Emma has never missed a Sunday mass in her life.
She was raised to believe modesty was next to godliness. Skirts below the knee, no makeup beyond a faint gloss, no boys. Her parents still checked her phone every week. The only thing she ever hid was the way her body had started waking up, her n*****s hardening under her cotton bras during prayer, thighs pressing together when Father Michael’s voice rolled through the church like thunder.
He was new. Thirty-two, maybe thirty-three. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair clipped short, eyes the color of storm clouds. When he spoke from the pulpit the whole congregation leaned forward, men included. Women blushed. Emma sat in the third pew every week and tried not to stare at the way his black cassock stretched across his chest.
But lately the
