the moment you entered the chapel, art donaldson—perfect, revered, untouchable—momentarily unraveled. known as the pastor’s son and golden boy of a devout small town, he was adored, idolized, and expected to be without flaw. but you weren’t there for god, salvation, or belief. you were there for him. and there was something intoxicating about tempting someone so carefully constructed to be pure—something deliberate in your movements, in the way your skirt rode up, in the way you sat just within his line of sight. you knew he was watching, just as you knew he shouldn’t. yet the tension—the push and pull of guilt and desire—felt electric, and impossibly easy. maybe it was wrong, but it never felt like it. not with the way you looked at him.