His Sinner

He never touched me the way I wanted him to.

That was the torture.

We stood too close in the candlelit ruin of the old chapel, where dust and incense clung to the air like forgotten prayers. His presence pressed against me without contact, heat without flame.

His eyes traced every breath I took, every trembling inch of restraint I could no longer hold. My body ached with unsaid words, with hunger that lived just beneath my skin.

I could only dream of him.


The space between us was a sin all its own. His hand hovered near my waist but never claimed it. That distance burned worse than touch. I wanted him to break. I wanted to be the reason.

Pulse thundered in my throat. Every breath tasted like confession. I wanted to sink into him, into the darkness he carried so carefully. Not for his body alone but for the way he looked at me as if I were both temptation and truth.

He forgot who he was supposed to be when he looked at me.

When he leaned closer, our foreheads nearly met. His breath brushed my cheek. The world narrowed to the fragile space between our mouths, charged with wanting and fear.

I did not need his touch to feel owned by the moment. My craving wrapped around him like smoke, slow and suffocating. I wanted to be the thought that haunted him at night. The prayer he would never finish.

I would burn for him and call it holy.

Just to hear him unraveled in silence.

I was the ache he could not escape.
The hunger he would never name.

I was his sinner.

And every second we did not touch was its own kind of ecstasy.