The next morning, sunlight filtered through the convent's stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the stone floor. I was in the garden, tending to the roses, my habit back in place like nothing had happened. But everything had changed. My body still ached deliciously from the night before, my p***y tender and slick at the mere thought of him. I couldn't stop replaying it—the way his c**k had stretched me, filled me, made me scream.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel path behind me. I turned, and there he was, leaning against the archway with that smug grin, looking every bit the devil in work boots and a tight shirt that hugged his muscled arms.
'Sister,' he said, his voice low and teasing, 'you look like you're praying for forgiveness today.'
I straightened up, clutching the
