Page 17 of Turn That River Red

Ambrose shifts on the couch, and I glance over at him. He reminds me of Raul. They’re handsome in the same way, with their dark eyes and high cheekbones. But Ambrose looks at me in a way Raul never did.

Because Raul knew better.

“Forgive me for saying this.” Ambrose leans closer, his hairfalling a little into his eyes. “But what I saw earlier—you didn’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “You shouldn’t have seen that.”

“You’re right.” Ambrose straightens up. “I shouldn’t have watched. But—” His eyes are black holes. “I stand by what I said. Reverend Gunner doesn’t seem to care about your needs.”

I swallow, my throat suddenly very dry. “Reverend Gunner is the prophet,” I say, reciting what I’ve heard a thousand times. “I’m there to help him carry this burden.”

“But you don’t enjoy it.” Ambrose shifts closer, close enough that the space between us isn’t decent anymore

And yet I don’t move away.

“Of course I do.” I say it too quickly. Too defensively. A smile curves up on Ambrose’s lips.

“Like I said,” he murmurs. “My one weakness is the pleasures of the flesh.”

The couch’s armrest digs into the top part of my back, and Ambrose’s thigh nudges up to the seam of my legs. I bite back a gasp of surprise, but he notices. I can tell because his smile turns to that sharkish grin that splits his face in two.

I still don’t move away.

“What if I make you another offer?” he asks, looking me dead in the eye. “For the adoption records.”

He’s hunched over me, his mouth inches from mine. Three years as Reverend Gunner’s helpmeet means I know what this position is. I ought to push Ambrose away, get out of here, and run to tell Reverend Gunner that the itinerant preacher needs to be expelled from the church immediately.

And yet I don’t wantto push him away. His thigh between my legs feels good, not odd and certainly not painful. Heat blooms in my belly.

“What kind of offer?” I whisper.

Ambrose tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear, his touch so gentle I can almost forget that this is a sin.

“You agree to help me get the files,” he says. “And I’ll reward you.”

“Reward me how?”

Ambrose grins again. Then, as gently as he tucked my hair, he starts to saw his thigh back and forth between my legs.

“How about I show you what it’s supposed to feel like?” he murmurs.

“I knew it!” I cry, and then I try to roll out from under him. But he catches me and pushes me back against the couch.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” he says. “I’m just going to touch you.”

He grinds his thigh up against me, and even with the layers of fabric between his skin and the most private part of my body, I’m struck dumb. It’s not that Ican’tprotest. It’s that I don’t want to.

“Like that,” he purrs, quickening his pace. “You like that, don’t you? Reverend Gunner never does this for you, does he?”

“Why would he?” I whisper.

“Because he doesn’t give a shit about you.”

I jerk my gaze up to meet Ambrose’s. He stares down at me like he’s daring me to contradict him. And all the while, he keeps sawing his leg up against my body.

“You don’t know that,” I finally say. Even though it’s a thought I’ve had myself, more than once, in the empty darkness of my bedroom.

“I know what I saw.” Ambrose snakes his arm down between us and grabs my dress’s skirt and peels it upward, removing one of the layers of fabric between us. He never breaks eye contact with me.

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