Page 20 of Preacher

My breath caught before I could hide the reaction.

His hand settled more firmly at my waist. “You’re a grown woman. You know what I am and what this club is. If you want out, tell me. Until then, I’m done apologizing for wanting you.”

There it was, clean and adult, without a speech about what was best for me.

I reached for the front of his shirt. “I don’t want out.”

His eyes darkened with immediate satisfaction when I said it. “Good.”

The kiss started slower than the ones before it, but it didn’t stay that way. Preacher backed me against the counter, pulled me into him and kissed me with no hesitation left, as though we’d already chosen this.

My fingers moved under his shirt, finding warm skin and hard muscle, and the sound he made against my mouth sent a shiver through me. He caught my hips and lifted me onto the counter without breaking the kiss.

“Better,” I murmured.

His mouth curved against mine as he tightened his hold. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

“Sometimes.”

His mouth moved down my neck and I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him closer. Preacher’s hands tightened on my thighs, the pressure almost rough enough to bruise, and heat rushed through me. This time there was no awkward awareness of Dad’s office, only Preacher’s hands and the certainty that I was exactly where I wanted to be.

He carried me down the hallway, and I laughed once against his shoulder. “You know I can walk.”

By the time we reached his bedroom, the laughter was gone. Preacher lowered me onto the bed and followed, already knowing what made me react, while I dragged my nails down his back until his breathing changed. That rough change in his breathing had become dangerously addictive.

He caught my wrist and pressed a kiss to the inside of it before holding my hand above my head.

“Keep trying to make me lose control and you’re going to find out exactly how well it’s working.”

I smiled up at him because that sounded more like a promise than a warning. His eyes went dark, and after that neither of us did much talking.

He backed me toward the bed, one hand flattening against the small of my back, the other already working the hem of my shirt up. I let him pull it over my head, and then his mouth was on mine.His hands found my breasts, thumbs brushing across my nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. I gasped against his mouth, and he made a low sound of approval.

I got his belt open, shoved his jeans down his hips, closed my fingers around him through his boxers. He was already hard, already thick, and the heat of him through the cotton made my mouth go dry. He bit back a curse when I squeezed gently, then took over, stripping me the rest of the way with a lot less patience than usual.

I fell back onto the mattress, pulling him down with me. He came over me, bracing himself on his forearms, and something about the way he looked down at me made me feel hotter than usual. He’s 45 years old and still looking like every bad decision I wanted to make.

”I need you right now," I said.

He settled between my thighs, but instead of moving where I expected, he lowered his mouth to my breast. I felt the wet heat of his tongue circle my nipple, the scrape of his stubble against sensitive skin, and I arched into him, my fingers in his hair. He licked and sucked until I was gasping, then kissed a slow trail down my belly, lower, lower, until his breath was hot against my inner thigh.

I knew what he was going to do. I still wasn't ready for it.

He spread me open with his thumbs and put his mouth on me, and my entire body bowed off the mattress. He was unhurried, deliberate, his tongue finding my clit and circling it until I was shaking around the sensation. I heard myself make sounds I barely recognized. Broken, pleading and he just kept going, like he had all night, like he wanted to memorize every response he could draw out of me.

"Preacher," I gasped, tugging at his hair. “Seriously. I need you right now."

He lifted his head, eyes dark and gleaming, and I could feel a split second of pure cocky male satisfaction in his expression before he moved up my body. He positioned himself at my entrance, ran the head of his shaft through my slickness once, twice, just to make me whine. Then he pushed inside me, slow, inch by inch, stretching me until I was trembling around him.

I thought he was going to be merciful and let me catch my breath. Instead he stayed buried to the hilt, forehead against mine, and gave me a single deep, deliberate thrust that knocked the air out of my lungs. After that, any pretense of control was gone. He set a rhythm that was rough and relentless, driving into me hard enough to slam the bed against the wall. My legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back, and pulling him deeper with every stroke. He was thick enough that I felt every inch, the drag of him inside me sending sparks up my spine. The wet sounds of our bodies filled the room, and I was reduced to whimpering, sobbing his name as the pressure low in my belly coiled tighter and tighter.

"Look at me," he said, voice strained, and I forced my eyes open. He held my gaze as he thrust deep, and something about watching him watch me fall apart pushed me right over the edge.

I shattered beneath him, my body clenching around him in wave after wave, his name ripping from my throat on a broken cry. Preacher buried his face against my neck, his rhythm stuttering, and then he was coming inside me, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

Afterward he didn't roll away. He pulled me against his chest and kept me there while my breathing slowly settled. I rested my cheek against him, listening to his heartbeat slow beneath my ear.