She came back the next week.
She didn’t knock. Didn’t text.
Delilah slipped in through the side entrance of the chapel like a woman with a mission—and a mouth that already knew how to sin. The flicker of candlelight caught in her hair, casting her in a dangerous kind of halo.
Pastor Gideon was waiting for her.
He hadn’t touched himself all week. Not once. He had fasted until his stomach clenched in protest, prayed until his throat was hoarse, recited Psalm 51 like a penitent child clinging to grace. But none of it worked. None of it could erase the feel of her skin, the sound of her voice, the memory of her body clenched around him like a vice.
She had spoiled him—ruined him for purity. His body remembered her every moan. His hands ached to bruise her hips again. And when he saw her w
