Page 182 of Prey for You

“It won’t. It was God’s idea.”

I pulled back to stare at him. “Thou shalt always want thine husband?”

“No, um…” he met my eyes and his gaze grew dark as he quoted. “May your fountain be blessed,” he murmured, dropping a hand to slide it between my legs so I gasped. “And may you rejoice in the wife of your youth. A loving doe, a graceful deer—” I snorted, but he lifted that hand back to my neckline. “May her breasts satisfy you always.” He leaned down, nuzzling between my breasts and I let my head fall back to thunk against the door. Then he lifted his head to meet my eyes again. “May you ever be intoxicated with her love,” he murmured in that dark, low gravel I’d loved since the first time I heard it.

“Oh my God, my husband ishot,”I gasped.

“My wife is hotter,” he rasped.

We both stared and I knew he was thinking the same thing I was. We could bequick,and—

There was another shriek, and a bang somewhere on the wall outside. The little terrors were coming.

“Is that why Christians have so many kids?” I groaned. “Because they can’t stop banging each other?”

“Not usually, honestly… but more than you’d think. I mean, who do you think came up with sex and passion in the first place? God madeeverythingthat’s beautiful. It’s people who fuck it up. No pun intended.”

He grinned and I kissed him again, then let my legs drop so I could get a back on my feet.

“If it matters, I want to fuck you up for the rest of my life.”

Sam’s best wicked grin flashed. “Ditto, and with that in mind…” He leaned into my ear and that crackle happened between us, his voice dropping to the deep, ragged bass of Cain. “I will be here for maybe another half an hour. I’m thinking… maybe you should go for a walk. To the park or… something?”

He pulled back, eyes blazing.

A thrill shot through me and I smiled. “Why, Pastor Samuel… are you suggesting what I thinkyou’re suggesting?”

“Can you think of a better way to celebrate forgiveness? I can’t,” he laughed.

“No, definitely not,” I said, then started brushing down my clothes and his. “But even if people are getting freaky in the baptismal—which, by the way,gross!—doesn’t mean we should traumatize children.”

“It’s definitely frowned upon,” Sam said. Then kissed me one last time quickly, before turning me around whispering in my ear,“Half an hour,”before opening the door and grabbing my ass as he nudged me to walk out first.

The pinch was unexpected and I squeaked, then slapped at him as he laughed.

When I walked out, some of the kids saw me and knew that meant Sam was close, so they ran past me, screaming hellos, then off to grab Sam to color his tattoos with their felt pens, which was fuckingadorable.

I thought I did an excellent job of saying a very normal hello to the ladies at the cookie table, and greeting the new woman from the office that I’d talked to a couple of times as I made my way out to our car, because I had some clothes in the trunk.

Sam wouldn’t expect me to be in my athletic gear, so it would be harder for him to find me.

As I changed in the church bathroom, I chuckled and made a mental note about the baptismal, becauseew,but when had I ever been one to shy away from something that was a bit taboo? Still, two years in, I was still surprised when I found out one of these people I used to refer to asbible thumperswere freaks.

I snorted because a Christian man had made me squirm more than a sex club. But that thought sent a shadow over my heart and for a moment I stumbled as my head went reeling back into those days when I’d thrown myself into bed with any man who would take me because it helped me escape the pain and fear for a while…

But then Sam’s precious face swam into my mind—his smile, his eyes, his heavy breath when we touched… and his voice. It seemed like I heard him with my ears, the memory was so tangible.

I’d been struggling with my past and the conflict of that with the church because everyone seemed so…good.It had taken Sam to remind me that they all had pasts—and sometimes present problems. And besides, it wasn’t the church I needed to worry about. It was Jesus.

When he took out his bible, I rolled my eyes. But he showed me the story in the book of John. Chapter eight. The promiscuous woman, ripped out of bed and taken to the temple leaders to be shamed.

Sam sat warm against my side and read the story in that delicious, deep voice of his, how the woman was ridiculed and judged by the people—especially the so-called spiritual leaders. But when she was thrown into the dirt at Jesus’ feet, he looked at the men who were challenging him to stone her to death for her sins and said, “He who is without sin, lethimcast the first stone.”

One by one, the men slipped away until only Jesus was left in the middle of the crowd with the woman.

It had come alive to me—shewasme. Kneeling in the dirt naked, tears on my cheeks, relieved and humiliated all once, while this man with kind eyes leaned down and said, “Where are your accusers? Didn’t they condemn you?”

“No, Lord.” In my mind it wasmybreathless hope in her voice, a voice shaky with tears.

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