Page 17 of Sire
“I’m not. Our congregation is inclusive.”
“Are you out with them?”
“I’m theirpastor.”
“And?”
“And it doesn’t matter. I don’t fuck my flock. That would be a moral failure.”
“So, who do you fuck?”
Jesus, Jesus.“Again. You, needing a filter.”
Her brows lift. “And you, being a grown-ass man. Why be ashamed? You have needs. We all do.”
“Yeah, I need to know who you’re running from.”
“I’m not running.” She tilts her head, winking. “I’m relocating.”
My molars clench. Wren might seem wise beyond her years, but this? She has no fucking clue how dark the world can be.
“Don’t play games with me, Wren. I said you could stay, and I’ll protect you until you’re safe. But you make it hard if I don’t know who the threat is.”
Really hard.
Shut up, Dick.
“Just consider all men, butyou, a threat and kill them if they come for me.” With a swish, she walks across the living room to the hallway leading to our bedrooms, which are—fuck my life, not her—right next to each other.
“Where are you going? We need to make a grocery list.”
I need not watch her sweet ass sway.
“Just a sec,” she chirps over her shoulder. “My pussy is about to be a bloody crime scene if I don’t change my pad.”
Dear Lord, please strike Dick down, and her mouth closed. You know what I just thought … and the Devil is proud.
A few minutes later, Wren returns to the kitchen, and I have to force the most taboo thoughts out of my mind, focusing on something else.
“Coffee?”
“Sure.” She opens my refrigerator. In my periphery, while I grab a mug, I catch her pulling back, shocked. “You said you grocery shop.”
“I do. Three times a week.”
“Milk, vegetables, salad greens, and half of a rotisserie chicken carcass? These aren’t groceries. They’re farm supplies.”
She makes me laugh. “No, they’re healthy choices. Milk and sugar?”
“Lots of sugar with a cup of milk and a splash of coffee, please.”
I prepare her cup, phantom pain throbbing in my pinky, taboo thoughts throbbing in my dick. Damn, it’s like a horny demon possesses me as she starts jotting items on the pad of paper I set out. And she keeps jotting. And jotting. And…
“I don’t usually get that hungry.” I hand her a steaming mug of cavities.
“Who would? No one is starving for a salad.” She takes the mug, smiling. “Thank you.”
Innocently, her fingertips brush my bandage.
