Page 34 of Taken By the Bounty Hunter

“Oh man,” I say.

Word about Orlyn’s apprehension has spread fast.

Remaining in this state of limbo, in hiding, while the tension grows and grows around town seems like the wrong thing to do.

I have to choose a side. Even if that means I’ll never see my parents again. Or my siblings. Unless they decide to leave, it’ll be impossible.

I open the door and throw my arms around Jefferson when he approaches the car.

“Baby, what are you doing? Get in the car,” he says, squeezing me tight.

“I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to pick a side.”

With his hands on my hips, he kisses me. My lips have been missing that.

“Of course you’re on a side. You left, didn’t you?”

I nod. “But there’s only one way to make sure I can never go back.”

He waits for me to continue, urging me on.

God, I hope I don’t have to be the one to ask. “They won’t want me back in the church if…”

I wait, and the facts finally click in Jefferson’s brain.

“If you get married,” he says.

I bite my lip and wait for what he says next.

A smile creeps across his face, and he gestures with his chin in the direction of the courthouse. “Well, hell. Right this way, sweetheart.”

Chapter Ten

Jefferson

“This might be a stupid question, but how do we make it fit?”

Georgie’s cheeks are flushed; she bites her glistening bottom lip, already swollen and bruised from her relentless kisses. Not that I’m complaining. I’ll never complain.

“It’ll fit,” I say as I fist my cock, hovering over her on the hotel bed.

Joaquin drove us straight to this luxury ski lodge deep in the mountains following our quickie wedding ceremony.

I knew better than to ask too many questions. Such as how any of us plan to pay for a $2000-per-night room.

The more I get to know Joaquin, the more I suspect he doesn’t actually need to live in a crap shack for financial reasons.

For now, I’ll let him be a mystery.

For now, I’m caught up in my pretty wife, who lies eager and ready under me. I take a mental picture of the moment: Georgie in a fluffy hotel bathrobe, her silky auburn hair splayed out over the Egyptian cotton.

“I like you.”

She giggles. “I like you, too.”

“Tell me if it hurts,” I say.

I’ve thought about this exact moment for 31 days — no, 32.

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