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and fear of something you worship but don't really understand. Christian clearly worshipped
Lissa in his way, but there was a knowing glint to his eyes, a sense that the two of them shared
an understanding of each other so perfect and powerful that they didn't even need words to
convey it.
"Don't you think we're going to go to hell for this?" asked Lissa.
He reached out and touched her face, trailing his fingers along her cheek and neck and down to
the top of her silky shirt. She breathed heavily at that touch, at the way it could be so gentle and
small, yet evoke such a strong passion within her.
"For this?" He played with the shirt's edge, letting his finger just barely brush inside of it.
"No," she laughed. "For this." She gestured around the attic. "This is a church. We shouldn't be
doing this kind of, um, thing up here."
"Not true," he argued. Gently, he pushed her onto her back and leaned over her. "The church is
downstairs. This is just storage. God won't mind."
"You don't believe in God," she chastised. Her hands made their way down his chest. Her
movements were as light and deliberate as his, yet they clearly triggered the same powerful
response in him.
He sighed happily as her hands slid under his shirt and up his stomach. "I'm humoring you."
"You'd say anything right now," she accused. Her fingers caught the edge of his shirt and
pushed it up. He shifted so she could push it all the way off him and then leaned back over her,
bare-chested.
"You're right," he agreed. He carefully undid one button on her blouse. Just one. Then he again
leaned down and gave her one of those hard, deep kisses. When he came up for air, he
continued on as though nothing had happened. "Tell me what you need to hear, and I'll say it."
He unfastened another button.
"There's nothing I need to hear," she laughed. Another button popped free. "You can tell me
whatever you want—it'd just be nice if it were true."