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“Oh? And what do you think?”

He took a step closer to me. “I think your magazine is right. Your friend, too. You should alwayslisten to friends who want to lead you astray. Staying on the straight and narrow path is boring.”

I took a step back. “But His Word says sexual pleasure is a sin for any woman. It also says I should be faithful to my husband, even if I did not choose to marry him.”

A devious smile curved up Mason’s lips, and he took another step toward me. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think there is nothing better than a man like me touching a woman like you, married or not.”

He pulled me into his arms, and I trembled. The strange tingling feeling was back, spreading throughout my body, and he wasn’t even punishing me. How extraordinary.

“I can’t,” I said, dramatically wrenching myself free. “It will feel good, but that is what the Devil wants, isn’t it?”

“The Devil isn’t real, and there’s nothing wrong with feeling good,” Mason said, stepping close to me again. He leaned down, his nose only inches from mine. “If your husband isn’t here to see, it won’t matter, will it?”

“I suppose not,” I said breathlessly. “But does this mean you love me the same way our God does?”

Mason chuckled. “Who cares about love? I’m just looking for a woman to fulfil my needs.”

“And what are your needs?” I asked. Even though it was part of the script, some deep part of me genuinely wanted to know the answer to that question.

Mason slid his left arm around my waist, and our faces moved even closer together as he roughly pulled my body toward him. I gulped, trying to ignore how intoxicating his scent was. The children in the audience gasped.

“I need a beautiful girl with hair so long and silky I can run my fingers through it,” he replied, moving his free hand up to my head. He slowly stroked his fingers through my hair, and goosebumps immediately broke out over my skin.

Many people had touched my hair before, admiring its length, color and luster, but Mason’s touch felt different. Wrong and right at the same time. Brimming with hot desire, dripping with passion, overflowing with promise.

“My woman must also have a beautiful body which she isn’t afraid to show off for men like me. I don’t like modest, God-fearing women who cover everything up,” he went on. “My woman should be dressed like a whore and willing to give every part of her body to me whenever I want it. Are you willing, Ms. Chastain?”

He’d said the wrong line, calling me by my real name instead of Mrs. Smith, but no one seemed to have noticed except me. He leaned in again and tightened his grip around my waist as his lips hovered over mine. In this moment, we were as close as two people could possibly get to kissing without actually doing it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the audience was captivated. Shocked and scandalized. I couldn’t blame them. We weren’t supposed to get this close during the play, even to represent the sin of lust.

“Yes,” I said with a nod. My heart was racing so fast I thought it might explode right out of my chest. “I’m willing to be your whore. Take me, Mr... what did you say your name was?”

“Mr. Devillier,” Mason said before burrowing his face into my neck.

This time, some of the older members of the audience gasped. I gasped too. Mason wasn’t supposed to touch my neck with his mouth like that. It wasn’t part of the script.

I didn’t care. I never wanted him to stop.

The tingling was gone now, replaced by a new and even more pleasurable sensation burning through me like wildfire. I was left breathless with desire and wonder. Paralyzed with guilt and fear. Two utterly conflicting feelings, warring with each other in my mind and body.

“Take me in every way, Mr. Devillier.” I barely choked out my next line as Mason pulled his lips away and straightened his posture, staring down at me with dark, heavily-lidded eyes.

His heart was beating fast. I could feel it against me. He was hard, too; that part of men I was only allowed to see during Joining rituals. I could feel the thick bar of it pressed right up on my belly. It made me squirm and clench around nothing as if there was a great emptiness within me, needy and desperate for him to fill it.

“Oh, I will,” he said, voice low and thick with unfamiliar emotion. “You can’t stop me, Ms. Chastain.”

I was starting to think he wasn’t forgetting the lines. He was calling me by my real name on purpose.

One of the girls who was acting as a performance assistant raced onto the stage and stood in front of us with a large piece of cardboard. I couldn’t see it from here, but I knew it had ‘six months later’ written on it in huge black letters.

Mason pulled away from me and moved to the far right side of the stage. I felt the cold absence of his touch immediately, right down to my bones, and for a few seconds, I actually wanted to cry.

The stage assistant finally walked away, back into the wings.

A whirlwind of errant thoughts whipped through my mind as I stared over at Mason. I couldn’t remember the rest of the play. It was like every line had vanished from my mind, replaced with these sinful thoughts of possession and all-consuming need.

Mason must’ve realized I’d forgotten my next line, because he strode forward and spoke out of turn and off-script, as if trying to help me recall my part.

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