Chapter 12: Forgive me, father 2

The first time Mara returns, she wears red lipstick.

Not coral. Not rose. Red—deep, sinful, and deliberately smeared at the edges like a warning. Or an invitation.

It’s not church-appropriate.

But then again, Mara stopped caring about appropriateness the moment Father Elijah whispered, Tell me everything.

She walks slower this time. Like a woman in command of her own damnation. Her heels click against the marble, each step echoing like a challenge—daring the saints in the stained glass to look away, daring the crucifix to flinch.

She dares him, too.

But he doesn’t stop her.

She slips into the booth like smoke, drawn to the dark. The scent of old wood and incense now clings to her memory like perfume—an olfactory prelude to a ritual that no longer belongs to God.

She doesn’t cross herself. Doesn’t lower her gaze. Doesn’t kneel in submission.

This isn’t repentance.

This is seduction.

“I bought something new,” she whispers through the screen.

There’s a pause. Then a sound—a shift of fabric, a slight intake of breath.

Her lips curl.

“A toy,” she adds, voice like velvet dragged across skin. “I used it last night. Thought of your hands. Your mouth. Thought of you watching me push it in, pretending it was you.”

Another pause.

The silence this time is charged. Almost unbearable.

Then—

A zipper.

Soft. Metallic. Intentional.

She bites her bottom lip, smearing the lipstick further.

She knew it.

“You’re not supposed to want this,” she breathes. “But you do.”

Still, no words. But the air between them throbs.

So she leans closer. Closer than she should.

“Don’t you, Father?”

The silence that follows is darker than any confession.

When she leaves the booth, her heart is racing. Her thighs ache. Her lipstick is ruined. And still, he doesn’t stop her.

But he watches her go.

She feels it—his eyes, molten and stormy, burning through the sanctuary shadows.

The second day, she doesn’t even pretend to be subtle.

She wears heels that click louder. A dress shorter than sin. And no panties.

She slides into the booth, heart already hammering.

“I dreamed you came into my room last night,” she says softly, sweetly, like a bedtime story laced with poison. “You didn’t speak. Just pulled me out of bed, bent me over the altar, and made me confess every filthy thing I’d ever done… while your hands were inside me.”

The only response is breath—uneven, raw.

“I woke up panting. Still wet. Still empty.”

More silence. But this time, it isn’t distant. It’s trembling.

“Say something, Father.”

He doesn’t.

But the silence itself answers her. It’s loud. Desperate.

On the third day, Mara doesn’t bother with preamble.

No sultry metaphors. No whispered sins.

She sits in the booth, spine straight, eyes sharp.

And says, simply, “Do you want me?”

This time, the pause is short. Sharp. A single heartbeat.

Then—

The creak of a door.

She turns.

And there he is.

Not Father Elijah.

Just Elijah.

The collar is gone. His sleeves are rolled. His chest rises and falls like he’s been holding his breath for three days straight.

His eyes? Tormented. Wild. Hungry.

“I’ve been trying to save you,” he says, voice low, frayed at the edges. “But every time you open your mouth, every time you walk through those doors… I fall deeper into hell.”

Mara steps toward him, the air taut between them.

“Then fall with me.”

The rectory is sacred.

Until it isn’t.

The door slams. The lock clicks.

And then his mouth is on hers—rough, starved, almost violent. They crash into each other like sinners who’ve waited lifetimes to taste what they were forbidden.

Buttons scatter across the floor as he tears open her blouse. Her bra snaps with a sound that feels like a vow breaking. His hands devour her—skin, curves, sins—like prayer turned profane.

He lifts her and pins her against the wall, grinding into her until she moans against his neck, lipstick staining his collarbone.

There’s no gentleness now. No more hesitation. Only hunger.

He sinks to his knees before her, looking up with eyes that no longer ask permission.

“Get on yours,” he rasps. “Not for prayer.”

She drops instantly, like a disciple obeying the only truth she’s ever believed in.

Her fingers tremble as she helps him undo his belt. His cck is thick, heavy, and already weeping.

She takes him in her mouth, slow and reverent.

He groans—long and guttural. His fingers tangle in her hair.

“God forgive me,” he chokes.

But neither of them stop.

Not when he lifts her onto the desk. Not when he bends her over the windowsill. Not when he slams into her over and over, the sound of flesh on flesh competing with his muffled grunts and her breathless cries.

She calls him Father as she comes. He shudders like he’s been struck by lightning.

They don’t stop.

Not when guilt whispers.

Because lust roars.

They fck on the floor, on his cot, with hands bruising, teeth biting, faith unraveling.

When it’s over—if it ever is—they lie tangled together, sweat-drenched and shaking.

The air is thick with sx. The scent of sanctity ruined.

Elijah presses his forehead to hers.

“I should dmn myself for this,” he whispers, like a confession he already knows is too late.

Mara smiles, trailing a finger down his jaw.

“You already have.”

And then she kisses him again.

Not to forgive.

But to claim.