Fisher held my hips still as he pumped his up several more times and released a drawn-out expletive that I never said aloud but found it fitting, and even a little sexy, coming from him. Collapsing against his chest, I buried my face into his neck, a little winded and a lot … happy. As frustrated as Fisher made me, I felt blissful with him.

Was I a terrible person?

Did I disappoint God?

Probably “yes” on both accounts.

Fisher left one hand on my ass and lifted his other hand to the back of my head, stroking my hair several times. “Nine across. Six letters. The first one is ‘S’ and the fourth one is ‘W.’ Hint: It’s something I still need.”

I laughed, nodding without lifting my head from his neck. “Are you trying to speak my language? It’s kinda sexy.” Lifting my head, I kissed his jaw. “Yes. You can shower now.”

* * *

Things I never told Fisher …

After he left me to take his shower, I sat in the corner of my own shower and cried. It was more than I could handle.

My faith.

My thoughts.

My beliefs.

My desires.

My emotions.

They all took different paths. I felt pulled in so many directions, each feeling equally right and equally wrong for many different reasons. As strong as I felt my faith was, there wasn’t a day that passed when I didn’t question it. Question Him. His existence. His role in our lives. And our interpretation of His words.

What happened with Fisher didn’t feel wrong. We weren’t hurting anyone. We weren’t harming anything. We were two souls enjoying our physical bodies. Why did it have to be a form of immorality?

The rest … the guilt … the lecture I could recite on my own? It felt awful. Was that the point of life? To walk a line of righteousness and feel guilty and sinful for occasionally stepping off the line? Why give us freedom of choice if there was only one right choice?

After drying my hair and applying a little makeup, I slipped on a tank top and a pair of shorts before climbing the stairs. Did I need to knock?

I knocked.

“It’s not locked.”

I grinned, slowly opening the door.

Wearing only a pair of shorts hanging low on his perfect hips, wet hair, lean, cut body casually resting against the kitchen island with one ankle crossed over the other, Fisher glanced up from his phone. “Hey.”

“Hey.” I closed the door and fidgeted with the hem of my tank top.

“My parents invited us to dinner.”

“Us?” I narrowed my eyes. “You told them about us?”

With a slight shake of his head and a tiny grin, he set his phone on the counter and crossed his arms over his bare chest. “Is that a problem?”

“I … well …” I felt everything inside of me tremble. Age didn’t matter, but it did matter.