I stand, pressing my body against her front while Marcus works her from behind.
We’re a tangle of limbs in the darkness, the carved screen the only barrier between us and Adrian.
“Tell me what you need,” Adrian commands, his voice rough with barely restrained violence.
“I need all of you,” Charlie gasps, her body trembling between Marcus and me. “I need to feel claimed. Owned. Loved.”
“Eres nuestra,” Marcus murmurs against her neck. “You’re ours,querida. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” Charlie breathes. “All of yours.”
My fingers join Marcus’s between her thighs, and the sounds she makes are better than any music I’ve ever played. I can feel her climbing toward release, her body tightening, her breathing becoming desperate gasps.
“Come for us,” Adrian orders through the screen. “Let us hear you.”
Charlie shatters between us, her body pulsing around our fingers, her cry muffled against my shoulder.
Marcus and I hold her steady as she trembles, our hands gentle now, soothing.
Through the screen, I hear Adrian’s ragged breathing, and I know he’s fighting himself, fighting the urge to burst through the door and claim her himself.
When Charlie can stand again, we help her dress with shaking hands.
The intimacy of it, the tenderness after the desperation, makes my chest tight.
Marcus presses a kiss to her temple.
I button her cardigan with careful fingers. We’re all breathing hard, the small space thick with the scent of sex and sin.
“Go,” Adrian says quietly through the screen. “Before I lose what’s left of my control.”
We emerge from the confessional into the darkened church, and reality crashes back.
What we just did, the line we just crossed, the sacred space we just profaned.
Charlie’s legs are unsteady, and Marcus steadies her with a hand on her lower back.
I can still taste her on my lips.
None of us speak as we make our way through the church.
There are no words for what just happened, for how far we’ve fallen, for how little we care about the consequences anymore.
The next morning arrives too quickly.
I’m exhausted, having barely slept, my mind replaying every moment in the confessional.
But I have choir auditions scheduled, and life continues despite the chaos we’re creating in the shadows.
The parish hall fills with hopeful voices, mostly older parishioners and a few teenagers.
I sit at the piano, running through scales and simple hymns, making notes about range and tone.
My mind keeps drifting to Charlie, to the sounds she made, to the way her body felt beneath my hands.
Then Sarah Chen walks in to audition for the choir.
She’s seventeen, homeschooled, with long black hair pulled into a high ponytail and dark almond-shaped eyes that watch me with unnerving intensity.
