“Dios mío.” I stand abruptly, pulling her with me. “Come with me.”
I lead her to the confessional booth, the ancient wooden structure that’s heard a century of sins. The door closes behind us with a soft click, and suddenly we’re pressed together in the small space, her body against mine, her scent—vanilla and cinnamon and desperation—filling my lungs.
Unlike Adrian’s explosive passion, I’m deliberate fire. I take my time, my hands framing her face, my thumbs tracing the curve of her jaw. I want to memorize every detail, every gasp, every tremor.
“Eres tan hermosa,” I murmur against her lips. “So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you.”
“I don’t understand Spanish,” she breathes, but her body arches into mine.
“Good.” My mouth finds the pulse point in her throat, and I feel it racing beneath my tongue. “Then I can tell you everything without you knowing how far I’ve fallen.”
My hands slide down her sides, feeling every curve through the thin polyester of her uniform.
She gasps when I grip her hips, pulling her harder against me.
The taboo of the location heightens everything.
We’re in a confessional, a sacred space meant for absolution, and we’re turning it into something profane.
“Te necesito,” I whisper against her skin. “I need you. Have needed you since the moment I saw you.”
“Marcus, please—” Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer.
I lift her, pressing her back against the wooden wall of the confessional.
Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, and the friction makes us both groan.
My mouth finds hers, and the kiss is nothing like the gentle touches before.
This is hunger, desperation, three weeks of watching and wanting finally breaking free.
“Tell me to stop,” I say against her lips, even as my hands slide under her uniform, finding bare skin. “Dime que pare.”
“Don’t stop.” Her voice is fierce, certain. “Don’t you dare stop.”
I work the buttons of her uniform with shaking hands, revealing the simple cotton bra beneath.
She’s not wearing anything fancy, nothing designed to seduce, but the sight of her makes my mouth go dry.
I trace the swell of her breasts with my fingers, watching her face in the dim light filtering through the confessional screen.
“Perfecta,” I breathe. “Every part of you.”
My mouth follows the path my fingers traced, and Charlie’s head falls back against the wood, her breath coming in short gasps.
I’m possessive in a way I’ve never been before, marking her, making sure she knows this isn’t just Adrian’s claim.
She’s ours—mine, Adrian’s, maybe even Elijah’s, though we never finished that conversation.
I free myself from my pants, and Charlie’s eyes widen as she feels me against her. “Marcus?—”
“Mírame,” I command softly. “Look at me,querida.”
Her hazel eyes lock onto mine as I enter her slowly, watching every flicker of emotion cross her face.
Pleasure, surprise, something that looks like relief.
She’s tight and warm and perfect, and I have to pause, my forehead pressed against hers, fighting for control.
