by Amber Lin
Possible but impossible. Torture.
When she’d left town with that band, he’d thought it was over. She’d go live the wild life he couldn’t give her, and he could unbury himself from all the guilt. He dropped to his knees, scrambling to pick up the sticks, certain that any minute someone else would fling open the closet door and catch them—doing what, exactly? Organizing supplies? He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Not this time.
She crouched beside him. “Let me help.”
“You should get back out there, make sure the younger kids aren’t staging a coup.” The teens were trouble enough, but the tweens could make a young man go prematurely gray with the pranks they tried at a lock-in. Not that he’d found any silver himself. He checked, though, more often as he crept closer to thirty.
“They’ve already dropped spiders in the chip bowl—don’t worry; they’re plastic. And you might want to check your sleeping bag for ice cubes. You can always share mine. They know better than to prank me.” She shoved a handful of sticks into the box he held, and brushed her thumb over the inside of his wrist, tracing the infinity symbol tattooed there. His hand shook. Like she’d never left.
“You’re supposed to stop the pranks, not catalog them.”
“They’re harmless.” She held his gaze, brow arched in question, thumb still pressed to his wrist. She had to feel his pulse now, the unmistakable thump thump thump hammering beneath his skin.
“I’m not sharing your sleeping bag.” He’d take a bath in ice cubes first. The town would run him out on a flaming pitchfork if he even looked too long at Chloe’s sleeping bag. Off Limits. It practically flashed neon above her head. She’d been one of his charges. No amount of grown-up, legal, or willing would change that.
“Of course not. Then everyone would know you like me.” She licked her lips.
“I don’t. Like you. I mean, of course I like you, you’re lovely and smart, but we can’t. Oh crap—”
The shock of her mouth, warm and wet against his, stunned him into silent acquiescence. Her fingers didn’t scorch his shirt now; they raked over his shoulders as she pushed herself into his arms. A milk crate full of Sunday school workbooks shoved into the small of his back. A dull pain, overwhelmed as liquid heat coursed through his body, crowding out thought, mingling with the dread coiled in his belly.
The Popsicle sticks clattered to the floor again.
God help him, he kissed her back, unable to resist slipping his tongue into the apple-sweet depths of her mouth.
“Seven minutes in heaven,” she gasped against his cheek as she grabbed his hand and guided it to her breast. “We can have that, can’t we?”
The hard point of her nipple jutted against his palm through the fabric of her top. She felt so good. The soft weight of her pressed into his fingers. He groaned, erection already straining the fly of his jeans. He might not go to jail, but he was probably going to hell.
It took every ounce of his resolve to end the contact. He blew out a breath, slow and measured, and squeezed his eyes shut. A coward. “I’m so sorry, Chloe. This is wrong.”
Cool air washed over him as she pulled away. Hurt filled her expression like he’d never seen before. Like he’d never imagined. So confident, so damn gorgeous he’d never thought she could be hurt. She was perfect, and she could do much better than her old youth leader. Her pain was like a lance, like a hundred of them, and they stabbed at him until his mouth opened. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, how much he loved her, how they just couldn’t ever be together—
“I’m pregnant.”
*
Chloe successfully avoided Tim through two rounds of Yahtzee before he asked her to help him set up snacks. Just an excuse to get her alone, and nope, she had an urgent dodgeball game she needed to coordinate in the gym. Anything, anything but to face him after her blurted revelation in the closet.
She didn’t know the best way to break this news to a guy, but that wasn’t it. And immediately after her ill-timed confession, she’d left. Darted into the center of the group, using the kids as a shield so she wouldn’t have to face Tim’s judgment. She couldn’t even look him in the eye. Even though he had done just as much as she had to create the baby. Even though he’d been a willing, eager participant at the time. But it was always the girl who got blamed, wasn’t it? She’d been coming to Sunday school most of her life. She knew the stories.
Now her shields, her charges had abandoned her. Once the sweet smell of chocolate chip cookies permeated the gym, they’d dropped the colored kickballs in place and run to eat the cookies fresh from the oven.
She hadn’t minded. Collecting the balls had given her an excuse to stay behind. It had given her an excuse to stay behind, to collect the balls. To hide in the storage room, breathing in rubber and disinfectant. To panic. She was panicking. God, why had she thought she could do this? Go about her role as one of the youth group helpers when she could barely help herself? Or have a calm, grown-up conversation with Tim about the situation when she didn’t feel grown-up? And she certainly wasn’t calm.
“Chloe?”
Shit. That was Tim, looking for her.
The worry in his voice was like a splash of ice water. It stole her breath and bent her over—and that was how he found her, head in her hands. The wooden bench squeaked as he sat beside her. His warmth suffused her hip and all along her body.
It made her want to turn to him. To turn into him and be held, comforted. But the hand that feathered so lightly over her back, it was hesitant. Not gentle and deliberate the way it had been when he taught her guitar. Not desperate and grasping like it had been that night.
The wisp of air between his hand and her back might have been miles for how isolated she felt. No man was an island, but she was doing her best impression of Greenland—set apart and so damn cold.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly. “Do you need to see a doctor?”
“Already have.” Her words came out clipped, as if she were pissed at him. He didn’t deserve that, but she didn’t know any other way to be. They weren’t in this together. As he’d made clear in the closet before her rushed confession, there wasn’t a together where they were concerned.
“We need to talk about this. After the lock-in. Will you come over?”
She sighed. Coming over. That was what had started them down this track. She’d flirted and flirted and flirted—and never really believed anything would happen. For years. And then something had changed between them. Slowly first, and then faster, like a train picking up speed. The way he’d looked at her had been more intent, more serious. More sexy in that stern-morality-sex-appeal way.
If you really want to learn to play, I’ll teach you. Guitar, he meant. But she’d taught him right back, other things. Grown-up things, because when it came to sex, they were equals.
Not anymore.
Running a hand over her face, she made a sound of frustration. “Can we not do this?”
“Do what?”
“This whole…” She twirled her hand in the air, some vague gesture of futility. “This caring thing. Obviously you aren’t interested in being a father. At least, not with me. And that’s fine. I don’t care.”
Liar. And in the church basement too.
“Chloe—”
“I just thought you had a right to know, but look, I’m going to speak to Pastor John on Sunday and quit. You won’t even have to see me again. I don’t expect anything from you, so don’t worry.”
At least that last part had been honest. She didn’t expect anything from him. She wouldn’t do anything to bring him down. It was her choice to keep the baby, and it would be her responsibility.
Except Tim didn’t look relieved. No, he seemed…kind of pissed, actually. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him pissed. His gaze sparked with something like frustration. His soft lips pursed, framed by the scruff of his beard.
He opened his mouth to say something, but footsteps rang in the gym outside. In a flash she stood and so di
d he. They backed away from each other, straightening their clothes like two teenagers who’d been caught necking in the bathroom. Only it was the teenagers catching the adults this time. And they hadn’t been necking. They’d been doing something much less fun. They’d been saying good-bye. That was how it felt, hollow in her bones.
One of the juniors, Sarah, poked her head inside. “Hey, um, don’t freak out or anything, but the popcorn machine is kind of on fire.”
“Crap.” Tim dug his fingers through his hair like he always did when he was stressed out, only rougher now, faster. He sent her a wild glance she couldn’t parse before muttering, “We’ll talk later, Chloe. I’m serious.”
She just raised an eyebrow.
With a sound of frustration, he left.
Chloe followed more slowly. The popcorn machine did something crazy every time they used it. It was old and broken, like everything else in the church basement. She loved it. She’d miss it all when she left. The crazy popcorn machine, the leak in the ceiling. The kids.
And Tim most of all, more than anything.
The kids were using their pillows to air out the smell of burned popcorn. Tim knelt beside the popcorn machine, muttering under his breath as he banged at the ancient machinery. The man had no idea how hot he looked in the faded blue shirt left unbuttoned over a gray T-shirt. How sexy it was when his too-long hair curled over the collar. How very grabbable his ass looked when the loose denim stretched taut.
Or maybe he did know. The same way she read Cosmo and painted her nails the latest color. Maybe he had some sort of youth-leader-image magazine. Bow ties are out, it would say. Lumberjack is in. And thank God for that trend, really, because he rocked this look. Though perhaps her life would be easier right now if he hadn’t been so damn appealing.
She clapped her hands. “Come on, kiddos. Grab your sleeping bags, and grab a spot in the gym.”
Usually they split the girls and the boys into separate rooms. Then Pastor Tim would sleep with the boys and Chloe would sleep with the girls and everyone’s virtue would be safe. But the smell was too strong here, so the boys would have to sleep with the girls tonight.
It would be fine, though. Pastor Tim wouldn’t let anything happen. A small smile touched her lips. He wouldn’t let anything happen between them either, because he wasn’t interested in her anymore. He would probably help her with the baby if she insisted, but she didn’t want that. She wanted so much more.
Not going to happen. She was her mother’s daughter. She was a cautionary tale. She was a forbidden apple, and he’d already had his bite—but she was the one who would fall from grace.
Chapter Six
Lock managed not to jump the sexy little Sunday school teacher the second her pen left the paper. Her hand had been shaking as she’d signed, and she wasn’t ready for sex. At least not the way he did sex. So he showed her into the restroom and let her freshen up. Meanwhile he conferred with the concierge to get her bag brought up and her car moved to a VIP spot.
When she emerged from the bathroom, he knew she was ready. He knew by the fresh lipstick on her full lips and the resolved set of her chin. But most of all he knew because of the flicker of curiosity in her eyes. Under the fear, she wanted to know what came next.
He crooked his finger and beckoned her to him.
Her breathing was shallow, her cheeks flushed, and she kept running her fingers through her hair, touching herself. That long blonde hair cascaded around her face in a messy tumble. Bed head, and they hadn’t been anywhere near a bed. Wouldn’t be near one anytime soon if he had his way. Which he would. This was his show.
She tugged the hem of her short skirt so it covered a sliver more thigh, drew her shoulders back, and crossed the room, steady on her bare feet. She should be plucking daisies, not padding across the plush carpet of his penthouse suite. “Your wish is my command.”
No more preamble. If she was really going to do this, he’d know now for sure. “I’m going to fuck you against that window over there, and I’m not going to be nice about it. Do you like to hurt, Hailey?”
Her name was a weapon on his lips. A sharp thing he could use to lash her. Every time he said it, he watched her tense. This time she wobbled, her answering nod barely perceptible, her coltish legs giving way under the weight of his regard. And he liked it.
She wanted this thrill, and at the moment finding her sister’s baby daddy didn’t have much to do with it. Her eyes held wariness and guilt—but most of all, excitement. As if his proposition had jolted her awake. More awake than she’d ever been in her drowsy little East Podunk life, he’d lay money on it.
He’d woken up on stage like that, the whiskey haze parting long enough for fear to creep in, adrenaline spiking into his bloodstream as he fumbled for an instant and then…click. Everything slipping into its proper place. The music. The band. The crowd. All of it more alive, more real, brighter and sharper because he’d come so close to disaster.
Do you like to hurt, Hailey? He’d asked her, and she could only nod.
He’d hurt her so good she’d give voice to that desire before he was through. She knew it. He knew it. The subtext breathed in the air around them, a living thing, that damned contract come to life. She wants this. She wants the lurid celeb fantasy. The shock, the pulse-pounding vibrancy that only exists on the edge of a bad decision.
He’d take her there.
“Take off your clothes,” he said, a little too harshly, his urgency coming out as hard-edged gruffness.
It didn’t scare her away. She wants that too. She fingered the button of her cardigan, uncertain, and then popped them all in a rush, exposing a silver tank that dipped low over her cleavage. Fuck. Surprisingly lush curves on her willowy frame, and smooth, pale skin.
He shifted in his seat, imagining his cock between her breasts. Making them slick, squeezing them together, and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting until he came all over her neck. Jesus, he hadn’t even seen them yet. She put a hand to her throat as if she could read his mind. As if every dirty thought he’d ever had was flashing on his face. And she knew. Why was she taking so fucking long to undress?
Lust propelled him across the room. He grabbed her by the hip and spun her around, pressing his chest to her back. She was warm, soft, every sweet powder-scented inch he could touch. She didn’t resist his rough hands skimming under her shirt. She just raised her arms and let him lift it over her head. The silver tank lay discarded at their feet. Next, the bra. Her favorite part of the day. He stifled a laugh as he unhooked it, guided the straps down, the blue satin cups slipping free. She sighed into him, letting her head fall back against his chest.
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her skirt and her tights and yanked them down to mid-thigh, taking her panties with them. She rewarded him with a sharp inhale, with shock. He stepped back so he could see the top of her ass. A peach, there for the biting. Two years ago he’d have bumped lines off that ass. No. He’d never have gotten near it back then. She’d have run screaming from him in the thick of his addiction. Sobriety had its rewards.
He spun her around again. “All of it off, now.”
She pushed everything down to her knees and shimmied it the rest of the way, kicking free of the tangle of denim and netting. The air conditioner purred to life, blasting them both with a burst of cool air. Her nipples tightened to lickable points. When she wrapped her arms around herself, he shook his head, and she dropped them to her sides.
She met his eyes, uncertainty and desire at war on her face.
He gathered her hair in his hand and pushed her against the window wall in his suite, forcing her legs apart with his knee. No one could see in, but the illusion was fucking hot. Her tits smashed, palms flat, breath fogging the glass. His little church mouse on display. The city, all lights and pulsing energy, spread out before them. He never got to see the cities he toured, not up close, just the vistas from his rooms and the blur from a window seat on the jet. He didn’t mind so much when he had a hot
body between him and the view.
“Do you want me to fuck you like this, from behind, while the whole world watches?” He wanted to bury himself in all her softness. And he wanted it to hurt. Her or himself, he wasn’t sure.
Her only answer was the expanding cloud of condensation as she panted. And then she rocked back. The slightest shift, but just enough friction, in just the right place. He ground against her naked ass, his cock throbbing in his jeans.
She turned her head, pressing her flushed cheek to the window, and he couldn’t resist running his open mouth up the column of her neck, chasing that frantic pulse, biting the lobe of her ear until she cried out, “Nobody can see.”
“Shhhh. Everybody is watching. Let’s give them a show.” He skimmed over her rib cage, her belly, and lower, until he could feel damp heat. She wasn’t wet enough for what he had in mind. Not yet. He wanted to fuck her so hard she’d be bruised. Marked. Damaged. He circled her clit with his thumb, savoring every buck and twitch, and plunged one finger deep. The slick walls of her cunt clenched tight as he drew back. Almost ready.
“Don’t stop,” she moaned.
“I’m running things.” He bit the sweet spot where shoulder met neck in admonishment, and reached for his belt buckle. Impatient, he yanked off the belt, pulled the condom from his pocket and shucked his pants. All the while keeping one hand tangled in her hair. Holding her in place.
He considered having her put it on him with her mouth, but she probably didn’t have that skill set. Though it might be fun to watch her try, to teach her, to corrupt her.
Later.
Sheathed, he positioned himself at her opening, rubbed the head of his cock over her slick folds, and then he thrust. One fluid movement and he was balls-deep in hot, honeyed heaven. Every drop of blood in his body raged toward his hard-on. Fuck. He drew back and thrust again. And again.