17. The Song of Solomon
Chapter seventeen
The Song of Solomon
Cassian
Celeste was on the other side of the partition, and my body reacted instantly. My pulse quickened, my breathing shallowed, and a heat—primal and unrelenting—flooded through me.
She’s here. . .to confess?
I gripped the edge of my chair, and the leather creaked under the strain. My cassock suddenly felt suffocating, and the air in the confessional grew far too thick.
When her soft sigh broke the silence, my cock throbbed so violently that I nearly groaned aloud.
Calm. Down.
Slowly, I gazed in her direction, looking through the delicate latticework of the confessional screen. My breath hitched like the lattice itself had caught hold of my lungs.
The confessional’s faint light outlined her silhouette as she lowered her knees onto the velvet-cushioned kneeler.
Mmmm.
Her dress was white—pure, ethereal, flowing like a gossamer veil around her lush body. She looked like an angel come to deliver a holy message, and she was a vision so devastatingly beautiful that it burned through my entire body and rocked my soul.
Dear God. Is this the sign?
In her hands, she held rosary beads—a delicate string of red luminous beads that seemed almost alive in the dim, sacred light of the confessional.
Each bead was perfectly round, its surface catching the faint glow of the mother-of-pearl lattice between us, shimmering like captured moonlight.
The silver crucifix at the end of the string dangled gracefully, swaying gently with her movements.
Her fingers slid over the beads with practiced ease, a slow, rhythmic motion that mirrored the soft cadence of her breathing.
I licked my lips.
Her hands—small, elegant, and achingly gentle—moved with an almost reverent sensuality.
She wasn’t simply holding the rosary; she was caressing it, as if each bead were precious, worthy of her touch.
My breath hitched some more as I watched the way her fingertips grazed the smooth surfaces, lingering just a fraction longer on each one before sliding to the next.
The motion was hypnotic, sacred, and unbearably intimate.
And yet, my thoughts darkened.
I couldn’t stop myself—not when the image came alive so vividly in my mind.
I imagined her hands elsewhere, sliding over me with that same sensual attention.
That same deliberate rhythm.
My cock—straining against my trousers—pulsed with unrelenting heat as the fantasy gripped me.
Her fingers, wrapped around my thick length instead of those beads, moving with that same gentle devotion, exploring every inch of my cock as if I, too, were sacred.
I swallowed hard.
It was obscene, yet the thought consumed me, raw and inescapable.
What would it feel like if her hands slid down my length, her nails grazing just enough to ignite every nerve?
Would she hold me tightly, her grip firm yet tender, or would she tease, dragging her fingertips in slow, maddening strokes?
I bet she would tease.
She bowed her head, exposing the delicate curve of her neck.
My fingers twitched at my sides, longing for a touch I should never claim in this sacred space.
Her thick, curly hair spilled forward, and the sight was so arresting.
Yet, I couldn’t look away.
And then, her fingers lingered on the crucifix, and for a fleeting moment, I hated it.
Hated that it held her touch.
Her focus.
My fists clenched as I fought against the image—against the desire to make her mine in ways that no prayer could absolve.
Stop it. She is here for absolution, not for this.
But the beads, her hands, her presence—they were all too much.
Too tempting.
My fingers curled tightly around the armrests of my chair, and the leather creaked under my grip.
She was so close yet separated from me by the fragile barrier of the screen and the vows that I’d made.
My mind raced with the thought of what it would feel like to break that barrier, to reach out and touch her, to claim her as mine in a way no one else ever could.
I forced my voice to remain steady. “Speak, my child. . .God is listening.”
But God was the last thing on my mind.
The thought of anyone else seeing her like this—of another priest hearing her confessions or even another man earning her smiles—filled me with fierce jealousy.
Her voice slid through the confessional, a gentle melody that rippled through the shadows and wrapped itself around me. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
I swallowed hard. "How long has it been since your last confession?"
My voice cracked on the last word.
“The last time I’ve confessed?” She hesitated and then lifted her head slightly, allowing her sexy profile to further illuminate through the thin latticework. And now the lattice framed her like a living work of art—an angel trapped behind bars, her expression caught somewhere between reverence and ruin. “It’s been. . .too long.”
“In fact. . .” She curved her lips into a wicked smile. “I wasn’t sure I should come at all.”
“You’re here now,” I managed to say, although my words were tight and strained. “That is what matters.”
She tilted her head. “But what if my sins aren’t the kind you can forgive?”
Her gaze lifted to meet mine through the screen.
For a heartbeat, it felt as though nothing separated us—no screen, no vows, no divine decree. Just the shocking pull of desire between us.
I reached for the holy cross hanging around my neck, clutching it so tightly that the sharp edges dug into my palm. “There are no sins that cannot be forgiven.”
“Do you really believe that, Father?”
“I do.”
“Even sins born of. . .carnal desire?”
I leaned forward, close enough that I could see the faint shimmer of her lips through the lattice. “Desire is not a sin. . .it is a test.”
“A test? For whom, Father? The sinner…or the saint?” Her fingers slid once more over the rosary beads.
My cock pulsed again. “Both.”
Her gaze flicked downward, as if she could see the tension in my body, the strain of my cock against my trousers. “When I was a kid, my mother would make us read parts of the Bible every year, and we would have to discuss it during dinner.”
“Your mother was a faithful woman.”
“My favorite was the Song of Solomon.”
I smirked.
“It was the one part of the Bible to me that was filled with so much passion. Lust. Longing.”
Heat rolled through me like a wave, and my mind drifted unbidden to the Song of Solomon.
‘I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine: he feedeth among the lilies.’
My heart warmed.
She spoke, “Or, Father, did I understand the Song of Solomon in the wrong way?”
“You did not.” I kept my voice as steady as I could. “It speaks of a lover’s lips being sweeter than honey, of bodies entwined in a tangle of longing. It is a poetry that is. . .aching. A song of love that borders on the sacred and the profane.”
Her breath came out shaky, and I reveled in the sound, in the way her body seemed to shift toward mine even as the screen kept us apart.
And then she began to recite parts of Song of Solomon. “‘His eyes are like doves beside streams of water, bathed in milk, sitting beside a full pool. His cheeks are like beds of spices, mounds of sweet-smelling herbs. His lips are lilies, dripping liquid myrrh. His arms are rods of gold, set with jewels. His body is polished ivory, bedecked with sapphires.’”
My smirk widened. “Very impressive.”
“My mother was impressed too, although she wished I’d memorized the Ten Commandments instead.” She chuckled.
For the first time all day, I laughed
The sound of our shared enjoyment of that joke echoed in the confessional.
A few seconds later her laughter died down and I heard her inhale deeply. “I’ve. . .always liked the part where it says, ‘Your breasts are like fawns, twins of a gazelle, grazing among the first spring flowers.’”
Those verses of longing, of beauty, of temptation wrapped in holiness, stirred in my mind, and I hated myself for it—for the way, her form became the center of that vision.
I could see Celeste again in her kitchen with the top of her nightgown down, revealing those full perfect breasts. Those nipples begging to be sucked on.
I gripped my cross tighter. “‘O, that thou wert as my brother, that sucked the breasts of my mother! When I should find thee outside, I would kiss thee; yea, I should not be despised.”
She widened her eyes.
“‘I would lead thee, and bring thee into my mother’s house, who would instruct me; I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate. His left hand should be under my head, and his right hand should. . . embrace me.’”
I closed my eyes.
That passage, ‘O, that thou wert as my brother…' spoke of a love so deep, so overwhelming, that it longed to exist without fear or judgment. A love that could be shown openly, kissed into the light, without shame.
And the juice of the pomegranates was about rich and intoxicating passion—a love that satisfied in ways no other could.
It was about indulgence—the kind that consumed and left nothing untouched.
And the part about the embrace. . .pointed to love at its most vulnerable, its most intimate.
To be held like that. . .to give oneself entirely with no fear.
No barriers.
Only the other person.
A shiver of lust ran through me.
The words resonated now, more than they ever had.
They weren’t a theological puzzle or a poetic flourish.
They were desire.
The longing for love unburdened by judgment, unchained from the constraints of society.
I swallowed hard and opened my eyes. I could barely breathe.
This is my sign.
“Father. . .am I playing with fire?”
I opened my eyes and turned to her. “No, but you are the flame.”
The silence in the confessional was deafening, mounting like a beast ready to pounce.
Her gaze held mine through the lattice. “Do you like to burn?”
“I’ve been cold for so long. . .heat would be a welcome surrender.”
My heart pounded fiercely against my chest, echoing the rhythm of an ancient dance. It frightened me how much I wanted to dance with her. To step into the flame and let it consume my soul.
The taste of sin tantalizingly fluttered at the tip of my tongue.
She leaned closer, and the scent of jasmine and something darker, reached out to me through the lattice. “I thought about you all day. I daydreamed about things I shouldn’t.”
I knew I should stop her, should redirect her thoughts to penitence and prayer, but instead, I leaned forward, mirroring her, until I could see the faintest glint of her eyes, wide and vulnerable, through the screen. “What did you day dream about?”
“Your hands. The warmth of your touch. Your tongue. Your groans of pleasure, and then I wondered about. . .”
Through the lattice screen, her profile continued to glow like an angelic vision, her lips trembling as though each word she was about to speak would cost her a piece of her soul.
Again, my voice cracked under the strain of keeping myself composed. “What did you wonder about?”
“I wondered how big your cock was. . .”
That was my undoing.
Those words shattered what little control I had left, hitting me like a thunderclap.
I had been holding onto the cross around my neck like a lifeline, but now it felt heavy, cold—a tether to something I was no longer strong enough to uphold.
Lust vibrated through me.
I let go of the cross, lowered my hand, and moved it past the layers of my cassock. The sacred cloth that once felt like armor now served as a prison I couldn’t escape fast enough.
Without any further hesitation, I let my fingers find the waistband of my trousers and then undid the top button.
She lowered her voice. “I know. . .I shouldn’t say things like that to a man of God.”
“And yet. . .” I dove my hand beneath my pants’ fabric. “I haven’t told you to stop.”
She blinked.
I wrapped my fingers around my thick, throbbing cock and a groan left me.
She blinked again.
The sensation was immediate.
Overwhelming.
I exhaled sharply, and my breaths came out fast and shallow as my fingers tightened around my shaft. The heat of my own touch sent a jolt of pleasure through me, and I bit down hard on my lip to stifle any more sound threatening to escape.
Through the lattice, I saw her lean closer, her eyes glinting with something dark and forbidden. She didn’t say a word, but the way she moved, the way her chest rose and fell in time with my own breathing, told me everything I needed to know.
She knew.
And she wanted this.
Mmmm.
My hand moved slowly at first, my grip firm but deliberate. I could feel every pulse, every beat of my arousal as it built, the friction of my touch igniting every nerve. My thumb brushed over the sensitive tip, and I hissed through clenched teeth, the pleasure almost too much to bear.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
Not here.
Not with her so close and her presence fueling every sinful thought that raced through my mind.
But there was no stopping now, no pulling back from the edge.
My strokes quickened.
Each movement was more desperate than the last. My hips shifted slightly, pressing into my hand as I sought more—more of the pleasure, more of the release that loomed just out of reach.
Her voice broke through the haze, soft and teasing. “Does it feel good, Father?”
I shivered. “Celeste. . .”
She lifted her hands and pressed her fingers against the lattice. “I wish I could see it. Touch it.”
I stopped moving my hand and closed my eyes. “You. . .can. . .”
The silence between us thickened.
I could feel her breath on the other side of the lattice, close enough to taste if I dared lean forward.
The weight of what we were doing—what we were about to do—pressed down on me like the crushing embrace of my own cassock.
And yet, it didn’t stop me.
It didn’t even slow me.
It only fed the fire.
“Celeste. . .there’s. . .something about this confessional you should know.”
“What is it, Father Cassian?”
The way she said Father sent a shiver down my spine. She knew damned well what she was doing saying it that way.
“Celeste, this confessional. . .has a. . .secret hole, hidden behind this screen.”
And even if it didn’t. . .I would have put a hole there today.
I gritted my teeth.
“Wait a minute. Are you talking about the other priest?” Humor laced her words. “They never fixed the glory hole.”
I opened my eyes. “You think that’s funny?”
“Of course I do.” She chuckled. “Why didn’t they? Were they scared?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps, they didn’t want to touch it.”
“I figured they would douse it with holy water and build a new screen.”
“They wanted to shovel it under nonsense so that all would forget. To have people work on the confessional would be to further think about it.”
I let go of my cock and placed my hands on the lattice.
On the other side, she watched me with a smile.
Where is it?
I slipped my hands along the lattice until I finally found a tiny latch further down at the center. The past priest had put it there for easy access.
There it goes.
The latch creaked as I flipped it up and slowly pressed it open, revealing the hole.
She gasped.
Heat flushed through me at the realization of what we were going to do.
“Father Cassian. . .” her voice was barely a whisper.
“Celeste. . .”
“Show me your cock.”
I shivered. “Show you. . .”
“Take it out. . .and put it through the hole.”
Lust ripped through me.
Was this the moment everything would fall apart—or finally come together?
The thought of what she might do on the other side left me trembling, torn between terror and desperate, erotic aching need.