Page 19 of Turn That River Red

As soon as he says it, I feel it, the firm wedge of foam and particle board jutting between my shoulder blades. “O-okay.”

Ambrose takes his hand away, and I squirm, shocked by how much I miss his touch. “Stretch out,” he says, standing up. “And spread your legs.”

That last sentence, it’s acommand, dark and throaty. All I want is to do as he asks, and I don’t know why. Because all my life, all I’ve ever done is what men tell me.

But this—feels different somehow.

“Go on,” he urges.

I shimmy my hips down, not caring that my skirt rides uparound my waist, not caring that my underwear is twisted to the side, exposing me to the cool air of the AC. Ambrose watches me the entire time, his hands at his side, his eyes fixed on me?—

Hisexcitementis more than evident.

I try not to look at it, the tent in his trousers. But as I settle back on the stiff cushion, my eyes keep flicking that way.

If Ambrose notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“That’s an improvement.” He kneels on the floor beside the couch. “But let’s really give me access.”

He flashes me that sharkish grin. I feel like he’s about to devour me whole.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he gently pushes my thighs apart, draping one leg against the back of the couch and arranging the other so my toes graze the linoleum floor. Then he reaches between my legs again, sliding his fingers up between my folds.

I cry out and smother my voice with my hand.

“Make all the noise you want,” he says. “It’s one in the morning. Everyone’s asleep. The other cabins are empty.”

“You told me not to talk.” I look up at him, and he’s looking at my face, not—down there. It’s like he knows my body by touch.

Ambrose raises an eyebrow.

“So I did.” He slides a finger inside me and does something, makes some kind of movement, that draws another gasp out of my lips. “But I like hearing your desperate little pants.” He leans close, and when I breathe in, I smell him—cedar and cold wind and something that might be leather. “I’m definitely going to want to hear you moan when you come.”

Heat surges through me. He’s touching the outside of me again, although one finger still works inside me. There’s none of the painful stretch of intercourse. Ambrose is barely inside me at all. But it feels?—

It feels like the light of God.

“You’re wet,” he says softly. “That’s the first stage of arousal.”

I just look at him, silent the way he asked me to be. With his free hand, he runs his thumb over my mouth. “So are these red lips,” he mutters. “You’re on your way, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. It’s so innocent-sounding, but it shoots right through my core. My muscles jump and tremble, and Ambrose grins and touches me a little faster.

“See what I mean?”

“What are you—” I stop, remembering I’m not supposed to speak. But Ambrose tilts his head at an inquisitive angle. Keeps touching me. It’s like he’s stoking a fire between my thighs.

“Go on,” he says.

“What are you doing?” The question comes out in a rush.

“Touching you.”

Heat floods into my cheeks, and then he does something down there that makes my hips jolt into his hand. “How are you touching me?” I ask, my voice ragged. “It feels—it feels better than when Reverend?—”

“Don’t say his name.” He massages me, inside and out. My body shakes, and that heat has started to become a kind of pleasurable irritation. I have the sudden, worrying thought that I need to use the bathroom, but I’m too embarrassed to say anything.

Ambrose changes something in the way he touches me, increasing the pressure on the outside. I cry out, my voice strangled.

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