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It’s him. Fath—Marcelo is the masked man. My masked man.

It took the entire conversation with him outside, the intensity in his eyes as he had me practically pinned to the church wall, and the entire drive home to come to terms with it. Someone as beautiful and kind as that has been stalking me, stealing away into my room at night, touching me.

I think of his fingers grazing the underside of my breast as he cut my bra off me, of his hands on my back as he aided my wounds, of his tongue on mine with only leather between us.

My core is hot and I feel like I haven’t taken a full breath since the service, since before Communion, when I wanted nothing more than to rip his pants open and suck on him there, in front of everyone. In front of my mother, in front of Daren.

The arousal from then hasn’t quieted—not one bit. Not as I sit in the backseat of Daren’s car, not as I walk into our small house, and not now, as I touch myself under the stream of a cold shower.

I think, if his skin would’ve touched mine, even once more, I would’ve leaped on him, begging him to break his vows of chastity.

But somewhere between the first and second orgasm in the cold shower, just before Mother slammed on the door and told me to hurry up, I came up with an idea.

Tonight, I’ll wait for him in nothing more than what he gave me.