Page 13 of Sire
“Bed’s there.”I point to it. “Extra sheets and towels are in the closet.” I point to those. “You got your own bathroom there.” I point to everything like Captain Fucking Obvious.
Why? Because I need someplace to look that’s not Wren.
WrenChapel.
Jesus, Jesus. Way to make it obvious this is a divine intervention. Or a test of my faith? I don’t know yet, but I know I’ve been thinking about her since we met last week.
“We’ll fall in love.”
“We’ll fall in love.”
That luring mantra was the last thing Wren Chapel said to me, and it’s echoed through my mind daily.
Okay … hourly.
Fine. Sometimes more.
Wren said if I touch her, we’ll fall in love. It scared the shit out of me—and I don’t get scared—because it made no fucking sense.
Love doesn’t happen like that: with one touch. At least, ithasn’t for me. I just marry other couples, blessing their unions, while denying myself one.
I don’t fall in love.
I don’t deserve it.
Try as I might, I told myself not to think about the Iron Angel, and … I didn’t listen.
I thought about her all the time.
How she was brave, seeming wise beyond her years. How she had the tattoos of a savior, able to stare down a devil like me. How she wanted to protect me as much as I protected her. How she made me want to confess to her. I never felt so right sharing my wrongs.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her beauty, either. I thought about her in ways no man my age should. The urges of every wrong thing I wanted to do to her felt so goddamn right flowing through my cursed veins.
And hard dick.
I’ve been praying about her all week.
I knew she was safe. My mother would never let anything happen to her, and I don’t usually obsess over the victims we help. I focus on the criminals who hurt them and make their lives hell before ending it, promising to meet them there, where I’ll do it all over again.
But Wren kept taunting my mind. With worry. With want.
The phantom, throbbing pain where my finger used to be didn’t help. I unwrapped my bandage, cleaned my stitches, and didn’t regret it. I can still feel my pulse where a part of me should be.
And now that missing part of me has a name.
Wren Chapel.
A name almost as pretty as the small woman standing beside me, proudly wearing it well.
“Put your things in that dresser, use that lamp if you needit, and give the water a few minutes to heat up before you take a shower. It’s an old building.”
More obvious shit. More thoughts about her. More prayers I’ll be saying for my sanity—and celibacy—for as long as she’s here because now I’m wondering…
What would she look like naked in the shower with my cock pumping deep inside her.
Jesus, what did you get me into?
She’s a test, isn’t she? One my dick fails every time I glance at her. The damn thing spots her little waist peeking between her baggy jeans and that little top, barely revealing her pert tits, too, and the devil in my jeans twitches.
