The Oklahoma heat pressed against the church walls like a physical weight, thick and suffocating. I walked across the gravel path, my sandals clicking softly, heading toward the small, detached building that served as Pastor Miller’s private office. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. For weeks, my mind had been a battlefield. I was eighteen, a girl who had spent her life in the shadow of the pulpit, but lately, the shadows had started to feel warm. I had dreams—visceral, terrifying, wonderful dreams—of hands where they shouldn't be and breaths hot against my neck. I felt stained.

I pushed open the heavy oak door. The office smelled of old parchment, stale peppermint, and a heavy, musk-like cologne that always seemed to cling to the Pastor. He sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his silver hair combed back perfectly, his eyes two dark pits of perceived wisdom.

I sank into the leather chair opposite him, clutching my handbag to my chest.

Pastor Miller didn't move for a long moment. Then, he stood up and walked around the desk. He didn't stop until he was standing directly over me. The scent of his cologne grew stronger, overwhelming the smell of the old books.

He reached out, his hand landing on my shoulder. His grip was firm, his thumb grazing the skin of my neck. I shivered, a jolt of electricity shooting down my spine.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, his hand slid down from my shoulder, his palm flattening against my chest, over my heart. I gasped, my breath hitching. He didn't pull away; instead, he pressed firmer, his fingers brushing the edge of my bra.

He shifted his hand, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric of my blouse. The contact of his warm, calloused skin against my breast made my toes curl in my sandals. He squeezed gently, his thumb circling my nipple through the lace. I let out a small, broken moan.

He withdrew his hand slowly, the absence of his touch leaving me feeling cold and empty. He stepped back, his expression once again the mask of a holy man.

I left the office in a daze, the Oklahoma sun feeling dimmer than before. All I could feel was the ghost of his hand on my breast and the strange, terrifying thrumming between my legs. The second visit was more intense. The heat of the afternoon mirrored the heat in my blood. I didn't even wait for him to ask; I told him the thoughts had returned, louder and more demanding.

I obeyed, my breath coming in shallow pants. I felt him sit beside me. The sofa dipped under his weight.