Moonlight and Misdirection

Thomas lay on the bed—fully clothed, save for the loosened collar of his cassock—staring up at the shadows on the cracked ceiling with its faded fleur-de-lis pattern.

The house creaked softly around him, as if settling into the bones of the night. Somewhere beyond the walls, wind stirred the trees and whispered at the windows. He could hear it... and yet, it wasn’t wind that brushed against his senses. It was something more intimate. Like a sigh just beyond hearing. A voice calling his name.

He was tired. Yes. That must be it.

He turned onto his side. Then onto his back again.

Sleep tugged at him like a silk rope. He never knew if he was still awake or already asleep.

And that was when she came.

He didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t feel the air shift. But when he looked, she was there—standing at the foot of the bed in a gown of midnight and moonlight, her hair tumbling in soft waves over her shoulders. Eleanor.

"Is this a dream?" he murmured.

“I told you,” she said, voice the soft purr of a cat playing with a little furry pet, “the dreams here are vivid.”

Thomas struggled to sit up, but he wasn’t sure he moved at all. The bed held him, the night pressed in like warm clouds, and she was suddenly beside him—kneeling, impossibly, on the mattress without causing it to dip.

“You’re not real,” he whispered. “This must be a dream.”

She leaned forward, the gauzy sleeve of her gown whispering against his arm. “If it were, would you want it to end?”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came. Not because he couldn't speak. But because he was afraid of his own answer.

“You think because you wear a collar, your soul is pure and your flesh is above temptation?” she asked, fingers tracing the air just above his chest. “But even saints dream of love, Father.”

She lay beside him now, her body not touching, never quite—but he felt her closeness. She smelled of roses again—roses in bloom, just past their prime, lush and sweet—and of fruit—overripe and forbidden.

Thomas tried to move, his limbs were languid, as if draped in fog.

She propped herself on one elbow and leaned close, lips just near his ear. “You’re safe here,” she whispered. “Safe to feel whatever you try so hard not to.”

She reached toward him again—fingers trailing the air above his chest, his collarbone, down the line of his cassock. Then she began to undo one button after another.

He shivered. Not from the cold.

When she reached his loins, she stopped. Not touching. Only threatening to. And the lack of touch was worse.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked.

Her smile curved like a question mark. “Because you dared to enter the house. Because you stayed. Because I am curious,” she susurrated, her breath brushing his face like steam through silk.

“You’re playing with fire,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

She leaned closer still, lips almost grazing his, a hint of a kiss. “Then strike the match.”

He turned his face away. Her laughter was soft and wicked.

Thomas lay still, his breath uneven, heart galloping like a frightened animal caged within his ribs. He dared not look at her. One glance, and he knew he’d be lost again—lost in those eyes, those endless twin wells in which promise and temptation swirled together.

Her voice found him again, soft and sinuous. “Tell me, Father… what do you pray for when no one hears you?”

He clenched his jaw, refusing to answer. His fingers dug into the sheets, white-knuckled. Hers began to touch him.

“You’re trembling,” she whispered as her hand unbuttoned his pants, opened his fly. “Is it fear? Or anticipation?”

Without waiting for an answer, she laughed—a sound so delicate, it might have been mistaken for the settling of the house. Then she lay down beside him, so close that he could feel the contours of her body.

“You don’t have to confess,” she murmured, her lips brushing against his ear. “I already know.”

Thomas walked on the fine line he’d drawn between body and soul.

“I should ask you to leave,” he managed to say, his voice hoarse. “This… this isn’t right.”

“No,” she agreed, her fingers now feeling the bulge under his boxers. “It’s not."

She squeezed, eliciting a deep moan from him. Then, slowly, she withdrew her hand. The loss of her touch left a kind of ache in its wake.

“I could go,” she said softly, almost to herself. “But... that is not what you want. Is it?"