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"God is not happy with you."
The words leave your mouth almost in a whisper, and you're not even sure Ella hears them. Granted, the words are more for you than for her because the past few days have been torture—no, worse than torture, something closer to penance.
During the church charity event, she spent the entire night calling you Gabe, brushing against you as if by accident, lingering just long enough to make your pulse spike. At one point, she even pressed into you in the broom closet when you went looking for hand sanitizer, her body so close that you could feel her warmth through the thin barrier of your clothes.
She's temptation made of flesh and bone, soft skin and heat you ache to hold onto. A sin, plain and simple.
You shouldn't be thinking about her this way. You don't want to. You try not to. But she's so damn hard to resist, and the more you pray for distance, the closer she seems to get.
Is God punishing you? Maybe.
It's also been hard to ignore Noah's lingering looks whenever he comes to Mass with his family. It always feels like he's staring too long, judging you in silence, like he can see straight through you and recognize the weakness there, the hunger you carry for his best friend. If only hunger was all it was. It's more than that, and you're grateful, deeply grateful, that he doesn't know the filthy thoughts that swarm your head whenever Ella is around.
But tonight, you're not thinking about Noah. Tonight, you're struggling to remain the man God expects you to be. Somehow, there's a voice in your head whispering that you should give in and ask for forgiveness in the morning, after… after you finally get a taste of what it's like to reach for the forbidden fruit.
"Are you doing okay back there, Gabe?" Ella asks again, her back still pressed against you.
Gabe.
You swallow hard, trying to steady yourself. From her lips, your name sounds almost like a moan, and you wonder if she even realizes what she's doing to you, or if torturing you comes as naturally to her as breathing.
"I think she's almost gone," Ella says quietly, peeking out to check if Sister Madeline is done with her rounds.
The two of you have been stuck in the confession booth for nearly five minutes now, and the priest's side feels impossibly small with Ella pressed this close to you because it's not meant to hold two people. You'd stepped into the booth to grab your Bible when Ella walked in behind you, and before you could even greet her, Sister Madeline walked into the room to make sure everything was in order for tomorrow's Mass.
Getting caught with Ella in such a small space wasn't an option, so you let her push you in and the two of you stayed quiet. Besides, how would you even begin to explain that you didn't invite her in, that she was the one pushing boundaries, that being cornered with her in here was accidental?
No, you can't. And Sister Madeline would probably never believe you either.
So here you are. Cramped into the narrow space with Ella on your lap, both of you waiting in silence for Sister Madeline to leave, pretending this is temporary, pretending it hasn't already crossed a line you promised yourself you'd never cross.
The weight of her is unbearable. She's not heavy, but every ounce of her pressed against your thighs makes you pray your black pants are tight enough to hide the inevitable boner. Her back is warm against your chest, and you can feel the slight expansion of her ribs each time she breathes. She seems so relaxed, so calm, and so in control.
You on the other hand, you're not controlling anything.
Your hands are holding the wooden armrests, fingers aching from how hard you're gripping. You haven't touched her, and you keep telling yourself that you won't touch her. You just need to hold it for another few minutes, and Sister Madeline will finish checking the hymnals and the candles and whatever else she's decided needs attention at nine-thirty on a Tuesday night, and then Ella will climb off your lap, and you'll go back to the rectory, and you'll kneel on the cold floor of your room and pray until your knees bruise.
That's the plan.
"She's reorganizing the pamphlets now," Ella whispers, tilting her head to peer through the lattice screen. "Who reorganizes pamphlets at this hour?"
"Someone who takes her responsibilities seriously," you say, your voice already sounding hoarse.
Ella shifts. Just a small adjustment, her hips settling deeper into the cradle of your lap, and the friction sends a jolt straight up through your **** that makes your jaw clench so hard your teeth ache. She has to feel it. There's no way she doesn't feel what's happening beneath her, the evidence of exactly how seriously you're failing at this, and yet she doesn't move away, doesn't stiffen, and doesn't acknowledge it at all.
You close your eyes.
Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum—
"Gabe?"
"Don't call me that."
"Father Gray," she corrects, and somehow that's worse. "You're breathing really loud."
"I'm aware."
"Just saying. If Madeline hears—"
"She won't hear anything if you stop talking."
Ella goes quiet. For exactly four seconds. You know, because you count them. Then she shifts again, and this time her hips roll backward, a slow, grinding press against you that is so intentional, that your hand leaves the armrest and grabs her hip before your brain even registers the movement.
Your fingers dig into the soft denim of her jeans. You can feel the bone underneath, and the warmth of her skin bleeding through the fabric. You meant to stop her. That's what you tell yourself. You grabbed her to hold her still, to prevent her from moving, to keep this from becoming something you can't walk back from, but you don't push her away. Your hand stays exactly where it is, thumb pressing into the curve above her hip bone, and you feel her stomach contract under your grip.
"Don't," you say.
The word has no conviction. What is supposed to sound like a warning sounds like begging. Even worse, a desperate, hollow plea a man makes when he already knows he's lost.
Ella turns her head just a little, and suddenly her mouth is right there, right next to yours. She glances down at your hand resting on her hip and swallows. "You grabbed me," she says softly.
"I know."
"You probably shouldn't do that, Father."
Yeah, probably. There are a lot of things you shouldn't have done. Getting reassigned to this small town. Befriending the scandal child. Getting stuck with her inside a confessional booth and fighting the urge to kiss her every second she's this close. Yeah, there are a lot of things you shouldn't have done, but just like grabbing her hip, it's already too late to undo whatever damage has been done.
"Does that mean I'm sinning?" Ella whispers.
Is she? Your grip tightens instead of loosening. You should physically remove her from your lap, open the booth door, and walk out into the nave where God, Sister Madeline, and every carved saint lining the walls can watch you make the right choice for once. But... you don't
Out in the church, Sister Madeline's footsteps move toward the sacristy. Then comes the sound of a door opening, then closing. Then silence fills the room.
That's all it takes for you to lean forward, closing the almost nonexistent gap between you. "No, you're not sinning," you murmur. "But I am."
And with that, you kiss her.
#ccmisery#father gray
64 notes
shadowkisschy
nervousnephilim
Oh! Learning something about myself here. Neat. Can't wait to read more.
revengeofthecis
The way I’m hootin and hollerin like a cartoon character fr
cosmic-writes-novels
Heyyy salut, chère francophone
