Page 39 of Taken By Sin
“No.”
He knows he’s making me come undone again; his other hand sweeps behind my back to push me into him. “Say it, Magnolia. What do you need forgiveness for?”
“Nothing we’re doing is right.”
“Nothing we’re doing is wrong,” he counters.
“It feels wrong,” I lie to myself. It feels more natural than anything I’ve ever experienced.
By the expression on his face, you would think that I skewered him with those words.
He runs a hand down his face, drawing out his frustration. “You are everything in this world that is right.”
“No, I’m a sinner.”
“We all are. They brainwashed you.”
His lips are a hair’s breadth away now. “God wouldn’t like this,” I breathe against him.
He steps back, anger rushing over him.
“Sin.” I want him back against me as much as I need air.
I’m suffocating in all he is.
“I shouldn’t be worshipping someone in this way,” I admit.
“Come.” He beckons me with a crook of his finger as he turns and stalks out of the kitchen.
Without a second’s hesitation I follow him out onto the street. We turn right down a small alley beside the house and toa brick two-car garage that I didn’t realize was his until he keys in the code, and it opens.
A midnight black car sits in one of the spots, the other empty. He opens the passenger door and waits for me to go inside. I slide into the cool leather seat and buckle.
Moments later, Sin gets in the driver's seat, messing with a set of keys. “Are you mad at me?” I speak into the silence, worried for his answer. For as much as I want to repent, I equally want to obey him.
He looks forward, not turning in my direction an inch. His quiet response is deafened by the loud purr of the engine. I note his white knuckles around the wheel as we peel out and onto the street. He does reach his hand over to check that I’m buckled but other than that, radio silence.
Ten minutes—that feels like an hour—later we pull up to a cathedral. The lights are out, basking the arches in a sinister moonlit glow. “The priest won't be here this late,” I tell him.
He gives me an incredulous look. “This is New York City. It’s only nine at night. They’re usually here until midnight.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Sometimes I come here.”
I peer over at him in awe. This man who embodies sin, who seems to thrive in the dark, who sometimes comes to this very church to do what I’m about to do. “Thank you.”
Sin extends his arm to me, leading us inside.
The worn wooden pews are illuminated by amber lights that hang on the walls throughout the entire cathedral.
“I’ll wait for you right here,” he tells me, his deep voice rumbling through the empty space.
Before going to the booth, I take some time at the altar, praying for Saint Mary’s and myself.
I open the wooden door to the confessional booth and step in; it creaks closed. Running through the motions of Hail Mary, wondering where in the world to begin.
My confessions before were innocent, simple. Like reading a book I wasn’t supposed to or cursing, watching a movie that wasn’t allowed. Things that wouldn't make me blush like the things I’m about to admit.