120 Mph

by Jevenna Willow

  Christian covered Sara’s hand with his own, for it was definitely close to making regrets toward his promise to protect the innocent by righteous word and faithful prayer.

  “But back to what I said earlier. You always ask a question seemingly when you don’t want anyone to contradict your thoughts.” Her statement quite bold, under the circumstances, since this his home and she merely a guest within it, it surely raised his brow.

  “I ask a question when too stumped to figure it out for myself,” he said, correcting the mistake.

  “Like now,” she dared reason.

  Christian challenged himself not utter the words, ‘now . . . what?’ Sara would have considered them another question, and perhaps used them against him in some way. The look in her eyes confirmed this.

  Very slowly, she pulled her hand free of his and off his knee. “I am going to ask you something personal, Reverend.” She paused, taking a deep breath, looking for the need to gather courage for any asking. “And I would appreciate it if you answer me as truthful as possible.”

  Christian took a deep breath of his own, then boldly nodded. “Ask what you must, Sara. I’ve nothing to hide.” Surely, not anything inside her head would bodily harm him in any way, shape or forms.

  She gave him a hard look, yet without adieu she questioned, “Are we having sex tonight or not?”

  Christian nearly fell off the couch.

  “Um, well . . .” His hands gripped firmly to the cushions to hide his initial shock. To say he hadn’t expected this out of her would be quite an understatement.

  Regrettably, she started to add more before he had the chance to catch his breath.

  “I mean, if we are . . . shan’t we get at it?”

  “Good Lord! Sara,” he yelped. “Hell of a question to ask a man before his dinner.”

  Sara held up her hand. “No. You promised me the Lord wouldn’t be anywhere near us tonight.”

  His smile quick, he informed her, “God is always near us, Sara.”

  He then caught the mumbled words “Don’t I know it” spoken as her face turned from his.

  “What was that?” Christian baited, expecting swift answer.

  Sara’s returning gaze poured out liquid fire at his face instead. “Nothing.”

  “No, Sara. You said something,” he determined.

  She took a deep breath, paused, then told him flat out, “Fine. I said ‘Don’t I know it’. And why do you ask? Because. Simple, one-word answer that translates into God ruins everything that might turn into being good for me.”

  Christian’s ego inflated quickly—never mind she just slandered the Creator inside his home. “You think of me as a good thing?”

  He certainly didn’t feel so good all of a sudden. Parts of his anatomy were on fire. The rest of him felt as though he was going too fast in a vehicle without airbags, hands off the wheel, and enjoying one hell of a ride.

  “Well, I would hope so!” she said tartly. “It’s not every day that I agree to go out on a date without putting on any underwear.”

  Oh, good grief. She really had to bring that up again? Christian closed his eyes. This only made the evening worse. With the eyes closed, he could easily picture in his head the missing article of clothing. The color it would be. The texture, if touched by hand. The sweet scent, if allowed to remove said article and brought to the face.

  With eyes closed, the stalled silence between them laid out like a cavern. It made the Grand Canyon look small.

  Sara broke the silence, regaining the upper hand. “Well, are we?”

  He very slowly opened his eyes, praying that when it happened, neither turned into a pillar of salt. One could never be certain until proven otherwise. “Are we what?”

  Without pause, she rolled her eyes to another asked question off his tongue. “Are we having sex?”

  Not a flinch, not a flicker, not even a clearing of the throat was made to these very startling words.

  Christian, however, felt as though blown apart at the seams. He felt hot and cold. He started to choke on air, almost violently. To ease his pain, Sara darted off in the direction of his kitchen. Foregoing the search for a clean glass to obtain water, she’d found the can of beer inside his refrigerator.

  She brought it back to the living room without haste, then held out the can. “Here.”

  Christian shook his head while running out of air and with tears in the eyes.

  “Take it. I don’t know where you keep your glassware. This was the best I could do.”

  Again, Christian shook his head. This time, he could get enough air into his lungs to squeak out, “I . . . can’t.”

  “Can’t? Why the devil not?” She even popped the top for him. Some of the foam came up and over the surface of the can, spilling onto her hand. She licked off the moisture, then licked her lips before holding the brew-filled aluminum directly in his face.

  Suddenly, two out of many terrible facets of a man’s life stared hard at Christian’s conscience. A woman’s lips . . . and beer. With effort, and with violence never before felt, he stood from the couch, looked her dead to rites, and said firmly, “I can’t, Sara.”

  It took her all but two seconds to understand. Sara lowered her hand as her face turned beet red.

  “I—I’m so sor—” The word stopped cold.

  He could see she didn’t know what to say toward this disturbing admission.

  He, as well, wasn’t quite certain how he could even begin to tell her the reason.

  Christian’s demons had come back to haunt him in the worst possible way at the worst possible moment. There was now a witness to his shame. Never before had there been witness present to judge his faults. Never before had he truly cared.

  Christian did what only he could do at this point. He told her the truth.

  “I can’t drink that can of beer.” A large, unsteady finger pointed at it. “And the only reason it was even in there was to remind me why I should not and will not touch the stuff . . . ever again.”

  Sara slowly set the opened beer onto his low table as if the aluminum had somehow burned her flesh. Her gaze moved hurriedly to his, and damnit . . . There was pity in her eyes.

  Christian didn’t want Sara’s pity. Not now. Not ever. He wanted penance. At least penance was something he could eventually deal with; something he was used too.

  Without thought, he pulled Sara into his arms, wound those arms around her back, and set his mouth to her lips. Perhaps he could kiss away his demons, and destroy wretched pity by way of lustful passion. Perhaps, while Sara in his grasp, he would be able to ignore a past never leaving his thoughts—or his unending nightmares.

  Chapter Nine

  Sara did not respond in the way that he wanted her to. Christian wanted her to be angry. He wanted the woman in his arms to push him away in disgust. To tell him ‘no’—them together was all wrong, and how dare he think otherwise.

  Instead, she physically melted into his touch, devouring as much as giving. Her fingers slid into his hair to run across his scalp. Her firm, twenty-something breasts pressed through the thin material of her hot little dress, tormenting him beyond all sane thought.

  He knew he should not be doing this but he couldn’t figure out how to stop, as the heat between his legs set flame to spark, and then spark to damaging need.

  Christian spent his life preaching the gospel. He didn’t have much to his name, and he didn’t care what most others thought about him. They were judged by God . . . not him.

  Sara was a woman caught up in the anger of her town; as the local health inspector, she found unsatisfactory conditions and shut down a place frequented by nearly every man in Preacher’s Bend maintaining a working penis.

  He was supposedly good.

  She was supposedly bad.

  Yet he could not let her go . . . and she did not want him to let go, so this made them equals.

  Forced apart when the doorbell rang, two incredibly guilty adults looked at the other, shamefaced. The b
ell rang once more before either could speak.

  Before it could ring again, Sara was the first to utter, “Aren’t you going to answer the door?” well before Christian dared try using his tongue for words.

  Regrettably, he could not stop the formation of, “No,” from slipping out of his mouth.

  The bell rang a third time, followed closely by a fourth peeling. Someone wanted him and that person seemed as though not about to give up with the search.

  “I do believe there is another who desires your attention, Reverend Mohr,” she said, licking her lips.

  He smiled, allowing the woman in his arms to get into his head. “I know she does. That is why I am not answering the door for a few more seconds, Sara.”

  When she looked ready to contradict this, all he had to do was lower his eyes to the front of his suit pants for Sara to understand. He could not answer the door in the condition he was in. He had such a hard-on it would take a near miracle for his cock to settle down; enough to walk toward a door without an awkward waddle to his gait. On the other hand, perhaps an act of God performed to defeat a man from sinful desire.

  “Christian?” came loudly through the closed panel. “Reverend Mohr? Are you at home?”

  The bell rang out a fifth time, followed by a harsh knock.

  Sara offered to answer the summons but his hand snaked out and stopped this terrible mistake from happening.

  “No. I will get it . . . eventually,” he told her.

  A raised brow mocked his words. “Are you sure you’re able?”

  “No. Not really. But how would it look if you went and answered the summons for me, dressed as you are and freshly kissed . . . and I standing right here?” he determined.

  “Ah, yes. Quite right,” she ruled, taking a hasty seat on his couch.

  Christian gathered in a deep breath then moved toward the front door. He gave Sara a quick glance over his shoulder before he would pull the door open. Answer the rather demanding call of one of his flock hadn’t been in his evening’s plans. She returned a smile, nodded her head, and with a held breath he cautiously turned the knob.

  Harriet.

  Of course, it would be old lady Harriet Thorn to ruin a man’s night of likely the most incredible sex he’s had in years! Sara was hot, hardly dressed, and here. Three perfect reasons it would have been incredible.

  “Hello, Harriet. And how is your evening?” he asked, shaming his conscience that he dared care, due to the fact his was suddenly taking a nosedive into the toilet.

  At least a ruined night came with a gift. In Harriet’s hand was a fresh-from-the-oven blueberry pie. She gave the dessert over to him as she physically barged into his home without proper invitation.

  “My night would have been much better if I hadn’t the need to stand on your doorstep ringing a bloody damn doorbell for all of ten minutes,” she quibbled.

  It was only two minutes, three tops, but who was he to correct her of the mistake.

  Harriet stalked toward his living room in haste while Christian was too distracted by closing the front door. As his gaze followed the path of the old woman hurriedly crossing the worn carpeting, he got the enjoyment of firsthand witness to Mrs. Thorn stopping dead in her tracks the second she found Sara Ruby seated on his couch.

  Her frail hand went to her throat and the look on her face would’ve been priceless, if the words following that look hadn’t made the blood grow cold.

  “Am I interrupting something of importance, Reverend Mohr?” she muttered sharply, as her sight traveled from Sara, to the stacked books on the floor, then to Christian’s face.

  He might be man enough to take her sharp tongue and intrusive nature on most other occasions, but he was not man enough to let her make an escape without leaving him the pie. If his night was to be ruined, he sure as hell was going to eat himself into an oblivious state.

  He set the still-steaming dessert down on his dining room table and went quickly to the couch, where Sara looked more than uncomfortable and trapped under the scrutiny of Mrs. Thorn. Her incredibly short dress made even shorter by her body nearly sunk into the cushions.

  “Um, no, Mrs. Thorn,” he told her.

  Without plan, Christian sat next to Sara. He hoped it would be cause for Harriet to leave. It did the exact opposite.

  And Sara, without much notice, slid further away.

  As he leaned back into his couch, and put his arm over the back of it, directly behind Sara’s head, he told the busy-body old woman, “We were just having a lengthy discussion, Mrs. Thorn.”

  Harriet quickly grabbed a chair and dragged it nearer them. She sat down, readjusted her outfit, and was suddenly all ears.

  “Does your talk have anything to do with Sunday’s awful sermon you promised me you would retract?”

  Well, shit! He hadn’t promised her a damn thing! In fact, he clearly recalled driving over to her place to show her exactly the place he found his words and exactly why he’d said them to a packed house of wretched men and women who thought themselves better than their God.

  The only reason he bought a lousy chipped bowl just to appease the old bat was that he had more than stated there wouldn’t be any retraction . . . of any kind.

  The look on Harriet’s face at the moment told Christian she was not about to give up without a fight. Nor openly have her right to be inside her minister’s home as taken away unless told the truth.

  So he had to check the tone of his voice before any truth was told. “Um, no, Harriet.” In fact, his voice had lowered more toward condemnation than civility. “We were just discussing important matters concerning Ms. Ruby.”

  He’d meant the words to translate into ‘None of your damn business what we are talking about,’ but this wouldn’t have been nice, and he would’ve likely then be required to apologize for each, more so than condemning the wicked men and women of Preacher’s Bend to the eternal pits of Hell.

  He should’ve known Mrs. Thorn was never put off when the scent of fresh blood by way of juicy gossip was so close at hand.

  As Sara remained mute through all of this, she even slid another inch away from him; nearly touched the arm of the couch on the opposite end. She’d started out in the middle of his couch. Perhaps his having sat so near to her while Harriet inside his home had made her nervous.

  “Do these matters have anything to do with what she did to the men of this town?” Harriet asked, pointing an accusing finger directly at Sara. An unstoppable train wreck—with caustic agenda.

  All of a sudden, Christian had far more than enough civility for one evening. First, the restaurant? Now this?

  He pushed his body off his couch, stalked over to Harriet, and physically removed the old bat from her chair. His firm grasp on her upper arm was meant to state business.

  He wanted her out of his house before he lost his temper. A hand was going to guide her in the direction of an exit well before a foot put to the ass could. Although the muscles in his leg as surely itching to try.

  “What we were discussing . . . is between the three of us, Harriet,” he warned the old woman. “Thank you for the pie. I will enjoy your treat to the utmost. But I would like to get back to Sara’s and my conversation before it gets too late.”

  What he really wanted to do was get back to the moment when he had a hard-on and Sara in his arms, responding as he wanted her too.

  Harriet nodded her head in agreement. “Why, yes dear. You, me, and her.” Again, a finger pointed at Sara, who quickly looked the other way.

  “Um , no, Mrs. Thorn,” he corrected, saving face. “That would be between me, Sara, and God.”

  Harriet’s eyes widened. “Oh!” was all she could make as her response.

  Yet Christian could see the wheels turning in the old woman’s head as if set before the eyes. And those wheels were far too dangerous for him, as a man and not as the Reverend, to ignore. Had he done so, Mrs. Thorn would have run him over, taking no prisoners.

  “Oh, nothing, Harriet. This is
a private conversation. There is nothing even to ‘Oh!’ about. Nor is there anything that should be put into one’s head for later use.” He meant used as the opening line to a gossip vine.

  Harriet gave him a hurried smile that said otherwise—gossip in Preacher’s Bend a rather lucrative business—as he walked her to his door, frail arm in firm grasp.

  “Whatever you say, Reverend.” Her smile seemed a little too forced for peace of mind.

  Christian opened the door, pushed Mrs. Thorn over the threshold, and said his good-bye. When he turned around, after Harriet safely locked out and unless breaking and entering could not get back inside to throw holy water on the wicked, he found Sara standing over by his front window. She was watching the old woman pull out of the drive in an equally old station wagon.

  He took a breath, held it, then let it go on a heavy sigh. As the air drifted from his lungs, Sara turned her face to his.

  “Do you see now why I didn’t want to answer the door?”

  Sara looked ready to cry. Without thought, Christian stepped forward and eased her into his embrace.

  “What’s this?” He set his thumb to the corner of her eye where brimming tears were being held back.

  She gathered in a deep breath then held firm until capable of speech. “You physically threw an old woman out of your house, Reverend.”

  “I know,” he rued, albeit with a shameless grin set on his lips. “God will forgive me for doing so . . . even if Harriet Thorn does not.”

  “Why did you do that?” she asked, the moisture welling quickly.

  He tried to make Sara smile; with any hope, change her souring mood before it ruined the rest of his night. “It was the most fun I’ve had all week.”

  “She will now go back into town and tell anyone who will listen to her that I am here!”

  Christian’s brow rose in sharp contrast to his thoughts. “So? I don’t see you being here as some sort of problem.”

  Sara’s blue pools trapped his. “Well, it is. She will now tell each and every one of them exactly what is going on between us.”

  “Is there something going on between us?” he teased. “From my standpoint, I’d say we’ve sort of hit a brick wall in regards to anything going on.”