by Lola Darling
This is everything I swore I would avoid this semester.
I slide open the door to the right-hand booth of the confessional. I have to hand it to whoever designed this thing—it looks just like the real deal. I stare down at a red-cushioned seat, complete with a kneeler in front of it. Between this confessional booth and the left-hand one hangs a thin wooden screen, carved in elaborate curlicues, through which I can only glimpse shadows. Looks like both sides are empty, as far as I can tell.
I collapse onto the seat of one booth and pull the flimsy door shut behind me. It doesn’t do much to block out the sound of the party, but it helps.
My head throbs. I’ve been so good all summer. Not a single drink until now.
Looks like I’ve lost my tolerance.
I set my remaining punch on the ledge beside my seat and lean my head back against the headrest with a groan. The wooden walls around me seem to close in, hug me close, comforting in their familiarity. I sat inside confessionals just like this as a kid, back when Mom and Dad still made us go to Sunday mass. Someone should’ve warned them that convincing me and Tara to be good Christian girls would never work.
But I always did like this part. Closing myself into a secret dark place, unburdening my secrets to someone who actually cared to listen.
I breathe out a sigh. I need to distract myself, so I start talking. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s probably been … I don’t know, ten years since my last confession.”
I’m speaking to myself, of course. So when a sigh answers me from the neighboring confessional, I nearly fall off the pew.
“You’ve got me beat by five,” says a deep, masculine voice.
My face flames red-hot. Good thing it’s dark in here. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was in here. I’ll go, I’m sorry,” I babble at the wooden separator.
He laughs softly. “Relax. I don’t own the place.”
Now that my heart isn’t pounding from surprise, it starts to pound all over again for a different reason. Dear lord, that accent. He sounds nothing like the Cockney boys down in London, or even the guys leading my orientation group, with their posh upper-class enunciation. His voice is more natural, smooth on the ears.
I can’t place it, and I’m good at accents. It makes me want to stay and tease it out of him.
“I’m not sure if I should be relieved or disappointed,” I reply, smiling even though I know he can’t see me in the shadows of the booth. “This lovely abode isn’t yours?” I glance through a crack in the booth door. On the worn and torn sofa, which sits directly opposite me, a girl in a schoolgirl miniskirt undoes the stark white collar of a guy in full priest garb. Okay, it’s cheesy, but I’ve got to hand it to them, now that my initial shock and embarrassment has started to wane—the party guests really went all-out with their outfits.
“Alas, no.” He still sounds like he’s laughing. “This, ah … abode belongs to a pair of my very good friends. Who decided it would be hilarious to lure me over with the promise of, and I quote, a ‘quiet start of term dinner.’ ”
I snort. “Oh, so you were an unwitting participant as well? I wish I’d known the dress code was going to be so … specific.”
“Let me guess: a friend of yours played dupe the unwitting American?”
So he’s listening to my accent too. For some reason that makes my breath hitch, even as the rest of me flares at the accusation. “I am not unwitting.”
“Shh, I’m still guessing. You’re studying abroad, your friends texted you an invite to a fancy dress bash or something similarly obscure, and then they all pulled innocent faces when you arrived. Happens every semester. Just be glad they didn’t invite you to a formal dinner and tell you it was tarts and vicars party—I’ve seen that happen too.”
Something about his easy manner, the fact that he’s so sure he’s right (never mind that he is) makes me want to prove him wrong. What’s the harm? I’ll never see him again.
“Actually,” I say, enunciating the word so sharply I almost sound British myself. “I live in London. I’m just up for the weekend to visit a friend who works here. She sent me the wrong address.”
There’s a pause from the adjoining booth. “So you decided to stick around this party solo? You’re braver than I’d be.” He sounds impressed, which makes me bolder.
“There were free drinks. Why not?” Never mind that I apparently couldn’t even handle 1.5 of those drinks. If I’m making up a whole new persona, I might as well run with it. I lower my voice, inject a little sultry sting. “Besides, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a chance to flirt with a vicar.”
I expect him to laugh again. I’m starting to like his laugh, a sharp, surprised exhale of air like he’s not used to the sound, but he enjoys it when it bursts free.
Instead of that laugh, I hear a rustle from the adjoining booth. When he speaks again, he’s closer and quieter. His shadow leans right up against the wooden curlicue divider. “Is that so, my child?” His tone has turned playful, but there’s something else under it. Something that sounds an awful lot like desire. “It has, I admit, been a very long time since I’ve been flirted with.”
My pulse leaps through my veins. What’s the harm? it says. You can’t even see his face. You could be anyone. Say anything.
“That is a shame,” I murmur, inching closer to the thin barrier between us myself. “Are you sure you remember how it’s done?”
“I think I can figure it out.” He presses his hand to the wooden scrollwork. I lift mine, press it to my side. My skin thrills where it brushes his; I can feel his warm palm between pieces of the rough wood. Whoever built this booth used cheap material. Feels like the divider is nothing more than a couple centimeters of balsa wood.
As though reading my mind, his other hand traces the edges of the panel. I imitate him and find a latch at the top. My finger pauses on it, toys with the idea of removing this flimsy shield between us.
“But is it only flirting that you’re interested in?” I half-smile, wondering if he can see me through the latticework. It’s so dark in here I can’t see anything of him beyond the outline of his hand, a darker shadow where his head tilts toward the sound of my voice.
“I must confess: impure thoughts do come to mind. Quite a lot of them, actually. But should we really desecrate this sacred space?” His voice drips in sarcasm, and he drums his fingers on the wall, a beat that reverberates through my palms.
My smile widens. “Father, is this space not meant for unburdening our darkest selves? Do we not enter here to confess the desires of our weak bodies?”
“What is it your body desires now?” he whispers, the joking, priestly affectation gone, only his deep, radio-perfect voice remaining.
My finger flips the latch, and the balsa wood screen between us unhinges. We both press our other hands to it reflexively and catch it between us, one hand on either side. Then he takes hold of the screen and lets it drop to his side of the cubicle.
We stare at one another through the newly opened space. I still can’t see much. A strand of hair that hangs in his eyes. An angled jaw, a slice of cheekbone, a hollow where his eyes are. I don’t need to be able to see them to know he’s staring straight at me.
I can feel it.
A tiny part of my brain yells at me to hold up. Think this through. Remember last time? it shouts, and I can still picture he-who-must-not-be-named. The reason I applied to study abroad this semester in the first place, so I could get a break from his stupid, knowing smirk.
But this is what I came here for. A fresh start. To get my mind off the past, off every bad decision I’ve made since setting foot on the Penn campus.
What better way to start over than a harmless fling with an innocent guy I’ll never see again (or never see at all, for that matter)?
Instead of answering him, I lean through the newly created opening and run my hands through his silk-smooth hair. He pauses an inch from my face, his nose brushing mine.
&n
bsp; “Walk on air against your better judgment,” he breathes, hot against my lips. It doesn’t seem like he’s talking to me. More to himself.
Deep in the recesses of my mind, the tiny part that’s still functioning buzzes with recognition—I know that line. From where?
Then I forget all about it, because his lips crush against mine. His hands tangle in my hair tightly. I let my fingers run through his hair down the back of his neck to curl around his white-hot skin. He breaks away, grabs a fistful of my hair to tilt my head to one side. His lips graze my jawline, followed fast by his teeth, sinking into the soft spot just beneath my ear, hard enough to leave a mark. “You taste just as good as you sound,” he murmurs.
I groan. Something about the fact that he hasn’t bothered to ask my name—hasn’t even waited to see my face before taking me—is so fucking hot.
“I could say the same about you, Father,” I whisper.
His rough stubble scratches my cheek as I catch his ear between my teeth and bite down hard in response. That earns me a soft, guttural growl.
There’s a splintering sound. He cracks through the remainder of the flimsy wall between us with one knee. For a second I freeze, afraid someone must have heard that. They’ll open the door, find us in here.
But outside, someone screams a terrible karaoke rendition of the newest Adele song. Background music blasts, cups clank, and the party rages on, no one the wiser about what’s happening behind the closed doors in this tiny, abandoned corner of the room.
“Don’t worry.” I can practically hear the grin in his voice. “They won’t hear us. Not until I make you really scream.”
Then his lips dig into mine once more and he’s lifting me, one arm around my waist, dragging me over the partition into his side of the confessional.
“Forgive me, child, for I plan to sin.”
“Is it wrong that I think I’ll enjoy it?” I lean down to lick his lips.
He grabs my legs, adjusts me so I’m straddling him and runs his hands down my back to my skirt. “Only enjoy it? Oh, I think we can do better than that.” He toys with the waistband for a moment, then drops his hands farther, reaching for the hem at my knees.
I grab at the hem of the thin shirt he’s wearing, but he catches my wrist.
“Clothes on,” he whispers, more a command than a request.
My heart skips a beat.
Then he shoves up the hem of my too-long, too-proper skirt. It bunches around my waist, but he leaves it there and hooks a finger through my thong, tugging it down my legs inch by inch. The edge of his finger skates across my pussy, just a teasing brush, as he pulls my underwear down. “Wet already, I see. Why, it’s almost as if you’re more than enjoying this.” He stops when the thong is halfway down my thighs, and I wriggle, trying to pull it the rest of the way off.
He holds me still with one firm arm around my waist.
Fine. That’s how he wants to play it? My turn.
“Seems like I’m not the only one enjoying this.” I drop my hand between us. Even through his jeans, I can feel the hard press of his cock. I trace the outline, feel him twitch when I press my fingertips against his tip.
Suddenly, he grabs both of my wrists, pulls my arms behind my back so I can’t reach him, can’t touch him.
I swallow a groan of frustration. “What?”
He keeps holding me there, gazing up at me through a lock of hair that’s fallen across his face. If I’m not mistaken, he’s smiling. “Just you first,” he says.
I open my mouth, about to say I don’t understand, when he pushes me onto my feet, slides off the confessional bench and drops to his knees between my legs.
Oh god.
He grips my ass hard with both hands, pulls my legs toward him. If anyone opened the door now, they’d have a face full of my … everything. I squeeze my eyes shut, heart pounding with nerves. Nerves, and something more. Something a lot like thrill.
I’ve never done anything like this before. Fucking in the film room late at night in a near-abandoned library basement with a locked door and no windows was hardly the same thing as being in a hastily constructed box with a party raging outside.
This is such a terrible idea.
And yet. Adrenaline floods my veins. Added to the lust already pulsing through them, there’s no way I’m telling him to stop.
His lips brush my inner thigh. I forget the party. I forget everything.
His tongue flashes out to trail up my leg. I shiver, and he laughs, a puff of hot air that burns against the sensitive skin he just licked. “You taste even better than I imagined,” he says, his voice almost a growl.
“Fuck me,” I gasp.
Another laugh. “Not yet,” he murmurs into my skin. “Not until you’re ready to burst.” His teeth nip along the crook of my leg and my hip. Nerve endings I didn’t know existed start to fire. Shivers ricochet up my spine. I can’t help the soft moan that breaks free.
That earns me another laugh, this one right against my … oh GOD.
His tongue swirls across the skin between my legs. His fingers clench my ass again and I jerk forward involuntarily, press myself hard against his face. I let one hand drop to cup his head, and when his tongue glides over my clit, I can’t help but clench my fist in his hair.
“Shit,” I hiss. But he’s only getting started.
He delves between the slick folds of my pussy, laps at me. One hand slides from my ass, skates over my hips to the front, where he brushes my bellybutton, still licking as his fingers trickle down, down, down. His tongue slides out of me and I gasp again, this time from want.
I’m not left wanting long. I groan through gritted teeth as he slides one finger into me. It glides in easy. I’m soaked.
“God, you’re so tight.”
His tongue circles my clit again, sending bullets of pleasure shooting through my nerves while he thrusts in a second finger, then a third.
I rock against him, my legs shaking so hard it’s difficult to stay standing. He holds me in place with his other hand, gripping so hard it’ll leave marks. His fingers fucking me slow at first, then faster, harder, while his tongue lashes my clit.
Before I know it my head falls back and I’m moaning out loud, desperate, hanging on the edge of release.
He curls his fingers inside me, brushing against my walls at the same time that his tongue spears my clit.
The orgasm sparks through me and I cry out, my knees finally losing all control over keeping me upright. My head buzzes, my vision going red at the edges, and all I can think about is if he can do that with just his tongue …
Luckily, he’s a faster thinker than I am at the moment. He catches me, yanks my underwear up and my skirt down fast as possible. I grab at his shirt in protest—we haven’t even done him yet, it’s my turn. But he spins me away from him, and I land on his knee facing the confessional door just as it bursts open.
Bright light floods my probably red-hot face, blinding me. I hold up a hand against it while my eyes struggle to adjust after what feels like hours spent inside this totally dark booth.
Through a squint, I can see at least a dozen people peering in at us, wearing various expressions of surprise and amusement. The guy who opened the door has on a full bishop outfit, complete with giant scarlet hat.
“Well you guys definitely win ballsiest move of the night,” he says in an American accent, his eyes drifting to the broken wooden stall beside us. “What have you done to the confessional?” With a shock I recognize him. It’s the guy Mary Kate went up to the roof with, the one from my exchange group.
No one else behind him looks familiar, but I haven’t exactly memorized the whole campus yet.
What have I done?
“I’ve got to go,” I call over my shoulder without turning around. I can’t let him see my face, and I don’t want to see his. If I do, if I look at him … This will all get way too real, way too fast.
“Wait,” he says, but I’m already flinging myself out of the booth, lettin
g my now-very-mussed hair hide my burning face as best it can. The group who found us laugh and cheer as I race past, but I don’t stop for high fives. I make a beeline through the karaoke-filled living room, straight into the hallway. My coat swings on a hook there—I yank it free, throw it around my shoulders, and text Mary Kate from the hallway.
I’m going home. Sorry I can’t stay.
I know it’s a dick move, skipping out without a goodbye. But this is MK’s party. These are her friends. She’ll be fine.
I’m the one who needs the chaperone.
“You don’t even know his name?” MK exclaims as we meander toward our first class, the one I really ought to be conscious for. Twentieth-Century English Poetry, the subject I specifically came here to study, with the professor I idolize. Now, I’m going to look like a total wreck on day one. Great first impression.
The tall, crenelated medieval buildings of our campus look somewhat less inspiring at the ass-crack of dawn.
Okay, so it’s 8:00 a.m., but that feels impossibly early after I stayed up all night in the dorm room replaying the party in an endless loop of embarrassment.
Embarrassment, and some—what did he call them? Impure thoughts.
“I already regret admitting anything,” I mutter between sips of my espresso. Coffee here kind of sucks, but I’ve got to admit, their espresso is the shit. Or at least, it makes me feel marginally less like shit, which after a night like the last one, is a minor miracle.
“Oh, please. Nick already told me how he found you. Like I’d let you get away without answering at least some basic questions. How hot was he, scale of one to fuck-me-stupid?”
A group of girls crossing the green in the opposite direction, their patent leather shoes clacking on the cobblestones, glance our way. Were they at the party last night? Did someone tell them about me?
My cheeks flush.
“I told you, I didn’t see his face.”
The girls pass us without a second glance. I’m getting paranoid.
“At all?” Hearing her posh accent in such a shocked tone wins a slight grin from me. “Wow, Harper, I know you always tell me you’re trouble, but that’s a new high.”
