Mia.
I thought he’d stride in wearing jeans and one of those fitted shirts that hugged his frame just right, the kind that made his shoulders look like they could carry the weight of the world—or pin me down without effort.
His dark hair tousled, a bit rebellious, screaming “professor” more than “priest.” But no.
As he walked into class, he was draped in that white cassock, pristine and flowing, the fabric whispering against the floor like a holy secret.
It made him look every inch the devout man of God—untouchable, elevated—yet so devastatingly handsome that my mind spiraled straight to sin.
I imagined rising from my seat, blocking the entrance, dropping to my knees right there in front of everyone, hiking up that cassock, yanking down whatever lay beneath, and taking his c**k in
