Page 32 of Sinner

Cat's fingers thread through my hair, tugging gently until I meet her eyes again. The sheet slips lower, revealing theconstellation of freckles across her chest that I've memorized like stars.

"You look serious," she murmurs, tracing the line between my eyebrows. "Are you thinking priest thoughts again?"

I shake my head, though not entirely truthfully. Some mornings, the weight of what we've done, what we've left behind, settles on me like stone. Not regret—never that—but awareness of the cost. Her family is still searching, but my former life is permanently closed to me. But then she looks at me like this, and I remember why every sacrifice was worth making.

"Just thinking how beautiful you are," I say, lowering my body over hers. "And how lucky I am."

Her thighs part slowly, skin sliding against the cotton sheets as she opens herself to me. I trace my fingertips up the inside of her leg, feeling goosebumps rise in my wake. The sheet becomes an unwelcome barrier; I grasp it and drag it down, revealing her inch by inch until she's completely exposed. Her nipples harden in the morning air. Cat's pupils dilate, nearly eclipsing the hazel as I lower myself between her legs, my hardness pressing insistently against her slick heat. She gasps when I enter her, her wetness enveloping me as I push deeper, stretching her, filling her completely.

"Should I call you Father?" she teases, her breath catching as my hands find her breasts. "Would you like that, Father Moretti?"

The words send a complicated thrill through me—shame and desire tangled together in a knot I've stopped trying to untie.

"Watch your mouth," I growl against her throat, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my lips.

"Make me," she challenges, arching against me.

So I do. I claim my wife's mouth with mine, swallowing her words, her sighs. My hands pin her wrists above her head as I move inside her, the rhythm of our bodies drowning out everything else—the distant roar of the ocean waves, the plaintive cries of gulls overhead, the insistent murmur of uncertainty. In this moment, there is nothing but the sensation of her form beneath mine, enveloping me, her breath a warm caress against my neck, and the subtle taste of salt lingering on her skin.

The distant toll of a church bell carries on the breeze, three hollow notes that pierce the stillness. I freeze against her, my body suddenly rigid. The sound cuts through me like a blade—familiar, insistent. For a heartbeat, I'm back in the rectory, straightening my collar before morning mass, the weight of expectations and devotion pressing down on my shoulders.

Cat notices the change immediately. Her fingers trace the tension in my jaw, her touch bringing me back to this room, this bed, this life we've carved from impossible choices.

"Where did you go just now?" she asks, eyes searching mine. There's no accusation in her voice, only gentle curiosity.

I exhale slowly, settling my weight beside her on the rumpled sheets. "The bells," I say simply. "For a moment, I was somewhere else."

She nods, understanding without needing the details. Her fingers trail across my chest, mapping the contours of muscle and bone as if memorizing the geography of my body.

"Old habits," I murmur, catching her hand and bringing it to my lips. "They sink into your bones after a while. Eighteen years of responding to those bells—it becomes part of you."

"Do you miss it?" Her question hangs between us, delicate and dangerous.

I consider lying, but we promised each other truth, however difficult. "Parts of it," I admit. "The certainty. The structure. Thefeeling of purpose." I turn to face her fully, cupping her cheek in my palm. "But nothing—nothing—compares to what God has given me with you. This is where I'm meant to be, Cat. This is my true vocation."

Her eyes glisten in the morning light. "Even with everything we've lost?"

"Because of everything we've lost," I correct her. "The sacrifice makes it sacred."

She smiles at that, a slow unfurling of joy that transforms her face. "Listen to you, still speaking in sermons."

"Some habits die harder than others," I laugh, pulling her against me.

The bells toll again, but this time they don't pull me back. They're just distant music now, a soundtrack to our new life. I kiss her deeply, tasting the remnants of sleep on her tongue, feeling her body respond to mine with an eagerness that still astonishes me.

When we break apart, breathless, she traces the lines at the corners of my eyes. "What shall we do today?" she asks.

"Whatever we want," I tell her, relishing the freedom in those words. "That's the miracle of this life we've chosen."

Outside, fishing boats dot the horizon, their white sails catching the morning light. Soon the village will wake fully, the market stalls opening, the cafés filling with locals. We'll walk among them, hand in hand, still strangers here but less so each day. We'll buy fresh bread and olives, practice our broken Italian with the patient shopkeepers, and feel the Mediterranean sun on our faces.

And if sometimes the bells call to me, if sometimes I feel the phantom pressure of my collar against my throat, I need only look at her to remember why I left it all behind.

Some would call it sin. I call it redemption.