I sit in Notre Dame’s confessional booth, confessing my sins. “Forgive me,” I say, “but when I first saw Arno Dorian, I couldn’t keep my thoughts pure. I cannot stop thinking about those wonderfully tight breeches, that devilish smirk, his sinfully seductive voice. I want him to do dirty, dirty things to me. I want him to ravish me like it’s our last act on earth.” There’s a silence from the next compartment, before a familiar, ‘sinfully seductive’ voice speaks through the lattice: “An actual priest might be able forgive you, cherie, but I won’t let you off the hook so easily.” And I can’t help but grin and blush as I could almost hear the devilish smirk in his voice.