#pucci

You swallow hard and keep going, the confession spilling out like it has been waiting inside you for months. “I made it look like an accident. He always drank too much after those long nights. I waited until he passed out in the garage, then I moved things around, just enough. The car was old, the brakes had been wearing down for a while. I made sure the scene looked right. Police called it a tragic fall, it’s been a whole year and nobody has ever looked at me with suspicion.”

On the other side of the divider, Father Pucci stays quiet for a long moment. You wonder if he is disgusted, if he is already thinking about calling someone. But then you hear the soft shift of his robes and  admiration slips into his silence. He thinks to himself how clean it was. How careful. A year without a single loose thread. Most people slip up. You had not.

The sound of his door opening makes your heart jump. Then your own door opens too. You gasp, eyes wide as cool church air rushes in. Father Pucci stands there, tall and framed by the low candlelight. His white hair looks almost silver in the shadows and those sharp eyes lock onto yours. The tension snaps tight between you like a live wire. Neither of you speaks. You can hear your own breathing and you wonder if he can hear it too.

He does not reach for you. He does not step back. He just looks at you like he is seeing every secret you have ever buried. The air feels heavier, warmer, charged with something neither of you name.

After what feels like forever, his voice comes low and steady.

“You may go in peace.”

But he does not move away from the doorway, his hand stays on the edge of the confessional door, long fingers curled around the wood. You stay seated, knees pressed together, staring up at him. You rise slowly on shaky legs, your heels clicking again as you step out. Your shoulder brushes close to his chest when you pass. Close enough to smell the faint scent of incense and clean fabric, close enough that you both freeze for half a second.

“Father...” you start, but the word dies on your tongue.

He finally lowers his hand, letting the door swing shut behind you with a soft click. Yet his eyes do not leave your face. There is no judgment there, you don’t know what’s in his eyes but it feels like devotion in your skin.

“Peace is not always easy to find,” he whispers. “But sometimes... it finds us instead.”

You stand there in the hallway of stained glass and candlelight, heart hammering, wondering if you should walk away or if you are waiting for him to say something more. The silence stretches again, full of everything you are both too careful to speak out loud.

Your shoulder brushes his chest as you step out of the confessional and Father Pucci feels it like a spark against his skin. He stays perfectly still, fingers still curled around the wooden doorframe, watching the way the candlelight dances across your face. His heart, usually so steady in prayer, beats harder than it should. Most sinners came to him broken and sloppy, their sins messy and full of loose ends. But you... you had been careful. Methodical. You turned your husband’s own strength and habits against him without leaving a trail. It was beautiful in its precision. Pucci had heard hundreds of confessions, yet none had left him quietly impressed like this one. God tests us in strange ways, he thinks, and she passed hers with grace.

He should feel horror, he should be reciting verses about repentance and the sanctity of life. Instead, a quieter voice whispers admiration. She endured. She waited. She freed herself. The same kind of resolve he respected in himself, the kind that made a person worthy of destiny. His eyes trace the line of your neck, the way your dress clings just slightly from nerves and something warmer stirs beneath the black of his cassock. A dangerous warmth.

Pucci’s thoughts twist. She is beautiful in her sin. Part of him, the priest, wants to guide you toward true atonement. Another part, deeper and hungrier, wants to know every detail of how you planned it. How your hands must have moved in the dark. How clever you had been. That curiosity feels like temptation itself, sweet and forbidden.

Inside, his mind races faster. If she can do that... what else is she capable of? The thought sends a thrill through him, one he quickly tries to bury under years of discipline. But it does not stay buried. It lingers, warm and insistent, as he stands there in the candlelit hallway with you. The air between your bodies feels alive, charged like the moment before a storm. He does not step back. He does not tell you to leave.

Instead, he tilts his head just slightly, white hair catching the light. “Tell me,” he says softly, against his better judgment, “do you feel lighter now that you have spoken it aloud? Or does the weight still press on you?”

You stand there in the flickering hallway, heart still racing from how close he is. His question hangs between you like incense smoke, you look up into his sharp eyes and answer softly.

“I feel lighter in some ways, Father. But heavier in others. Saying it out loud made it real again, but now I’m scared someone else knows.”

He does not pull away. Instead, his hand moves gently to the small of your back, guiding you without pressure. “Come with me,” he murmurs. “The confessional is too small for the weight you carry.”

You follow him through the quiet church, heels clicking softly on the stone floor as he leads you to a side door. His office is warm compared to the rest of the building, a desk covered in old books, a single lamp glowing and a small couch against the wall. He closes the door behind you both and the click sounds louder than it should. The tension from the confessional follows you inside, thicker now.

You sit on the couch, hands folded in your lap. Father Pucci takes the chair across from you at first, but after a few minutes he moves closer, sitting on the edge of the desk so your knees almost touch. The conversation starts slow, then deepens like water pulling you under.

You tell him more about your husband. How he would pin you against walls when he had been drinking, how his strength made you feel small and helpless every single day. You do not say the worst parts, but you do not have to. Pucci listens without interrupting, his expression calm but his eyes burning intensely, he nods when you describe the careful way you planned it all, the patience it took. You see it again in his face,quiet admiration. He thinks your crime was perfect. Holy in its justice.

Then the talk shifts to faith. “I prayed for years for it to stop,” you whisper. “But God never answered, so I did what I had to. Does that make me damned, Father?”

“God gives us strength in many forms. Some call it sin, others call it deliverance. Your faith did not abandon you. It tested you.” His words feel like a caress. He speaks about his own beliefs then, how he sees destiny and fate woven into every choice. How suffering can lead to greater purpose. You listen, mesmerized by the passion in his tone. He is not like other priests. There is fire in him.

You find yourself asking about him too. What brought him to the church, how he stays so calm when the world feels so heavy. He answers honestly, telling you pieces of his past, his drive for perfection and control. The conversation stretches for what feels like hours as the candles outside the window burn lower as night settles fully over the church.

At one point you gather your courage and ask, “What is your full name, Father? I feel like I should know it... after telling you everything.”

He does not hesitate, his eyes meet yours without a flicker of doubt. “Enrico Pucci,” he says clearly, like the name itself is a gift he hands to you. “You may call me Enrico when we are alone like this.”

Something shifts in the room after that, you can see it in the way he looks at you. His thoughts race behind those calm eyes. She trusted me with her darkest secret. Her freedom. Her sin. The realization hits him deep. He would do anything you asked of him now. Anything. If you told him to hide you, to lie for you, to burn this church down, he feels the terrifying truth that he might. And he wants the same from you, he wants your loyalty to burn just as hot, your devotion pointed only at him. The thought makes his pulse quicken under the collar of his cassock.

He reaches out slowly, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. The touch is gentle but electric. “You are stronger than you know,” he says with softness. “And I... I find myself wanting to protect that strength, to understand it completely.”

The air between you feels alive again, heavy with everything unsaid. Enrico Pucci sits there, closer than a priest should be, realizing he is already falling into dangerous waters. Yet he does not pull back. He waits, watching you, hoping you will fall in with him.

You started coming to the church almost every evening after that. At first you told yourself it was just to talk, but deep down you knew the truth. Enrico Pucci was becoming addicted to you. He craved your presence like air. The moment you stepped through the heavy wooden doors, his sharp eyes would light up with hunger. If you were even ten minutes late, he would pace slowly behind his desk, fingers tapping restlessly until he heard your heels on the floor. Your voice, your words, your smallest stories, they fed him. He needed them. He needed you.

“Stay with me tonight,” he asked one evening, as he looked up from his paperwork. “The ledgers feel endless without your company.”

You agreed, of course. How could you not when he looked at you like that?

From then on it became routine. You would sit in the chair across from him in his quiet office, legs tucked beneath you, while candlelight and the desk lamp painted his white hair in soft gold. He worked slowly on purpose, just to keep you there longer. Every time you spoke, he would stop writing completely, leaning forward with his full attention, drinking in every syllable like it was holy water. Your laughter made his chest tighten with warmth. Your opinions on faith, on life, on pain, they became his new obsession. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to own every secret you had.

The conversations flowed so easily between you, you told him more about the heavy years with your husband, the bruises you hid and the fear you carried. He listened with burning intensity, his hand sometimes reaching across the desk to brush yours. In return he shared pieces of himself he had never given anyone else. His ambitions, his loneliness, the way he saw destiny written in every choice. But mostly he asked about you. Always you.

“You have no idea what your words do to me,” he confessed softly one night, eyes never leaving your face. “When you leave, the silence here feels unbearable. I find myself counting the hours until you return.”

You felt it growing stronger every time you saw him. The air between you grew thick with tension and unspoken need.

Then came the night of the storm.

Rain slammed against the stained glass, thunder cracked so loud it vibrated through the stone walls. You had stayed later than usual, talking quietly while Enrico pretended to finish his paperwork. By the time you noticed how violent the weather had become, it was far too late to leave. He stood by the window, watching the pouring rain, but you could tell his mind was on you.

“You cannot go out in this,” he said, turning to face you. His voice was calm, but his eyes were dark with barely hidden relief. He did not want you to leave tonight. Not ever, if he could help it. “Stay here with me. The church has rooms for guests, but I-I would feel better knowing you are close.”

Your heart raced as you nodded, he led you through the dark hallways, lightning flashing across his tall figure with every step. He prepared the guest room near his own quarters, but neither of you went there right away. Instead you ended up back in his office, the storm raging outside while the two of you sat closer than ever on the small couch. He had removed his outer robe, sitting in just his black shirt with the collar loosened. You kicked off your heels and curled up beside him. He could not stop looking at you. Every word you spoke, he hung onto desperately, leaning in until his knee pressed against yours. 

“Tell me more,” he murmured whenever you paused. “I need to hear your voice tonight. It keeps the storm away.”

Enrico Pucci was completely lost in you now. He would do anything to keep you here, to keep this closeness. And as the rain kept falling without end, locking you inside the church with him, he realized with quiet certainty that he was never letting you go. Not after tonight.

“Come with me,” he said, it was not really a request.

You took his hand, your pulse jumped as his fingers closed around yours. He led you through the dark hallways, lightning flashing blue across the stone walls and his white hair. He took you back to the confessional, the same wooden box tucked deep in the church where everything had started.

He opened your side first, then stepped into the priest’s side. You hesitated, but the look he gave you through the open door made your stomach twist with heat that you slipped inside and closed the door behind you. The small space felt even tighter now, your knees pressed against the divider as you sat down, heart pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it.

His voice came through the lattice. “Confess.”

“Enrico…” you whispered, already breathless.

“You know what I want to hear,” he said, quieter this time, but no less intense. “Tell me what you feel for me. Here. Where you first told me your sins.”

The wooden lattice between you suddenly felt too thin. You could see the shadow of his face, the sharp line of his jaw. It was uncomfortable, sitting there in the tiny dark booth while lightning lit up the edges of the confessional. Part of you wanted to run, but a bigger part wanted to stay right there under his attention.

“I… I think about you all the time,” you admitted, voice shaking. “Even when I’m home alone. I replay every conversation we’ve had. The way you look at me, it makes me feel things I shouldn’t.”

You heard him shift closer to the divider. His breathing sounded heavier now. “Keep going,” he murmured. The hunger in his tone sent warmth rushing through your body.

“I feel guilty sometimes,” you whispered. “You’re a priest. But when I’m with you, I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here every night. I want your eyes on me. I want… I want you to need me as badly as I need you.”

Silence stretched for a few heartbeats, then you heard his door open. A second later your door opened too. Enrico stood there, filling the doorway, looking down at you with eyes so dark they looked almost black. He stepped closer, then he fell to his knees, you gasped when his hands grabbed your ankles, his own breath ragged with heat as he looked up at you.

“Say it again,” he breathed. “Tell me you need me.”

“I need you, Enrico,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. It felt dangerous to admit it here, in this holy place. “I crave being close to you like this.”

He leaned closer, his face only inches from yours as he hoovered his hands close to your face. The heat between your bodies was unbearable in the tight confessional, you could feel how he was holding back, how badly he wanted to close the last bit of distance. His obsession burned in every look, he needed your words like oxygen.

“Good girl,” he murmured against your lips, not quite kissing you yet. “I have been starving for this confession.”

He stayed kneeled as he found the courage to take your face between his hands, positioning himself between your legs, your noses brushing each other as he waited for you to say or do something.

“This is wrong, Enrico,” you whispered, your voice trembling as his hands held your face so gently, yet so possessively. “We should not be doing this. It’s sinful. We—”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his thumbs stroking your cheeks with reverent touches. “Do you really not want this? If you truly want me to stop, I will. But I need to hear it from your lips.”

You opened your mouth, but the words would not come. The way he knelt between your legs, tall and desperate for you, made your thighs press lightly against his sides. The silence stretched, your heart hammered so hard you felt dizzy.

Enrico’s eyes darkened with satisfaction when you stayed quiet. One of his hands left your cheek. Slowly, he brought his thumb to your lips, tracing the bottom one before sliding it gently into your mouth.

“Suck,” he breathed.

Your lips closed around his thumb, tongue swirling softly as you looked down at him through your lashes. A low sound escaped his throat, something between a groan and a prayer. He watched you with pure obsession, the sight of you sucking his thumb was the most beautiful thing he had ever witnessed. His breathing grew ragged, chest rising and falling faster as you took him deeper into your mouth.

“You-you have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, voice husky.

After a long moment he pulled his thumb free with a soft pop, his eyes fixed on your wet lips. Then he could not hold back anymore. Enrico surged forward and kissed you. Years of discipline shattered in that one desperate press of his mouth against yours. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head as he deepened the kiss, tongue sweeping in like he wanted to taste every confession you had ever held back. You moaned softly into his mouth and he drank it down, pressing his body tighter between your legs, the confessional creaking around you. He kissed you like a starving man. Like he had been waiting his whole life for this exact moment, for your taste, for your little sounds, for the way your fingers clutched at his black shirt. When he finally pulled back for air, his lips hovered against yours, brushing with every word.

“I would burn this church down for you,” he whispered fiercely. “Tell me again how much you need me. Please. I need your voice while I kiss you.”

His mouth claimed yours once more before you could even answer, his hands sliding down to grip your waist and pull you closer to the edge of the seat. You’ve fantasized about the taste of him much more than what you will ever admit, having him kneeled in front of you, kissing you fiercely was a new and unexplored sensation. 

Enrico stayed pressed to you even after breaking the kiss, searching in your eyes for any type of regret, but your orbs were shining under the candlelight. He slowly got up, taking your hand and making you stand up with him. He guided you out of the confessional, his hand gripping yours not hard but with possessiveness and need in his blood. 

“Enrico,” you called for him, you lost count of all the times you had called for him this night, but the sound of his name on your lips has become addictive. “Can I… may I sleep in the same bed as you tonight?”

He stopped on his feet for a second, blinking fast as he turned to look at you. “Yes,” he said immediately, no hesitation at all. 

His hands slid up to cup your face again, thumbs stroking your cheeks like you were something precious. “Tonight and every night after, if you want it. I do not want you sleeping alone anymore. I need you close to me. I need to feel you breathing next to me when the church is quiet.”

He kissed you again, softer this time but full of promise. Then he guided you through the halls of the church. When you reached his private quarters, he did not let go of you even for a moment. He closed the door behind you both and pulled you straight into his arms again, kissing you like he had been starving for hours instead of minutes.

Enrico’s hands trembled just slightly as he guided you toward his bed. The storm still howled outside, but inside his room everything felt hushed and sacred. He stopped you at the edge of the mattress, eyes drinking you in like you were the only holy thing left in his world.

“May I?” he asked. When you nodded, he leaned in and kissed you softly, then let his fingers trail down to the hem of your dress.

He took his time. So much time. Every button came undone slowly, in his perspective, he was unwrapping something precious. His lips followed his hands, pressing lingering kisses along your shoulders as the fabric slipped away. He kissed your collarbones, the curve of your neck, the spot just above your heart that was beating wildly for him. 

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered against your skin. “Every inch of you. I have dreamed about this, about seeing you like this, open for me.”

Your dress pooled at your feet. Enrico dropped to his knees again, just like in the confessional, his hands slid up your legs with aching gentleness. He kissed your thighs, your knees, even the tops of your feet as he helped you step out of the dress. His short hair brushed against your stomach when he rose again, lips worshiping every new piece of skin he uncovered. When only your bra and panties remained, he stepped back for a moment, breathing hard, just looking at you.

“Perfect,” he breathed. “You are perfect.”

Then he undressed for you. He pulled off his black shirt, revealing skin and the lean muscle hidden beneath his priestly robes, his movements were unhurried, letting you watch every second. When his pants joined your dress on the floor, he stood before you in only his boxers, tall and beautiful in the dim lamplight.

He climbed into bed first and reached for you, pulling you down with him. The sheets were cool against your heated skin, but Enrico was warm as he wrapped himself around you. You lay facing each other, legs tangled, bodies pressed close and his hand traced slow patterns along your back, your waist, the curve of your hip, never rushing, just feeling.

“I love the way you feel,” he murmured between kisses. He kissed your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. “I love how your breath catches when I touch you here…” His fingers brushed just under the band of your bra, making you shiver. “I need you close like this every night.”

You kissed him deeply, pouring everything you felt into it. Your hands explored his chest, his shoulders, the strong line of his back. “I want this. I want you.”

He groaned softly at your words, pulling you tighter against him. “Say it again. Tell me you’re mine.” His lips moved to your neck, sucking gently.

You whispered against his mouth, “I’m yours, Enrico. I have been since the night I confessed.”

The kisses grew slower, more intense, hands roamed but never crossed that final line. Instead you touched and learned each other, whispering secrets between every kiss. He told you how obsessed he had become, you told him how safe you felt in his arms, how his obsession made you feel wanted in a way you had never known.

The two of you stayed wrapped up in each other, skin against skin, hearts beating in the same rhythm. Enrico held you tight, pressing soft kisses to your hair and your lips again and again.

“Stay forever,” he whispered into the dark, voice full of devotion. “Sleep here every night. Let me worship you like this until morning comes.”

You nodded, curling closer into his chest, feeling completely loved, completely wanted and completely his.