I came back the next day.
Same time. Same skirt.
No panties.
The church was quiet, just like before—hauntingly still, like the walls remembered what we did yesterday. And maybe they did. Maybe the stained glass blushed each time I walked past.
But I didn’t go to the confessional.
Not today.
Today, I walked straight down the center aisle.
To the altar.
I wasn’t sure what I was doing until I saw him standing there, behind the pulpit. Black shirt. Collar stiff. Hands folded. And those sinful eyes, watching me like I was the offering he’d been waiting for.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly, but there was no conviction in his voice. Just tension. Lust.
Heat.
I stepped up the first marble step, slow and steady. “You let me in.”
He didn’t move. “This is the altar.”
“I know.”
“
