She came back two nights later.
She didn’t even bother pretending this was about confession anymore, it was all about him, about that voice, that control, that ache he kept leaving in her.
This time, he didn’t wait in the booth.
He was leaning against the altar with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, his eyes locked on her the moment she stepped through the doors.
“Up here,” he said, nodding toward the steps.
Her heels clicked against the stone as she approached. When she reached him, he took her by the wrist and pulled her flush against his chest.
“You’ve been thinking about me.” he said.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“And touching yourself?”
“…Every night.”
His mouth curved into a slow, wicked smile. “Show me how.”
Before she could react, he lifted her onto the edge of the altar. The
