Page 27 of Turn That River Red

It feels like a trap, with the way he’s looking at me like he wants to devour me. But Lord forgive me—despite my protests, I want to be devoured.

“I can show you to the meeting hall.”

“It’s still early.” Ambrose never takes his eyes off me. “And maybe I want to pray over you without anyone watching.”

This is wrong. I know it’s wrong. Getting on my knees before God is not supposed to feel like getting on my knees for a man.

And yet that’sexactlywhat’s happening, fire coursing through my body. I remember last night’s orgasm. Last night’s pleasure.

“Kneel.”

He says it softly, but it still feels like a command. A command I yearn to follow.

Still, I sweep my gaze around, looking out at the empty field. The church’s buildings seem far away, and the training grounds are empty.

“Kneel, Mercy.”

I snap my gaze back to him, my breath tight and my bodycrying out for his touch. He stares at me, his eyes black. His dogs flank him, making him look?—

Well, not exactly like a preacher.

“I’m not asking,” he says.

This isn’t holy, what we’re doing. And yet I sink down to my knees anyway, my body trembling. Ambrose steps up to me. There’s a lump in his pants, and it’s so close I could tilt forward and kiss it.

“Bow your head,” he says in that same commanding tone.

This time, I obey immediately.

He puts his hands on my crown, just like yesterday morning. I suck in shallow breaths like my body’s not getting enough air.

I force myself to look down at his black cowboy boots. For half a second, I imagine kissing those, too. I imagine falling prostrate before him, kissing his feet like Mary Magdalene before Jesus. Because that’s who I am, isn’t it? Mary Magdalene.

And last night Ambrose was the closest to Jesus Christ I’ve ever been.

“Lord God in Heaven,” he intones, and I force myself to tame my thoughts. This is just a prayer. Just a blessing. Nothing more. “Show this woman that her grief need not consume her. I remind her of your words—‘Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.’ And as your servant, I comfort her now.”

His fingers tighten ever so slightly against my skull.

“Help her to put her hope in you, Lord God, that she will find the comfort she seeks.” He pauses, and the wind blows around us, and warmth floods through my body. “And help her to see that comfort which has already been shown to her. In your name, we pray. Amen.”

“Amen,” I whisper, my tongue dry.

Ambrose lifts his hands from my head, and I let my gaze slide up him—over those boots I still yearn to kiss, then thephysical evidence of his lust I feel mirrored in my own body, and then finally his black gaze, staring down at me.

“You look beautiful on your knees,” he says.

My lust swells. I squeeze my thighs together so flesh presses against the place where Ambrose unbound me. But it’s nothing compared to the dexterity of his fingers.

Ambrose offers me his hand and helps me stand up. I’m grateful for it, too, because I feel lightheaded. Dizzy. His rough palm is a reassurance.

“Feel better?” he asks.

I don’t. I’m burning alive. And when I look up at him, he squeezes my hand tighter, a gesture of possessiveness that makes my heart flutter.

He leans close. I think he might kiss me again, but instead he just presses his mouth to my ear. “Thank you for helping me.”

He braids his fingers through mine.

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