"He's an Anglican pastor. It's not as if I was going after a Catholic priest," she says in a matter of fact way.
"And that's supposed to change what?"
"You react this way because you don't know what the hottie looks like."
"Charlie, I may not have been to church in a while, but I'm pretty sure you’ve called on God's wrath by calling one of His disciples a hottie," I chastise.
"Calm down. I'm not the only one. Every single woman out there is referring to Reverend Rowan Nesmith as the Sexy Pastor. Even gay men have jumped on the bandwagon. The pastor is that hot."
"Why have I heard that name before?" I rack my brain to remember why this name rings a bell, but nothing registers.
"It was in the email the church sent, but I guess I skimmed through it. I just clued in on it when the Reverend called my office to secure my services while I was in Greece. Reverend Rowan Nesmith has been the pastor at Ludlow Abbey for the past five months. Attendance is at a record high since he posted some pretty sexy photos of him on the church website. His goal? To show the church has evolved. New thinking, he says. The result? Women are flocking to church like never before. Even socialites are forfeiting their religious Sunday mid-morning brunch to stand in line for up to an hour to secure a front row seat to listen to the Reverend deliver his message," she says.
"Abigail!" I shout slapping my forehead with the palm of my hand.
"What?" Charlie asks confused.
"Abigail called me last week from Germany—”
“Did Step-Monster Abbi have anything good to say?" Charlie smirks.
She can’t stand my father's wife.
"Hell will freeze over before that ever happens," I roll my eyes. "The conversation was all about her, interlaced with sharp digs at me. What's new? Before she switched into monster mode, she did go on, and on, and on about how incredible Reverend Rowan Nesmith is. Apparently, he's her new spiritual leader or some rubbish like that. She has daily video sessions with him to help her deal with her sister's ‘near death accident’.” I punctuate with air quotes.
"But that’s so farfetched," Charlie quips.
"It’s Abigail. Of course she's twisted the facts," I remind her. "Anyways, she's elevated Reverend Rowan Nesmith to sainthood status."
Charlie snorts. "Spiritual leader my ass."
"Why do you say that?"
"Seriously, you have to see this guy, Amelia," she says. Charlie gets up and walks to the wooden kitchen table and grabs her phone. After doing what I suspect is a quick search, she hands it over to me. "There. You check him out for yourself," she dares, handing me her iPhone.
"Holy shit!” I shout. “You said he was good-looking you never said he looked like a fitness model." My jaw drops at the sight of the Reverend’s muscular body in a drenched white workout tank undershirt. The caption above the photo reads, SEXY AS HELL, REVEREND ROWAN NESMITH TRAINING FOR THE LONDON MARATHON. “He’s positively hot, Charlie.”
"Yeah, he’s pretty dreamy,” she says longingly. “He’s always known of his calling... even at a very young age.”
“Really?”
“Yup. He wanted to join the clergy from the age of sixteen. He has a Bachelors and a Masters degree in theology.”
“Sexy and smart,” I comment.
“Most definitely," she nods. Charlie is taking this way too seriously. "At just twenty-one, Reverend Nesmith began preaching from his parish, Sheffield-Deacon Minster, Yorkshire. At twenty-three, he became the youngest pastor in the UK. Last year, Ludlow Abbey wanted new blood to replace the former reverend. It's no surprise that Reverend Nesmith was the obvious choice. He’s twenty-six now—my age—gorgeous and tech savvy. In other words, he's perfect to boost the church’s image to a whole new generation of disciples." All female, I'm sure.
“Is his age public?”
“Very much so.”
“Hphm.”
“What?”
“I’m surprised Abigail would even bother listen to him since she has zero respect for anyone under thirty. She thinks that it’s impossible for anyone in their twenties to truly understand the meaning of life. How quickly she changes her tune because of the good Reverend."
“I'm sure, Abigail isn’t demented—crazy and eccentric, yes, but I doubt she's stupid—and I'm certain she hasn't forgotten that she's married to the Prime Minister, but Reverend Nesmith makes confessing easy. Too easy. Why do you think I went dressed like this? Although he had already awarded me the contract to help get the word out on his vision for the church before I even walked in, I wanted to try to get on his calendar for my own weekly heart-to-heart sessions," she grins.
"Did you?" I ask, intrigued.
"Alas, the Reverend can't fit me in. There's a three-month waiting list. When I got there for my two o'clock appointment, there was a female parishioner leaving his office. After our meeting, I noticed another woman waiting by his door. That poor woman looked like she really needed his guidance. She was wearing huge black sunglasses—I assume to hide tears. She was also wearing a black trench coat on a day like today. Can you imagine? She must've been dying of heat. The black wig threw me off—it was so obvious she was wearing one. The Reverend noticed my reaction. He confirmed that she’s dealing with a lot. All that to say, that the Sexy Pastor is very much in demand."
"You know he took vows he can't break, Charlie?"
"Of course I do, but there are things two people can do when they’re in the same room—or on video—that doesn't require them to touch each other," she says proudly.
This is Charlie we’re talking about. I can read between the lines. "You’re impossible."
"That may be the case, but you still love me," she says confidently. "Finish up your drink. I need another one and I don't want to drink alone.”
Just like a good girl, I do as I’m told. I've been doing that a lot lately.
"Brilliant, she cheers when I drop my empty glass on the counter. "I'll be right back." With that, she dashes off to the living room again. She's back in a flash with two more martinis and a wide grin. "Now that I’m an open book to you, it's your turn," she says, dropping my drink in front of me.
“Oh, yeah,” I say hesitantly.
My heart skips a beat. I don't know why, because I knew eventually I’d have to confess everything that's transpired in my life since she left London. I thought that perhaps I might have more than a drink and a half in my system before I do.
"Was your father's honorary ceremony as boring as you expected?” She doesn’t give me a chance to respond. “Regardless if the event was a complete snooze, you looked smashing. Did your father have to hire extra security for that dress?" She laughs, taking her seat.
“Err..." I pause. I grab my martini glass and polish off the mixture of vodka and champagne in one gulp.
"Good Lord, Amelia. Was it that boring?" Charlie chuckles.
"Should I assume that between getting Jason off the hook and shagging Barrett, you’ve not been keeping on top of local news?" I attempt.
Charlie blushes. Now that's something you won't see often. "I was fairly consumed," she offers. I bet you were. Especially when you were riding your ex’s cock.
"Should I take that as a no?"
"No."
"Didn't Terry mention anything?"
"He was also under a lot of pressure. Maybe it slipped his mind," she says with a grimace. "I'm sorry, did I miss much?"
"You could say that."
"Well start talking, woman," she encourages with a wave of the hand. "I'm very eager to hear it all," she smiles warmly at me.
"I'm not so certain you'll say that when I'm done," I warn.
“Oh, come on, how bad can it be?"
You’re about to find out.
I swallow hard and let out a long exhale.
I start spilling my guts out and it comes gushing out of my mouth like verbal diarrhea.
I start at the beginning and explain the reason why I never showed up at the Warwick club. I confess to having unexpect
edly reconnected with my two saviors. I also share how Ralph Delaware disrespected my father, mother and me at Daddy’s ceremony. Charlie listens to my tale visibly shocked. She doesn't interrupt other than to exclaim, "You're fucking kidding me. That degenerate dipshit did that to you? I swear to God, I'm going to dig out every single parcel of dirt on that scumbag and drag his sorry ass in the media and slander him."
I love her so much for caring.
"You're too late for that. Baroness Bathilda’s crew are already on it and they have no intentions on sparing Ralph," I reassure her.
"If anyone can make your life a miserable hell once you cross them, it's certainly Baroness Bathilda Imogene Gormanston-Starke of Inverglen and her clan. Baroness Bathilda might be getting up there in age, but that woman is still as feisty as ever," Charlie says. I agree with a quick nod before continuing my story.
I inform her that Daddy and I aren’t letting the idiot bastard get away with what he did to me. I then move on to when I bumped into Holden in front of Whole Foods and his invitation to dinner. Since Charlie is just staring at me wordlessly, I keep talking. She clenches her chest and gasps in disbelief when I tell her about Brandon kissing me in front of Holden and how turned on I was. I jump to last Saturday night when Holden feasted on my pussy in his kitchen while I was passionately kissing Brandon. I give her the quick highlights of my dreadful conversation with Abigail on Sunday morning before diving right into my dirty billiard night with my two American neighbors. I give her the play-by-play action of Monday morning’s raunchy session before I headed to the office. I finish off by offering her a vivid recount of my unabashed actions at the restaurant and the punishment I so loved at Holden and Brandon’s hand. I blurt it all out. When I'm done, I'm stunned to realize that all this happened in the last eight days. It seems like I've known Brandon and Holden for much longer.
Charlie’s expression is unreadable.
“Bollocks,” I slap my palm against my forehead. “I forgot to bring the Raven earpiece Holden and Brandon sent through Pamela Lancaster. They sent one for each one of us. They were delivered to my office this morning, but there's so much going on right now," I offer when Charlie still remains silent.
"A fucking earpiece? A fucking earpiece? A fucking earpiece?" She repeats three times in a row. Each time, her voice goes up an octave and her eyes widen. By the last one, she even adds hand gestures.
"Are you saying you don't want it?" I ask shyly.
"That's how you conclude this deluge of information?”
“You were away—”
“I wasn’t on Pluto, Amelia,” she interrupts.
“I know but—”
“I leave the city for a little less than a week and your sexual experience goes from an aspiring surgeon with an erectile dysfunction problem, an Italian teenager and a jackrabbit self-centered egotistical asshole—who I’m certain was secretly in love with your father—to shagging two smoldering hot Americans who happen to be ex-Navy-SEALs-turned-tech-billionaire-lords. Did I get that right?" She isn't taking this well. Perhaps it's too much to handle in one go. I open my mouth to respond, but she doesn't give me a chance. "Oh. And I forget. The said American-demigod-neighbors were double stuffing you last night. And you’re fucking swallowing now? Don't even get me started on that debase episode at Cremini. How did that bloody happen?" I’ve definitely heard Charlie raise her voice before when she's upset, but never like this and certainly never at me.
I lift my chin up defiantly. "I think I've been quite explicit on how it all happened," I remind her.
She lets out a long sigh and drops her closed fists against the marble counter with an audible thump. Not good. "I don't know if I should strangle you for holding back on me this long—”
“But—”
“I know I was in Greece dealing with a catastrophe, but come on. This was bloody important. You should have demanded that Terry chased me down." I exhale loudly in response. "As I was saying, I’m not sure if I should strangle you with my own two hands for going down this twisted dirty road of gluttonous perversion without even seeking my advice or if I should throw you a big fucking bash because you just went from being a shy girl to becoming a filthy slut who is finally having toe-curling sex and the bonus heart-stopping orgasms that come with it,” she pauses, “Do I have to ask if they’re huge?”
I pull my lower lip between my teeth and shake my head vehemently. “Take my word for it, they’re massive.”
“That big?”
"Yup," I respond, doing my best to bite off a smile.
"More than seven inches?"
"Most definitely.”
“Ha!" She brings her hand up to her mouth. "Are you serious?”
"I never pulled out a ruler, but I know from Geoff who did measure his cock in my presence to prove how much of the big stud he was, that Holden and Brandon must easily be ten inches.”
“You do know those are rare gems?" she asks.
"Trust me, I do," I grin proudly.
She lifts her hand up and leans forward, I high-five her and we laugh like teenagers.
“Not that I can complain about Barrett’s huge cock, but two ten-inch cocks... wow,” she exclaims.
“I know.”
“Big balls?” She continues her interrogation.
“Yup. And they hang low.”
“Both of them?” I nod, pleased with myself. "Bloody hell, do I ever love big balls. I fucking love Barrett’s," Charlie says.
"I wasn’t that partial to them before, but I'm a big fan now."
We both laugh.
"What about their girth?" Charlie inquires.
"Incredibly generous."
“Do you struggle when you take them into your mouth?" she asks. "I always feel like I'm going to choke around Barrett's massive meat. Of course, I wouldn't have it any other way."
"I hear you, girlfriend," I joke. "I get teary-eyed every single time," I say.
“I knew it. I fucking knew it. I could tell just by looking at them at the Warwick that they were packing.”
“Their cocks practically killed me the first time they fucked me. Now, I can’t wait to feel those very big, thick shafts stroking in and out of me… their big mushroom heads moving deep inside my pussy, stretching me open."
"God. That sounded positively filthy. I may need a minute here," Charlie says lifting her hand at me.
"I might need one myself after sharing that," I laugh.
Charlie gets up from her seat and starts jumping up and down while clapping her hands together. “Bravo, girlfriend. Bravo!” Her giddy smile is hilarious.
“Did I mention they have edgy tattoos on their entire bodies?”
“Sweet baby Jesus,” she fans herself. "Bad boys in kid gloves—I guess I should say in bespoke suits—there's nothing quite like them.” Charlie circles the counter and comes running towards me in her skyscraper heels as excited as a kid who just found out she's allowed to pick two desserts and eat them. "Welcome to the big girl’s club where the big O at the hand of a formidable lover is a sure thing,” she says. She bends her knees so she's at my height and leans into a bear hug.
"Oh, stop it. There's no need to be this dramatic," I scold, pushing myself away from her.
"By the sound of it, Brandon and Holden are studs, it would be wrong not to make noise about it," she says smugly.
"I agree, the stellar romps are absolutely off the charts, but it's not only that, Charlie," I pause, pondering on my next few words before speaking them. "I really like spending time with them," I finally say.
"Really?" she asks.
"As you know, my sex life has never been anything to write home about and being so well shagged for a change is such a novelty to me, but I'm not like you." She raises an eyebrow. "I don't want this to come across the wrong way, but it's important for me to connect with the guy I'm with. Considering we’re talking about two guys here, it's incredible how well I get along with both of them, and it blows my mind how well all three of us mesh together."
>
Charlie reaches out and cups my face. "For the record, I avoid connecting with my lovers at all costs because I can't go through the agony and pain I had to endure when Barrett decided that his father's empire was more important than our relationship. If I shag ’em and leave ’em, I can't get hurt," she admits.
My jaw drops.
She’s never dared to be this blatantly honest with herself as she is now.
"I sympathize, but you know how I feel about your prowess at casual hook-ups. In your desperate pursuit to keep your heart safe, you’re potentially pushing away the one," I restate a message I've told her too many times already.
She takes a step back with her arms crossed over her chest like a protective armor. "Maybe. But, just like you, I don't know if it's possible to ever hope for what our parents have.” That’s a dig. “Guys from our generation don't have to commit. Too much available pussy, too little time,” Charlie says sarcastically. Her parents are still very much in love decades after they fell for each other and married.
"I don't know if I believe that anymore," I announce. She blinks at me in surprise. "I'm not delusional. I know it's only been a little over a week with Brandon and Holden and I also know there are two of them… I mean no one has those types of relationships… Not long-term…" I let my words trail. "What I share with them is so effortless. Although, they’re a decade older than I am, it's incredible how much we have in common. Daddy jokes about this all the time—and even Officer Roderick had her say in the matter—but I must admit that being with two former military men does make a girl feel incredibly safe," I smile.
Charlie frowns at me. "Amelia Jade Cavendish." It's never a good thing when Charlie starts a sentence with my full name. "Are you falling for them?" she asks.
"Phew,” I wave a hand in dismissal. "Of course not," I lie. "I can already see the shocking headlines, “BRITISH PRIME MINISTER'S DAUGHTER INVOLVED IN KINKY ILLICIT THREESOME. WHAT HAS THE WORLD COME TO?" I say. "Our nation expects that from King Albert's grandkids, not me. Most Brits see me as the virginal and untouched one, even though my relationship with Frederick wasn’t a secret."
"Exactly. Let's do our best to keep it that way. Not even I can work my voodoo white magic to play down that kind of PR scandal," Charlie laughs.
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