoulder.

He grabbed my throat firm but not too tight forcing my eyes to his.

"I used to imagine your legs spread in the backseat."

"You mean like this?" I reached behind, spread myself wider. "Wetter now?"

He groaned. Bit my lip. And thrust harder.

I came fast clenching around him, body twitching.

He didn't stop.

Pulled out.

Spun me around.

Bent me over the center console and shoved back in.

"Now I fuck you like you begged for it."

He was feral. Focused. Pounding into me while gripping my hair with one hand and pressing the other to the foggy windshield for leverage.

I couldn't see. Couldn't speak.

Just felt.

Hot, wet, full.

When he came, he didn't pull out. He just buried himself deep, groaning like it physically hurt to stop.

His seed filled me in slow, pulsing waves.

Silence followed.

Heavy. Breathless.

I collapsed against the seat. Shaking. Satisfied.

He adjusted himself. Reached for his gloves again.

"You say one word of this"

"I'll be in the backseat tomorrow," I interrupted, smiling. "No panties."