Page 21 of Turn That River Red

I groan and drop my head back, and Ambrose brushes his lips over my neck, then does the same with his tongue. More noises come out of my mouth, and it feels like someone else is making them, all those rough little grunting pants.

“That’s it,” Ambrose murmurs, moving his mouth to the other side of my neck. “That’s it, Mercy. Just let it go.”

I feel like I should tell him to stop. But I also think that if he stops touching me, I’ll die.

“That’s it,” he whispers, over and over like a chant. “That’s it. That’s it. Come on, darling. That’s it.”

I moan, and the pressure is going to erupt, and Iamgoing to pee on his hand, I’m certain of it, but I don’t care because all I want is to keep feeling his fingers sliding through me, back and forth, fast and unceasing, and then?—

All that pressure explodes. Every nerve in my body flares like I’m doused in Holy fire. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t stop myself from jerking and flopping around, and it almost feels like I’m lifting up in the air, like it’s the End of Days and my body is ascending into Paradise.

Ambrose groans softly, a sound that draws me out of the Heavens and back to Earth—back down to this stiff, uncomfortable couch, where my legs are splayed, my dress hiked up. It’s the most unladylike I’ve ever been in my life.

I take a deep, shuddery breath, trying to slow my racing heart. I blink up at Ambrose, who grins down at me.

“Told you didn’t need to piss,” he says.

And that’s when I realize what happened.

“That’s—that’s what it feels like?” I push myself up tositting, all my movements shaking and trembling as I smooth my skirt down, wriggling my hips to adjust my panties back into place.

Ambrose doesn’t try to push me down this time, only sits back and then, to my horror, holds up the hand he used to pleasure me. His fingers are shiny and wet.

“Yeah,” he says. “Like Heaven itself, right?”

I can’t dwell on his blasphemy, though, because he slides his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean like chicken bones. I can’t tear myself away from the sight. From the way his eyes flutter closed and his cheeks hollow out. When he drags his fingers out of his mouth, he looks right at me.

“You taste fucking delicious, Mercy.”

The way he says my name sends little quakes shooting through me, like a miniature version of my first orgasm.

“Thank you?” I whisper, squeezing my dress up in my fists.

Ambrose chuckles and stands up. The tent of his erection seems even larger than before, and I tense myself, waiting for the inevitable.

It doesn’t come. Instead, he holds out one hand. He doesn’t have preacher’s hands, a detail I hadn’t noticed in all the times he’s touched me. They’re rough. Calloused. Strong.

A carpenter’s hands.

More blasphemy. But I take his hand anyway, and he pulls me up to standing.

“Did you enjoy that?” he asks.

I hesitate, not sure how to answer, and I’m grateful when I hear the click of a dog’s nails on the tile because it means I can look away from his black, piercing gaze to the big, black dog that comes trotting into the room.

“Hello, Roxi,” he says.

She sits on her haunches and stares at me. I keep studying her—she’s big and vicious-looking, although she doesn’t seeminterested in hurting me. Ambrose brushes his knuckles against my cheek.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

I force myself to look over at him. There really is something in his features that reminds me, distantly, of Raul, and my chest clenches up. Now, grief intermingles with my guilt. Still, I answer honestly.

“Yes.” I take a step back from him, trying to get out of his reach. “But you can’t—I’m Reverend Gunner’s helpmeet. His wife.”

Ambrose shakes his head, his expression unreadable. “No. He’s forcing you to be his mistress.”

The truth of his words slices straight through my heart.

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