you don’t stop me when i sink to my knees. that’s the first sin. you could tell me to stand. you could walk away. instead you watch, shoulders still beneath the black fabric, collar bright against your throat like a wound that never closes.

the red light makes you look dangerous. not holy. not safe.

your hand comes down into my hair.

this time it’s firm.

possession, not blessing.

my stomach twists, heat and shame tangling until i can’t separate them. i know this is wrong. i know the vows you took. the prayers you speak. the hands you’re supposed to use for sacraments instead of this.

and that knowledge makes something feral open up inside of me.

you tilt my head back. force me to look at you.

your expression isn’t gentle.

it’s hungry.

“do you understand what you’re doing?” you ask quietly.

i do.

i understand i’m dragging you somewhere you’re not supposed to go.

i understand you’re letting me.

your thumb presses against my lower lip, slow, deliberate, like you’re testing whether you’ll break.

“this is a sin,” you murmur.

but you don’t let go.

and the worst part is the way my chest floods with relief.