The confessional smelled of old wood, incense, and the faint, unmistakable musk of female arousal.
Sister Maria knelt on the worn velvet cushion, habit hiked to her waist, black veil still pinned neatly to her dark hair. Her rosary beads dangled between her trembling breasts, the silver crucifix cool against flushed skin. One hand clutched the lattice screen for balance; the other was buried wrist-deep between her spread thighs.
She had meant to pray.
The afternoon sun slanted through the narrow stained-glass window above the booth, painting ruby and sapphire light across her pale inner thighs. The convent had been silent for hours, most of the sisters were in the garden or the chapel for Vespers. Maria had slipped into the confessional to “examine her conscience,” as Mother Superior al
