I stepped into the church wearing a skirt way too short for a place like this. No panties underneath. No bra either. Just sin. Warm and wet between my thighs.
I wasn’t here to pray.
The air was cold, but my skin was hot—every step echoing through the empty pews as I walked toward the back, where the confessional waited. I'd done this before. Twice. But today I was aching more than ever, pulsing with the kind of hunger only one man could feed.
Father Elijah.
Young. Clean-shaven. Blue eyes that looked straight through your soul. And a voice so deep it vibrated in your bones when he spoke. He never touched me. But he always listened. Listened while I told him what I touched, what I imagined, what I wanted.
I pushed open the little door and stepped into the booth. The scent of old wood an
