Chapter 52: Book 2 of the Forbidden Passion Saga. Loving You Is My Sin. Chapter 1 – The Silence That Consumes Me

Book 2 of the Forbidden Passion Saga. Loving You Is My Sin. Chapter 1 – The Silence That Consumes Me

MATEO – POV

In my dream, there were no clergymen, no commitments, no God watching me.

There was only her… Lucía… and me, devouring her like a starving man who had spent his entire life suppressing every impulse.

I had her trapped against the wall, my hands pinning her wrists above her head. Her white nightgown was torn, hanging loosely from her shoulders, revealing her soft, warm skin—the skin I had imagined so many times without ever daring to touch. The heat radiating from her hit me hard. Her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breathing, brushing lightly against me and driving my desire to the point of pain.

I leaned in, capturing her mouth with mine in a frantic kiss, with no intention of holding back. There was no tenderness—only need. My tongue invaded her mouth with the same urgency my hands used to explore her body, memorizing every curve for fear of losing her. She moaned against my lips, the sound desperate and muffled, echoing straight into my chest.

Without breaking the kiss, I lifted her in one sharp motion. Her legs wrapped around me as if they had always been made for that purpose. I slammed her back against the wall, feeling the heat of her body press against the hard ache that throbbed painfully just from being so close to her.

I entered her in a single movement—deep and fierce—pulling a moan from her that pierced straight through me. Her head fell back, her nails dug into my shoulders, and I drove into her again and again, as if trying to shatter every boundary I had ever imposed on myself.

Her body trembled with every thrust. The wall vibrated with the rhythm of our movements, and my hands gripped her hips, forcing her to take more of me. My breathing was a growl; hers, a broken gasp that fed my savagery.

Without warning, I turned her around, bending her over a nearby table. The nightgown finally slipped free under my hands and I tossed it to the floor. My chest pressed against her back, my lips biting into the skin of her neck as my hips slammed into hers with a relentless rhythm. The sound of our bodies colliding filled the room, mingling with the heavy scent of sex and sweat.

“Look at me…” I demanded, tugging gently on her hair until she turned her face toward mine.

Her honey-colored eyes met mine—intense. And I felt the same fire burning inside me. In that gaze there was no fear, no innocence—only the same brutal desire consuming me. My hands slid down, caressing her thighs before gripping her again and thrusting harder, feeling how she wrapped around me as if trying to trap me, to keep me from ever escaping.

I drove her to the edge again and again, until her body arched and a cry tore from her throat. I followed her, thrusting deeper, harder, feeling pleasure explode inside me like searing fire.

And right at that moment… when everything turned into light and heat… I woke up.

I opened my eyes abruptly. The darkness of my room in the rectory slammed me back into reality like an icy blow. I was drenched in sweat, breathing hard, my heart pounding violently in my chest. My hands were shaking, my entire body burning, and all I felt was an unbearable emptiness.

I rose slowly, running my hands over my face. Shame tightened around my throat. I dropped to my knees beside the bed.

“Forgive me, Lord…” I murmured in a broken voice. “Forgive me for letting my mind go so far…”

I recited prayers automatically, as if repeating them over and over could cleanse the stain I felt beneath my skin. I closed my eyes to concentrate, but every time I did, the images returned: her skin, her mouth, the sound of her moans.

I stood up and, without turning on the main light, walked over to the desk. I switched on the small lamp and pulled a black-covered notebook from a drawer. I opened it. The blank page felt like a silent confessional—one that would not judge me, but would not absolve me either.

“Today I dreamed of her again.”

I wrote her name: Lucía. And as the ink soaked into the page, I remembered the day I met her for the first time.

Flashback

It was a cloudy afternoon, rain pounding against the stained-glass windows of Saint Michael the Archangel Parish as if seeking shelter itself. I was putting away chalices in the sacristy when I heard footsteps. They weren’t the measured steps of a regular parishioner—they were hurried, uneven. I stepped into the stone hallway, and there she was.

Her hair was soaked, clinging to her pale face. She wore a cotton dress torn at the side and a damp shawl. A dark bruise marked her cheek. In her hands, she clutched a small bag, as though she had fled with the first thing she could grab.

“May I… stay here for a moment?” she asked in a trembling voice, her accent colored by the soft Spanish of Chiapas.

She didn’t need to explain. Her story was written on her wounds. I led her to my office, fetched the first-aid kit, and cleaned the dried blood from her split lip. She watched me in silence, with those large honey-colored eyes that seemed to tell a thousand stories her lips refused to speak. I gave her a clean blanket and a cup of hot chamomile tea.

The woman who helped clean the parish was ill, and perhaps because of that—or because I didn’t want to send her back out onto the rain-soaked cobblestone streets—I suggested she stay and help at the church while she recovered. I told myself it was an act of kindness, something any man of faith would do… but now, in hindsight, I understand it was the first door I left open for this desire to enter.

From that moment on, my routine was no longer mine alone. I heard her humming softly while she swept the atrium, and I caught myself stopping just to listen. I noticed her scent when she passed by, and it lingered with me longer than it should have. I found myself watching the evening light catch in her hair as she lit the candles at the high altar.

I close the notebook. My gaze settles on the carved wooden crucifix hanging on the wall.

I promise myself that tomorrow I won’t think of her like this again… But deep down, I know it’s a lie. I know that tonight I will dream of Lucía again—and that in my dreams there will be no rules, no vows, no God to save me from myself.