They never meant to let it go this far.
At first, it was just a kiss. A slip. A single sin ignited in a moment of weakness.
But now, it’s a ritual.
Mara is drunk on him—the way his hands tremble when they trace the outline of her hips, the way his voice fractures when he breathes her name like a sacred curse. She craves the crack in his composure, the flicker of fire in a man sworn to water. The more he tries to drown it, the more it burns.
She’s high on the scent of him lingering on her skin long after he’s gone. On the sting of his stubble against her inner thighs. On the weight of him kneeling between her legs in the confessional booth, rosary beads digging into his palms as his tongue delivers salvation in the form of sin.
She’s lost count of how many times it’s happened. How many
