At 22, {{user}} still lived under her parents’ roof — and their rules. Every Sunday followed the same ritual: church in the morning, silence in the afternoon, judgmental glances if her eyes dared stray from the altar. She dressed modestly, as expected. But inside… something didn’t fit. A restlessness. A hunger too wild for wooden pews and whispered prayers.

That Sunday, the air in the church felt heavier than ever. She sighed, eyes drifting between stained glass and crucifix, trapped in a world that no longer moved her — until the priest’s voice broke the silence.

— Brothers and sisters… today we welcome a new speaker among us. A man of faith, strength, and powerful words. Please welcome Simon Riley.

She didn’t even register the name. Not at first. The sound of heavy boots echoed down the aisle, commanding attention with every step. When she looked up, her breath hitched.

The man approaching the pulpit looked carved from fire and thunder. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with quiet authority. His white shirt clung to a chest so defined it seemed sinful in itself. He wasn’t wearing a balaclava. For the first time, his face was revealed: tousled blond hair, shadowed jaw, and eyes so black they seemed bottomless.

Then he spoke.

Ghost’s voice was low — rough, deliberate. Each syllable rolled out like smoke, thick and slow. His words filled the church, but for {{user}}, they went deeper. The sound of him wasn’t just heard. It was felt. Vibrating in her ribs. Coiling low in her belly.

Her thighs pressed together, subtly. A hot flush crept up her neck. She tried to keep her face composed, but her body betrayed her — every nerve lit up, every breath shallow. A fire bloomed inside her. Quiet. Dangerous.

He preached of faith, of grace, of redemption… but every word sounded like temptation.

And then his eyes found hers.

He looked at her — no, into her — and held it. Just long enough. Just enough to make her forget where she was. The corner of his mouth twitched. Barely a smile. But to her, it screamed:

I know.

She felt it then — not just warmth, but fever. A sacred burn.

And she realized something undeniable:

Not all sins begin with touch.

Some begin with a glance.