~ Brock ~

I take a deep, exhausting breath, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“The catechist’s wife,” I mutter.

“Good boy,” she whispers.

Mrs. Stockholm, the catechist’s wife, crawls up my bare chest. She rests her head right over my heart, her warm breath tickling my skin.

I run my fingers through her hair.

God, I missed the touch of a woman. It’s been a solid year of cold, empty sheets.

The only problem is that she isn't mine.

Do I feel guilty? Not even a little.

I’ve coveted her from afar for years. Now, she’s breathing peacefully in my bed, looking entirely innocent.

But nobody in this damn town...