Sexy Devotion

§Delilah§

The chapel was too quiet after evening mass, and everyone had dispersed. I sat at the back pew, waiting for the line at the confession room to thin out.

After they were all gone, I got up and went to the confessional.

Truth was, it had been six months since I last set my foot in the chapel. It was only because I had become a widow.

I was twenty-four when I married a man who was more than twice my age. He was fifty one.

It sounded absurd whenever I said it aloud, but at the time, I had needed the life he could give me more than I had cared about the years between us.

Sadness was never something I was particularly good at, though I did let myself grieve over him. I had taken over everything he owned—his house, his company, and the majority of his assets left to be claimed.

For six months, I had not changed into any color different from black, but I wasn't here for that.

The new priest, I heard, had arrived last week. I had barely laid eyes on him, but somehow, his presence had already become the subject of whispers among the women in town.

The confessional smelled of old wood, candle wax, and faint incense. The last woman to kneel here had left her perfume lingering in the air. I pulled the curtain and knelt. The moment my knees touched the hard wooden floor, a dull ache shot through them.

On the other side of the wooden partition, I could see a body frame, broad shoulders, head bowed. The man behind it was young. That much I knew.

I tried to keep my voice steady before speaking.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I said, adjusting my veil. “It’s been a long time since my last confession.”

“How long?”

God.

There was just something about his voice. Raspy, yet soft and grounded. It drove something restless through me. He sounded tired, like he had been praying all day for sinners like myself.

I knew that voice. I could never have forgotten what it did to me three years ago.

But first, would I be wrong for remembering my stepson’s voice?

We'd only met once, three years ago, when my late husband had brought me home after our court wedding and said,

“This is my son, Sebastian.”

He'd looked at me once. His gaze was filled with disgust and rage. Though he said nothing to accommodate me, he left for seminary the next morning.

But after three years...

I leaned closer to the polished wood of the confessional, my hand lifting toward the partition as though I could reach through it and feel him.

He was right in there, breathing the same air I was.

Ready to listen to my sins.

I swallowed hard before I whispered, “It’s been six months since my husband died.”

“May he rest in peace,” he said.

“I’m happy he is resting. Finally.”

It came out as a relief.

“But I’m the one who is restless.”

Silence stretched between us.

“I may have been married to him, but I did not love the man,” I said. “He was older, so I respected him like an elder. He gave me a roof over my head, a name when I was basically nothing. Would you consider my lack of love for my husband a sin, Father?”

“No. But what troubles your conscience is not that you didn't love him. Is it?”

“Yes, and it's the reason I'm here.” I swallowed hard.

My heart was beating so fast I could feel it in my throat. It was almost as if he could hear it from the other end.

“I live in a house with a man I am not allowed to want. He is my stepson. He is a year younger than me. He left the day after I arrived. He returned a week ago. He is a priest now, though I've not seen him. Each night, I listen for his door to open and when it closes. His room is only a few doors down from mine.”

His breathing changed. I heard it through the wood.

“That’s—” he started.

“I’m not done, Father. That’s what you do, right? You make sure people finish confessing before you decide whether to forgive them,” I said.

He didn't say anything or try to cut me off.

“I want him,” I continued. My voice barely rose above a whisper. “I have spent six months of my life being a good widow and three years trying to bury feelings I know I shouldn't have, so this is just not in my nature. I've been faithful even in my thoughts. I've worn black, attended Mass, and done everything expected of me. The one time I felt myself come alive after so many years of simply existing was when I heard he had finally come back.”

I leaned further into the wall, my voice rising, no longer caring whether I sounded shameless.

“Would you like to know the worst part, Father?” I asked, my fingers tightening around the edge of the wooden ledge.

His voice came quieter this time. “Tell me.”

“I know I should feel guilty, but I don't. I'm even more jealous than I ever should be. The fact that he belongs to God now, and not to this world.”

My hands gripped the little ledge. My veil had slipped.

“I want to be looked at again. I want to be—” I stopped myself and chose another word. “I want to matter to someone. And I know he won't allow it.”

For a long time, he sat there and said nothing. The chapel bell rang outside. Six o'clock.

When he finally spoke, his voice was no longer as priestly as it had been earlier. This time, it was rough.

“Do you know what you are asking for?”

I almost laughed. “Absolution? Don't tell me you're going to say the devil made me do it, Father."

“Does anyone else know the things you've told me?”

“No. It's not a confession worth sharing.”

“Then let it remain between you, God, and these walls.”

I pressed my forehead against the lattice. If I leaned an inch more, I could see his eye. His mouth.

“Then give me a penance,” I whispered. “Give me something difficult. Because if you don't, Father, I will go home and I will make him look at me. And remember, he lives in my house.”

He stood abruptly on the other side. The wood creaked. I could see his full shape now. Tall. Taller than I remembered. His hands were on the frame of the screen, as though he were holding himself back from leaving.

“You should go home, Mrs.—” He stopped. He was about to say my married name.

“Mrs. what?” I asked. “Say it.”

He didn't.

“For your penance,” he said, each word controlled, “pray for restraint.”

“Restraint,” I repeated. “That's it?”

“For thirty days.”

“And what will you do for thirty days, Father?”

“I will pray that you find peace.”

That made me angry for the first time. I never said I wanted peace. If anything, what I wanted most was to be seen by the one person I couldn't stop thinking about.

I stood up and made a small movement to straighten my legs before pulling the curtain aside.

I walked out of the confessional, leaving all my carefully guarded secrets behind. I didn't try to look back. The black dress I had chosen suddenly felt suffocating.

I pushed the heavy door open, the cool evening air hitting me all at once. I felt lighter somehow. My chest felt free.

My driver stood beside the car and opened the door for me.

“Home,” I said, settling into the back seat.

We drove for twenty minutes before the estate gate opened. The big house my late husband had left for me was lit from within.

And there, parked in the driveway where my husband's cars used to be, was a single black car with a small white sticker on the back window.

A seminary sticker.

He was home.

He had been home before I arrived.

I sat in the car for a full minute, my hand on the door handle, my heart hammering.

He had heard me confess everything.

I exhaled slowly. If I stepped out of the car, everything would change.

I stepped out.

I fixed my dress as though it were crooked, then walked into my own house.

“Is Sebastian home?” I asked the housekeeper, pretending I hadn't seen his car parked outside.

“He came in a minute ago,” Mrs. Martins replied.

“Thank you,” I said with a smile, then hurried up the stairs toward the hallway.

“Welcome home, Father,” I called into the quiet hall.

A door slammed shut.

Hard enough to make the house shake.