Forgive me, Father, for I’m about to sin.
And I want you to hear every moan of it.
I was raised to believe that temptation was the devil’s whisper—subtle, slippery, and shameful. But nothing about Father Elijah was subtle. And lately, the whispers had turned into full-blown screams inside my head.
He stood tall at the pulpit, one hand gripping the Bible, the other lifted high as he spoke about purity and resisting the flesh. But all I saw were the veins in his forearms, the firm line of his jaw, and the way his lips curled when he said the word sin.
I shifted uncomfortably in the pew, thighs pressed tight as wet heat pulsed between them. I shouldn’t be reacting like this. Not in church. Not to him.
And yet…
When the service ended, I lingered, pretending to fumble with my hymnbook unt
