Chapter 3

I went back after Wednesday rehearsal on purpose.

The other singers had already drifted out in their usual clusters of laughter and small talk, robes half-unzipped, phones already in their hands. I stayed behind under the pretense of stacking the last few chairs and collecting stray sheet music. The sanctuary lights clicked off one by one until only the small lamp in the side hallway remained. The building settled into that particular quiet I had come to crave—the kind that made every footstep sound deliberate.

I walked straight to his office and pushed the door open without knocking.

Pastor Elias Kane sat behind the desk, glasses low on his nose, pen still moving across some pastoral report or budget line. When he looked up and saw me, something unguarded flickered across his face—want, fear, recognition—before he could smooth it away. The pen stopped. His shoulders tensed under the dark shirt he still wore from the service.

I closed the door behind me. The soft click of the latch sounded louder than it should have in the silence. I did not lock it. Not yet. The possibility of someone returning felt like part of the risk I wanted him to feel.

“I keep having these thoughts,” I said, not giving him time to speak first. My voice stayed steady, almost conversational. “About you. About what it would feel like if you stopped being so careful with me.”

“Maya—”

My name in that roughened voice sent a small, private thrill down my spine. I stepped closer until my thighs nearly brushed the edge of the desk. The scent of him reached me—clean soap, the faint trace of the cologne he wore only on Sundays, paper and ink. I let my eyes drop deliberately to his mouth before rising again.

“I know it’s wrong,” I continued. “That’s why it feels so good when I touch myself thinking about it. Late at night. In my bed. With the lights off so I can pretend the dark makes it safer.”

His hands tightened on the papers. I watched the knuckles go white. The muscles in his forearms flexed once beneath the rolled sleeves. He did not look away from me, but his breathing had already changed—shallower, less controlled.

“I imagine you telling me to get on my knees,” I said, keeping my tone even, almost instructional. “I imagine you using my mouth the way you use your sermons—slow at first, patient, then harder when you decide I’ve taken enough of the gentle version. I come so hard when I picture it that I have to press my face into the pillow.”

The air in the office thickened. I could hear the low hum of the building’s old heating system, the distant tick of the clock in the hallway, the sound of my own pulse in my ears. Elias’s chest rose and fell visibly now. His glasses had slipped a fraction lower. He made no move to adjust them.

I reached down, took his right hand, and lifted it from the papers. His skin was warm. I placed that hand on my hip first, letting him feel the curve through the thin fabric of my dress. Then I guided it higher, slow enough that he could have pulled away at any second. He did not. I pressed his palm over the soft swell of my breast until his whole hand covered me. My nipple hardened instantly against the center of his palm.

“I’m already wet,” I whispered. “Just from saying it out loud to you. From the way you’re looking at me like you’re afraid of what happens if you keep listening.”

His fingers flexed once. I felt the tremor that ran through them—small, involuntary, honest. The heat of his hand soaked through the dress and into my skin. I arched the smallest amount into his touch, enough for him to feel the weight of my breast fill his palm more completely.

I looked down. The front of his trousers was strained tight, the outline of his cock clear and thick against the dark fabric. A small, satisfied sound left my throat before I could stop it. The evidence of how much he wanted this—how long he had been holding it back—settled low and hot in my stomach.

“You want it too,” I said. “You’ve been wanting it. I see it every time you look at me during service and then force yourself to look away. I see it in the way your voice tightens when you say my name. You’re not as good at hiding it as you think.”

I reached lower with my free hand and cupped him through the trousers. He was hard—so hard it almost hurt to feel the rigid heat of him straining against the fabric and my fingers. His hips twitched once under my palm, a tiny, helpless movement he could not control. A rough breath left him.

“Let me take care of you,” I murmured, rubbing slowly along the length of him through the cloth. “Just once. No one has to know. The building is empty. The door is closed. You can stop being the careful pastor for twenty minutes and let someone who already knows what she wants handle the rest.”

His voice came out low and almost broken. “This is a mistake.”

I smiled—slow, certain, the smile I had practiced in my mirror for weeks. “Then make it with me.”

I kept my hand on him, stroking with deliberate patience, feeling every ridge and the heavy thickness of a cock that had clearly never been touched like this before. The way he shook under my fingers told me more than any confession could have. The way his eyes stayed wide and dark behind the slipped glasses. The way his free hand had curled into a fist on the desk as if he needed something solid to hold onto.

I already knew the truth without him saying it.

He was a virgin.

The knowledge settled deeper, hotter, more possessive than I had expected. All those careful sermons, all those nights he must have spent alone with his own restraint, all the times he had looked at me and forced himself to turn away—none of it had ever been tested by another person’s hands. I was going to be the first one to feel him properly. The first one to watch his face when the control finally cracked. The first one to decide exactly how he learned what his body was for.

I leaned in closer, close enough that my breath brushed his ear, while my hand continued its slow, steady friction over the trapped length of him.

“You’ve never done any of this, have you?” I asked softly. Not accusation. Recognition. “No one’s ever put their hand on you like this. No one’s ever told you to stop being careful and just feel it. That’s why you’re shaking. That’s why your cock is leaking through your trousers already—I can feel the wet spot forming under my fingers.”

A low, almost pained sound left his throat. He still had not pulled away. His hand remained on my breast, fingers now flexing in small, unconscious kneading motions as if his body had started making decisions his mind had not yet approved.

“I could get on my knees right now,” I continued, voice dropping further. “I could take you out and put my mouth on you the way I’ve imagined. Slow at first. Letting you feel every inch of wet heat. Teaching you what it means to have someone else in control of how good it feels. Or…” I squeezed him once, firmly, and felt his hips jerk again. “I could lock that door, push these papers aside, and show you what it feels like to be inside me. But I already know which part of me I want you to take first.”

His breathing had turned ragged. The papers under his fist were crumpled now. Behind the glasses his eyes looked almost black.

I released his cock only long enough to reach behind me and turn the lock on the office door. The second click was softer than the first but far more final. Then I returned my hand to him, rubbing with the same patient rhythm, watching every micro-expression that crossed his face—the struggle, the hunger, the terrified wonder of a man realizing he was not going to stop this.

“You’re going to let me,” I said, not a question. “You’re going to stop fighting the part of you that wants this and let the choir girl who stayed late take care of the rest. And when I finally have you inside me for the first time, I’m going to put this thick virgin cock exactly where I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”

I leaned in until my lips nearly brushed his.

“Not my mouth first. Not my cunt first.”

My hand tightened around the hard shape of him one last time, slow and deliberate.

“My ass.”

The word hung in the quiet office between us, raw and irreversible. Elias’s eyes widened further. A visible shudder ran through his entire body. His cock throbbed hard under my palm, leaking more steadily now, the wet heat of it unmistakable even through the fabric.

I smiled again, softer this time, almost fond of the wrecked look on his face.

“That’s where you’re going to learn what it feels like to stop being careful,” I whispered. “And I’m going to enjoy every second of teaching you.”