Confession Booth: 4. Forgive Me, I Liked It

The booth still smelled of me.

It clung to the wood, sweet and raw, heavy enough that I wondered if the entire church would know what I’d done the moment I stepped outside. I pressed my palms into my lap, trying to be still, but the stranger didn’t let me. His presence bled through the lattice, his breath as steady as if nothing unholy had passed between us.

But I couldn’t forget.

Every pulse in my body reminded me of the way he’d touched me—without touching me. The way he’d commanded me into that breathless ruin.

Now silence pressed on me, thicker than incense, until he finally spoke.

“Speak.”

His voice wasn’t kind. It wasn’t cruel either. It was the kind of voice that left no choice but obedience.

I wet my lips, though my mouth was dry. “Forgive me…”

The words faltered.

“Yes?” His tone sharpened. He knew I was holding something back.

I gripped the edge of the bench, wood biting into my fingers. My knees pressed together,