Connor was a good priest once. That was before Boston, before the scandal, before the diocese buried him in a parish at the edge of the world ? a crumbling church in rural Oregon where it rains every day and his congregation is twelve elderly farmers who don't remember his name.

He drinks alone. He says mass to empty pews. He's stopped pretending the prayers reach anyone.

Then Sadie Ward walks into his study on a Thursday afternoon. Twenty-two, sharp as glass, raised by a town that forgot her the moment her parents were gone. She's been coming to counseling sessions since the last priest, and she's not stopping now. Not because she needs saving. Because the rectory is warm, and someone behind that desk is listening, and for one hour a week, she isn't invisible.

She doesn't seduce him. She does something worse ? she tells him the truth. About her loneliness. About his. About a dream she had where a man in black unfolded his hands across a desk and made her feel, for the first time in her life, found.

When a flood forces her out of her trailer and into the rectory's guest room, the boundary between them shrinks from one hour a week to a hallway. Twenty-seven steps from his bedroom door to hers. Thin walls. Old pipes that carry sound. And a proximity that turns every shared meal, every accidental touch, every sleepless night into a slow-burning negotiation between the man he was trained to be and the man she makes him want to become.

The collapse, when it comes, is not a crisis. It's a choice. Made in a confessional where she speaks her desire in sacramental language. Made on his knees on cold tile with her name in his teeth. Made in the sacristy where he dresses for God and undresses for her. Made in a kitchen at 2 AM where the kettle clicks off and neither of them moves.

Congregation is stroke erotica with literary bones ? a twelve-chapter slow burn that earns every escalation through accumulated restraint. The sex is explicit, specific, and emotionally devastating. The characters are real people with contradictions, histories, and scars. The setting is a character: a hundred-year-old rectory where every room becomes a battleground between faith and desire.

This is a story about a man who spent twenty years worshipping something that never answered, and a woman who taught him what it felt like to be heard. It's about what happens when the collar comes off and the lamp stays lit.

For readers who want their erotica to leave marks.

By day, Linda Baker looks like she belongs in a high-rise corner office. With her sharp eye for detail and a penchant for perfectly tailored blazers, she projects the image of corporate control. But when the lights go down, she trades the spreadsheets for something much more volatile: the raw, uneven balance sheets of power, submission, and desire.

Linda doesn't believe in "vanilla." She believes in the electric tension that snaps when brilliant, powerful people lose control?or deliberately give it away.

Her novels are not for the faint of heart. Linda specializes in high-heat erotica that explores the psychological edges of arousal. She writes for the reader who wants to know how deep the rabbit hole really goes. Whether she is exploring dark cuckold dynamics in the elite echelon, ruthless corporate dominance, or complex humiliation fantasies, Linda delivers stories that are intelligent, intense, and unapologetically hardcore.

When she isn't orchestrating the ruin (or redemption) of a fictional financial titan, you can find her with a glass of vintage red wine, researching which moral boundary to cross next.

Motto:
"Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac. I just document who gets to use it."