“Matteo…” His name falls from my lips like a prayer.
His hand rises slowly, giving me every chance to retreat, before gently touching my cheek. The contact sends an electric current through my body, awakening nerve endings I didn’t know existed. My skin burns beneath his touch, a flush spreading from my face down my neck and chest.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, his voice rough with restraint.
I should. Everything I’ve been taught, everything I’ve sworn to uphold demands that I step away. But my body betrays my mind’s hesitation. I find myself leaning into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed as his thumb traces the line of my jaw, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
“I can’t,” I breathe, the confession tearing from somewhere deep inside me.
When his lips meet mine, it’s gentle at first—questioning, tentative. But that initial contact breaks something loose within me, a dam of desire long held in check. My hands, trembling with both fear and need, rise to his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath expensive fabric. The kiss deepens, his tongue teasing the seam of my lips until they part in surrender.
A sound escapes me—half gasp, half moan—as his arms encircle me, drawing me against the hard plane of his chest. My fingers thread through his thick hair, something I’ve imagined doing since our first meeting though I never admitted it even to myself. The texture is silk against my skin, another sensation to overwhelm my starved senses.
Heat pools low in my belly as his mouth grows more insistent, claiming mine with a hunger that matches my own. My heart hammers so violently I’m certain he must feel it where our chests press together. When we finally break apart, both breathing heavily, I see my ownwonder and desire reflected in the darkness of his eyes.
“I’ve thought about this since that night in the Castel Sant’Angelo,” he confesses, his voice husky as his forehead rests against mine. “I know we said we wouldn’t do this, but I can’t resist this need any longer.”
“It is impossible,” I say, even as my hands refuse to release him, fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders as if afraid he’ll disappear. “Everything about this is impossible.”
“And yet here we are.” His smile is tender, his eyes holding mine without shame or doubt. “Perhaps some impossibilities are worth embracing.”
This time when our lips meet, there’s no hesitation, only certainty. His hands move beneath my outer robes, finding the man beneath the papal garments. The heat of his palms through the thin fabric of my cassock sends shivers racing along my spine. My own hands explore the strong lines of his back and shoulders, marvelling at the difference between his body and mine—the firmness where I am soft, the breadth where I am narrow.
Each touch feels like revelation, each kiss a sacrament of its own kind. When his mouth leaves mine to trail along my jaw to my neck, I tilt my head back in surrender, exposing my throat to his exploration. The gentle scrape of his stubble against my sensitive skin draws another gasp from me, my body arching instinctively into his.
Time loses meaning in this hidden garden. We sink onto the stone bench, locked in an embrace that speaks of more than physical desire—it carries the weight of recognition, of finding in another the reflection of your own hidden truth. His thigh presses against mine as we sit facing each other, the contact even through layers of clothing sending waves of pleasure through me that I’ve spent a lifetime denying.
“Marco,” he murmurs against my neck, the sound of my name on his lips sending tremors through me. His hand cups my face, thumbbrushing over my lower lip, swollen from his kisses. “Tell me this isn’t just for tonight.”
I pull back enough to see his face, to trace the strong line of his jaw with trembling fingers. My body still hums with arousal, every nerve ending alive in a way I’ve never experienced. The physical desire is overwhelming, but what terrifies me more is the emotional connection—the sense of rightness, of completion I feel in his arms.
“How could it be?” I manage, my voice unsteady. “Whatever this is between us—it’s not something I can walk away from, even though I should.”
“Then don’t,” he says simply, capturing my hand and pressing a kiss to my palm, then to the inside of my wrist where my pulse races beneath his lips. “We’ll find a way.”
The impossible promise hangs between us, fragile and precious. For this moment, in this forgotten garden, I allow myself to believe it could be true. His arm circles my waist, drawing me closer until I’m nearly in his lap, our foreheads touching, breath mingling in the small space between us.
“I never knew it could feel like this,” I confess, the words barely audible. “To want someone so much it feels like drowning.”
His eyes darken further at my words, his hand at my waist tightening possessively. “I’ve wanted you since that first meeting,” he admits. “When you spoke about love being broader than human understanding. I saw something in your eyes then—a truth you were hiding from everyone, maybe even yourself.”
His honesty emboldens me. I let my fingers trace the outline of his lips, marvelling at their softness in contrast to the masculine strength of his jaw. “I’ve spent my entire life running from this part of myself,” I tell him. “Believing it was wrong, sinful.”
“And now?” His question hangs between us, weighted with possibility.
“Now I don’t know what to believe,” I answer truthfully. “Except that this—” I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady beneath my hand, “—feels more right than anything I’ve ever known.”
He kisses me again, gentler now but no less affecting. My body responds instantly, leaning into him, seeking more contact, more heat, more of everything he offers. For these precious moments, I am not the Pope, not the Holy Father, not the successor to Peter—I am simply Marco, a man discovering for the first time what it means to desire and be desired in return.
* * *
Later, I kneel in the private chapel adjacent to my apartments, evening prayers becoming a tumult of confession and question. The memory of Matteo’s touch lingers on my skin like a brand, impossible to ignore even in this sacred space.
“Your Holiness?” Father Domenico’s gentle voice breaks through my troubled meditation. The elderly priest enters quietly, his familiar presence usually a comfort.
“Father,” I acknowledge, unable to meet his eyes.
He settles beside me, his aged knees creaking slightly as he kneels. “I did not mean to intrude on your prayers.”
