Jefferson’s stomach churned and his hands shook. The heat in the church suffocated him, and the effort of each breath made him weak. He sunk, his knees utterly useless, and missed the pew to land on the floor.
He didn’t know which upset him more. Kissing Micah had been wrong. Horribly, devastatingly wrong. And it only took one look at Micah’s shocked face to realize he knew it too. Unfortunately, his sin was greater than the kiss. Far, far greater.
The inappropriate contact could be explained away. He could claim he was drunk. He could claim he had lost his senses. He could claim the ghost possessed him. He could beg for Micah’s pardon. He could spend the rest of his life demonstrating that it had been a mistake he’d never make again.
But what he couldn’t do was explain the need to hurt
