I grunted as I thrust into her, hard but not fast. Her gorgeous face was dazed, her eyes heavy with desire. I shoved her shirt up and yanked down her bra.
“You know what to do. Play with those titties for me.”
She didn’t hesitate. Not like she had the first few times. Not anymore. She knew what I liked. Well, other than her.
I stared as her delicate fingers plucked at her rose dark nipples. I wasn’t going to last long. But hell, what a lunch break it had been.
My hips started to buck wildly just as my Cynthia clamped down on me. The orgasm hit me out of nowhere. I hadn’t seen it coming—literally.
“Fuck!” I hissed as my body shook helplessly, giving her what was once again a monster load of my seed. I’d never come like this in my life. Cynthia just pulled it out of me.
I kissed her face as the tremors started to fade. She gave me a sleepy, slightly sweaty smile.
“Woman, what you do to me.”
She blushed as she always did. She still wasn’t used to me or my filthy mouth. But in the heat of the moment, I knew she loved it.
I just hoped she loved me.
It was a lot to ask of the big guy. I knew that. I wasn’t all that lovable. Foul mouthed. Tatted and scarred up. Frequently drunk and inclined to partake of illegal substances. Not that I went looking for drugs, but I didn’t turn them down when they were offered. And I’d slept with far more women than the average man. Young. Old. As long as they were good looking, sassy, and willing, I’d been game.
But now? All that seemed like a joke to me. Cynthia might be too young for me, but she was an old soul. She was damn near perfect.
That was the problem. She was too perfect.
I pulled out and saw the mess I had made. I chuckled, impressed by how much baby batter I’d served up. Especially after what had happened in the kitchen. I was making more than a man half my age, and it was all because of her.
“Good thing you’re on the pill.”
She sat up and stared at me, those beautiful eyes blinking.
“I’m not on the pill.”
“What?”
“I thought you said you were shooting blanks.”
I shook my head, a glimmer of something primal in my gut. I had this crazy feeling I had just knocked her up. And I was glad about it.
I was fucking ecstatic, truth be told.
“No, darlin’, not that I know of,” I said with a wide grin. “But I think it’s a great idea.”
“What?”
“I’d fucking love to knock you up.”
“You’d what?”
“I want to put a baby in you, hellcat,” I said with a grin.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes,” I said, nodding my head earnestly. “Really.”
She stood up, grabbed her panties, and stalked past me. She paused for a hot minute. Just long enough to slap my face.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cynthia
“Stupid. You are a stupid, stupid girl,” I said to my reflection. I splashed water at the mirror in my bathroom, unsatisfied as the drops rolled down but did nothing to obscure my face.
I’d barely been in the office between Pilates and lunch with Preacher. But it didn’t matter. I had taken the rest of the day off. I had work to do, and I couldn’t focus with him around.
Ugh! The smug look on his face when he said he wanted to put a baby in me! Ugh!!!
Hopefully, my neighbor’s Wi-Fi would hold up long enough for me to actually get work done. I felt a sudden urgency to finish up my degree. Add classes. Because pretty soon, I had a feeling I would be too busy.
I knew it. I knew it in my bones that I was pregnant.
Don’t think about that, Cynth. Think about work. That’s the only thing you can change right now. Focus on what you can control.
“Other than not being a dumbass for one minute longer.”
My phone buzzed and I glared at it. Preacher was texting again. That was after he’d trailed me home and stood outside, staring at my window for forty-five minutes.
He was apologizing, but not for saying he was glad I might be pregnant. He actually seemed to want to have a baby with me.
Maybe you are both dumbasses, my mother’s voice chortled in my head.
Preacher had told me he loved me. But had he said anything about marriage? No. And if I were pregnant, then how would I know he really meant it if he did ask? It was all happening so fast. I didn’t know what was real anymore.
Other than the explosive feelings between us, good and bad. There were no half-measures when it came to us. But was that a good thing? I wasn’t sure.
Being Preacher’s wife . . . that was something I’d ever even thought about.
Not just any preacher, either. A disreputable, dirty, foul-mouthed, kind, caring, generous, surprisingly educated and intelligent, sexy as all get-out, loyal, and trustworthy preacher.
My Preacher.
And he was mine.
Even though right now, I sort of wanted to kick him in the shins.
“Focus, Cynthia,” I muttered, firing up the ancient laptop I’d had since high school. It was secondhand back then, making it at least a decade old by now. It barely worked, but I’d learned how to nurture it like a baby.
A baby . . .
I got a little misty eyed and caught myself staring out the window again.
I shook my head, staring at my rickety old laptop again. It barely had any memory, and I lived in constant dread of it giving up the ghost. So I stored all of my files on a series of thumb drives I’d gotten as free gifts at promotional events to be safe.
Nobody loved free stuff as much as I did. And I’d gotten very good at ferreting out the stuff I might actually use.
Basically, if I thought they were giving out thumb drives and coffee mugs, I was there. I’d scored beach towels and blankets and slept in free T-shirts every night. Clarice and I had kind of made a sport of it, keeping score of who could get the most ‘free shit’, as she called it.
I chewed the inside of my cheek.
I needed to talk to her, I decided. I texted her and forced myself to follow up with all the vendors for next week’s street fair without glancing at my phone. The garden was looking better every day and would be the centerpiece of the event with a stage beside it set up for musical acts and my dance crew.
We were raising money for Preacher’s neighborhood restoration plan. And that included kids’ classes in a variety of subjects, which I appreciated.
My phone buzzed again. I glanced at it, unable to ignore it despite my best efforts. Preacher and Clarice had both texted, him telling me he ‘fucking loved me, dammit’ and protesting that it wasn’t just some ‘macho bullshit’, and Clarice saying she’d be right over.
I was able to concentrate for the time it took her to walk over from the church and ring my doorbell.
“Are you telling me that you, a mere child, might actually be with child? Ooh, girl,” Clarice said, fanning her face. But she was smiling. “That is a fly in the ointment!”
I nodded, feeling a weird mix of emotions. I was angry at Preacher—and myself, of course. It was my body and my responsibility. But a secret part of me was kind of . . . hopeful. Hopeful and somehow satisfied. Like my body wanted this, even if it was something I hadn’t even thought about happening anytime soon. I hadn’t even dreamed about having a boyfriend in years, let alone getting impregnated by a biker almost thirty years older than me.
Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure exactly how old Preacher was, anyway. Was his sperm okay? What if something went wrong? What if he ditched us like so many guys did around here?
But he wouldn’t. My inner voices all knew he wouldn’t. Even mama.
“And he said he wanted to knock you up?”
I nodded again. I wasn’t sure what to say beyond that. Preacher had seemed very pleased about the chance that I might be pregnant. In fact, I’d never seen him so happy.
He’d looked like a kid on Christmas mo
rning, for crying out loud!
“That’s hot. What?” she said in response to my incredulous look. “That’s some caveman shit right there. And your caveman just happens to be a badass and a man of God, too. He’s a catch, girl. Silver fox and all.”
I hid my face in my hands.
“Ugh. I never thought I’d be saying this, but you’re right. He is a catch. Just nothing like I would have dreamed up.”
“Dreams are for little girls, sweetheart. You’re a woman now.”
I sighed.
“I don’t know what to do, Clary.”
“You like him, don’t you?”
“Yes. I mean, it’s more than that. But not all the time. Sometimes, I want to smack him. I did smack him,” I remembered, my cheeks going red.
“Oooeee, I wish I had seen that.”
“I wish . . . I shouldn’t have hit him. I know he’s a good person. He didn’t deserve the way I treated him when we met.”
“He pissed you off at first, huh?”
I peeked out at her. Today, she was dressed in a hot pink and lavender track suit with platform sneakers. I knew it was not easy to find stuff in her size, but she did it. And if she couldn’t find it, she made it.
“He challenged my preconceived notions,” I admitted.
“The motorcycle and tats? Hell, that’s all mainstream now anyway, chica.”
“Well, it wasn’t when he got them! He was trying to be bad!”
Preacher had told me about leaving the seminary and getting his first tattoo drunk out of his mind. He’d let his hair grow out for nearly thirty years since then and had covered most of his chest and arms in ink. And he kept company almost exclusively with outlaw bikers, some of them not far from murders, though he seemed to think that sometimes, that was necessary.
He’d told me how he went ‘bad’. He’d even dragged out an old photo of him with Paul in the seminary, both of them looking clean-cut and earnest. So I knew he had changed. And I suspect that whatever had happened had also changed Paul to be what some would consider an extremely liberal Christian.
But he still hadn’t told me why.
“Well, he is bad to the bone, but he’s a good man. You know he is.” Her eyes twinkled at me. “And you know he’ll be a good daddy.”
“I know.” I groaned. “But I’m not ready to stop being mad yet.”
She sighed dramatically and glanced at her watch.
“How about now?”
“No. But soon, maybe. I just . . . I would have liked to do something like this on purpose. I’m not a teenager who doesn’t know better.”
“Yeah, well, you guys clearly need to work on communication. Or were you too hot and bothered to think straight?”
I shrugged, but she had it right. I’d been angry, and with one kiss, that anger had translated directly into hot, unrelenting lust. Lust that had been simmering under the surface since the moment we met.
I had a feeling that’s why Preacher had made me so mad to begin with. I’d wanted him, but I hadn’t understood why.
“Shoot,” she said, reaching into her stray tote bag. She’d hot glue gunned about a dozen plastic butterflies onto it. And glitter. Lots and lots of glitter. “Well, look at that. Your man is texting me.”
She preened, reading the screen and pretending to be shocked.
“What did he say?”
“He wants to talk,” she said, giving me an arch look. “Better not stay mad too long. He might be looking for female companionship. And you know I’m a whole lot of woman.”
I threw a pillow at her, and she caught it, making a whole lot of noise to show her annoyance.
“Girl, you know I’m playing. That man is whipped. He is 100% a one-Cynthia man now. But if I had met him first? Oooeee, we coulda had some fun!”
“You are so bad.”
“I kid because I love, sweetie.”
“I know,” I said, giving her a quick hug. “I love you, too.”
“Has he said it yet?”
I nodded.
“Yes, but I haven’t. I’m . . . I wasn’t sure he meant it.”
“Oh, he meant it, all right. I know the look,” she said as she stood, tottering toward the doorway in her platform sneakers, somehow managing to look graceful.
“How does it feel to have a lapdog that’s so big and mean-looking? Hmm, hmm, must be nice!”
I shooed her out, giving her a quick kiss. I had a lot of work to do. And even more soul searching.
A baby with Preacher. I could see it in my mind. A little girl or boy riding on his shoulders, cuddled up to his big, broad chest, him cradling our newborn in his leather-clad arms . . .
I got a warm, squishy feeling inside unlike anything I’d ever felt before.
Maybe . . . maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing, after all?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Preacher
“I’m a damn fool.”
“Hmm-hmm, I’ll drink to that,” the woman sitting across the parsonage table said to me. She clicked her shot glass with mine and then tossed her head back with a flourish, downing the shot. “’Nother?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ooh, I’m a ma’am now, am I? I prefer ‘miss’, if you don’t mind.” She preened, fluffing her hair. “I’m not an old lady quite yet.”
“Yes, Miss Clarice,” I said, trying to ignore the drumbeat of dread in my gut. My mama always said, Listen to your mind, follow your heart, but trust your gut. Right now, my gut was telling me something was very, very wrong.
Extremely fucking wrong.
My woman wasn’t talking to me. Not a text. Not a phone call. She hadn’t even waved out the window when I stood in her street like a damned alley cat!
She’d stared at me with those huge golden eyes of hers and then closed the curtain.
I was fucked. Without a miracle or some seriously caveman shit, I was 100% fucked.
A big part of me was tempted to head over there and pull a Connor. Lock her ass up until she agreed to be mine and have my baby.
Though as much as I wanted that, I wouldn’t ever force her to carry my child.
I might force her to agree to marry me, however.
Not good, you old dog. She’s wised up. You can’t kidnap the girl.
But maybe I could . . .
“Damned fool,” I muttered again for good measure.
“She’ll come around.”
I perked up at that, giving the technicolored woman across from me a bleary-eyed but hopeful look.
“She will?”
“Probably. I think I helped talk her around when I was over at her place earlier.”
“You saw her? What did she say? How did she seem?”
Yes, I sounded like a teenage girl. Yes, the guys back home would laugh their asses off if they could hear me. But I didn’t give a damn. I needed to know what was going on with my woman. It was tearing me up inside not to know.
To think I’d spent the middle of the day getting my mind blown by the most perfect woman alive and now I was here worrying that she’d never speak to me again, let alone let me back into paradise . . . well, it was a damn shame. Lunch time felt like a thousand years ago.
No. It felt like a million years.
Cynthia was light fucking years away.
I want her here, damnit! In my bed for the rest of our damned lives!
“She’s pissed. Nice girl like that, you don’t see that too often.” Her grin faded. “I’m not so sure she was ready for you, Preacher. Be nice to her. That girl is as good as gold.”
“I know it. She’s too good for me. I promise I will treat her right. I swear I will.”
“But shake her up a bit too. It’s good for her. She’s too tied up in her safe little routines. She’s too young to be so rigid.”
“Yes, ma’am—I mean, Miss.”
She smiled at me and shook my hand. And just like that, an alliance was formed.
We did another shot to celebrate.
“So. What do I do?”
“Give her a little space for a couple of days.” She wagged a finger at me and I saw rhinestones sparkle on the tip of her nail. “But not too much space. Men always make that mistake. Us girls like to know we are wanted.”
“She’s more than wanted,” I said quietly. “She has my heart. Old and beat-up as it is.”
I got a bright smile.
“Not too old, Preacher. Not too old.”
Late that night, I stared at the ceiling, wondering how the hell I’d made such a mess of things. Then I wondered how the hell I’d gotten her to agree to be my woman in the first place. Hell, I’d been as shocked as she was by the undeniable sparks flying between us. It was damn near the closest thing I’d seen to a miracle in all my days.
A car drove by, making shadows fly across the ceiling. I could hear the soft sounds of the city. No gunshots tonight, and we’d barely started the neighborhood rehabilitation program. A few new exterior lightbulbs here and there, badgering the city to fix broken streetlights, and helping landlords and tenants fix fences and plant some flowers.
Phase two would happen when Cain’s guys got here to add security cameras and do patrols, looking for problem areas. If nothing else, the path my woman took to and from the church would be safe.
Maybe there was hope for this place, after all.
And if there was . . . maybe there was hope for an old dog like me, too.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cynthia
Rise and shine, Buttercup! Get out them Daisy Dukes and meet me at the church for coffee and official bidness.
I stared at my phone, groaning. Clarice was way too cheerful this early in the morning. She once told me she trained herself to wake up at five am to put on her face back when she worked for the city’s transportation department.
She’d rocked corporate attire for a long time, learning to make custom skirt suits that would fit her tall and narrow figure. She always said she channeled her inner Jane Fonda, Lilly Tomlin, and Dolly Parton in those days with cute little blouses that tied at the neck to hide anything that might make people curious. But working at the church part-time gave her the freedom she needed to dress the way she liked, which was a lot more flamboyantly.
Preacher Page 11