Page 63 of The Preacher's Pet

I think back to taking hold of Cain’s dick and fisting it a few times before I pushed him into her. It was fucked up, and we’ve never done anything like that before, but I can’t deny it was hot. The moment I pushed his cockhead into her wet, waiting pussy was a power trip. I was in charge of them both at that moment.

My dick is hard again, and I have to take care of business before I get out of the shower, or I won’t be able to focus on anything anyone says to me.

I shut my eyes and fuck my fist hard and fast. I’m not looking to drag this out or make it sensual and slow. I just want to come. I need the release. Jesus, Ophelia has turned us all into greedy sex addicts.

When I come, shooting thick ropes against the tile, I pant through it, the sensations strong but nowhere near as good as last night.

God, what I wouldn’t give to be coming inside her pussy. I bet it is tight, and so fucking wet.

I try to stop my one-track mind. Ophelia might not want to do this again, not now she’s been cured of the voice she was hearing. And Roman might also want to stop things going any further. I really hope not because I’m nowhere near done.

I dress fast in black jeans, a faded black concert t-shirt, featuring some eighties rock band, and my Doc Martins, then shove my cell in my pocket.

When I reach Ophelia’s room, I knock and wait for her to answer. No movement comes from behind the door, and I frown. She might have gone out already, or perhaps she’s sleeping. I try knocking again, louder this time, and press my mouth to the wood.

“Ophelia? You in there?”

Still nothing. I’m sure the noise I’m making would have woken her by now. I take out my phone and call her instead. She doesn’t answer.

Maybe she’s already in the bar? I guess she might have wanted to meet up with Camile, who she seems friendly with. I turn to head toward Cain’s room, but a soft groan from behind the door stops me. I freeze.

Did I hear that for real, or was it my imagination? It comes again—a low, almost pained sound. What the hell?

I try to open the door, but it’s locked from the inside.

“Ophelia?” I knock on her door again, and, when she doesn’t answer, I bang against it with my fist.

The door opposite flies open, and a man I don’t know, some fucking preppy kid, shoves his face into the corridor and shouts at me.

“Keep it down, fucker. I was trying to take a nap.” He shakes his head. “Asshole.” Then he slams the door shut.

I call Cain, my voice filled with urgency. “Come to Ophelia’s room, now.”

I hang up and push at the door with my shoulder. I try again, but it isn’t moving. These doors are old and solid.Fuck.

Cain’s room is only one corridor above, and he must have run down the stairs because he bursts through the double doors at the end of this corridor and pounds toward me.

“She’s in there,” I say, “but she won’t come to the door or answer her phone, and I heard her groan.”

His face pales. There’s something wrong, I can fucking sense it, and so it seems, can he.

“Move.” He pushes me out of the way, and I step back.

Cain puts his shoulder to the door and slams his massive frame into it. There’s a splintering of wood, and this time the door budges. It doesn’t fully open, but part of the frame in the middle cracks. He does it again, and on the third time, it gives way, and Cain falls into Ophelia’s room.

Dickhead from across the way opens his door again, but I turn and snarl at him to fuck off, and he does. He raises both hands then shuts his door.

I follow Cain into Ophelia’s room and stop dead in the middle of the space. She’s on the bed, her face pale, her hair damp against her head. Cain drops to his knees on the floor beside her bed and brushes a strand from her face.

“Ophelia?” he says. “Baby. Ophelia, can you answer me?”

She mutters something, but it’s unintelligible. I glance around the room and see a bottle poking out from under her bed. I bend and pick it up, examining the label. Shit, I recognize these. Sleeping pills.

Pushing Cain to one side, I slap Ophelia’s face, twice, to try to rouse her. “Ophelia, how many did you take?”

She doesn’t answer me properly but mutters again. At least she’s not dead or in a coma, but that doesn’t stop my stomach from churning, sick with fear that she’s harmed herself.

“She took these.” I thrust the bottle at Cain.

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