His palms warm against my skin as he cupped my breasts.
“I’ll take care of you,” he said.
I arched into his touch, shameless in my need for more. When his thumbs brushed across my nipples, I couldn't suppress the moan that escaped me.
His mouth replaced his fingers, hot and wet against my skin. I gasped, my head falling back as his tongue circled one sensitive peak before drawing it between his lips. The gentle scrape of teeth sent shivers cascading down my spine.
“Judah,” I breathed, my voice barely recognizable.
“Say it again,” he commanded, his breath cooling the dampness on my breast. “Say my name.”
“Judah,” I repeated, louder this time, more desperate.
His hands slid up my thighs, fingers hooking into the elastic of my underwear.
I kept hearing my father’s voice, chantingsinner, sinner, sinnerin my ear, the volume increasing the further down I was willing to fall.Whore standing at Madonna’s altar!He’s a man of God! You’re corrupting him! A whore…
I pulled away. “I… I can’t.”
Judah's eyes flashed with something dangerous — frustration, desire, maybe even relief — as he held perfectly still beneath me.
“You can't,” he repeated, his voice rough. His hands remained on my thighs, neither retreating nor advancing. “Or you shouldn't?”
My chest heaved as I struggled to catch my breath. The room felt impossibly hot now.
“It’s not that simple.” I shook my head. I was half-naked in a pastor's lap. My father's warnings echoed louder.
He took a deep, careful breath; his demeanor changed. “Come here.” He pulled me against his chest. “It’s all right.”
His heartbeat thumped against my cheek, steady and strong despite what we'd nearly done. One hand traced circles on my bare back while the other reached for my dress, pooled at my waist.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, pushing the thin straps back up my arms and over my shoulders. I let him dress me like a child, suddenly exhausted by the weight of desire and shame colliding inside me.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered against his chest.
He didn’t say anything in return, but he kept holding me. Seconds, minutes, hours. And he didn’t leave. Not until the dawn of the next day, and only because he was called to administer a plumber’s last rites.
Tuesday at the church was quiet. It was the mid-week; the food bank was closed and the volunteer schedule had a gap in it. The very building exhaled into itself, savoring the peace and quiet — just stone and old wood and the stained glass throwing its colors across the floor now, with no one particular to throw them at.
I stayed later than I needed to. Reorganized the donation ledger. Rewrote three scheduling emails I'd already sent because the first versions had a tone I didn't like. Made coffee, drank half of it, poured the rest out, washed the mug, set it on the rack and looked at the rack for a while, not really sure why.
Judah had been in his office all day. His door had been closed since nine. I'd walked past it three times with diminishing excuses for doing so and each time the door had been closed and each time I'd walked back to my own desk and told myself I was not doing what I was doing.
It was complicated between us — hard to say where we stood. I understood he was a priest, trust me — Iknew, but I… Well, I suppose that’s where my argument ends.
At five-thirty I gathered my bag, my legal pad and turned off the lights in the food bank office.
A man was coming in as I was going out.
He held the door for me — reflexive courtesy, the automatic manners of someone who'd been raised to do it without thinking — and I almost walked past him entirely. Then something made me stop. His lingering stare, maybe. The way he looked at the church interior. Investigative.
He was in his late forties, by the looks. Plain clothes — not casual, just unremarkable. A leather satchel over one shoulder.
“Excuse me,” he said, turning toward me. “Is this Grace Eternal?”
“It is,” I said. “How may I help?”
“I'm looking for the church administrator.” He produced a card from his jacket pocket and held it out. “My name is Gerald Hall. I'm a private investigator.”
