by Winter James
It seems worth it to find out, one taste of her sweet honey.
She shakes her head. “Besides, my parents are dead. That’s why I live at the House of Rapture. They took me in when I was an orphan.”
I frown down at her. Something doesn’t seem right with that story. It’s questionable as hell. The state, in all its wisdom, granting custody of an orphan to a known cult? I don’t fucking think so.
Then again what the hell do I know? They could have changed things while I was in prison, I guess. It’s not like I’ve had any reason to keep updated on custody laws in this fucking place.
And I could be really fucking myself over here. Somehow, this girl has gotten the impression that I can save her. That’s the farthest thing from the truth. It made her come back here. That’s the one silver lining. But now I need to convince her otherwise. It’s for her own good.
“Do you know what I am, little girl?”
She raises her eyebrows and looks me over, taking her time. I want her to keep looking for the rest of the day. The rest of my fucking life, even. But the moment ends and she shrugs. “A construction worker?”
“I’m a convict. Before I had this job I was in jail.”
Fear creeps into those big blue eyes along with something else. It takes me a second to place it. When I do the rush is like nothing I’ve ever felt. She’s interested.
Any other girl would have turned and run off, and I would have let her. This one stands her ground in her white dress. She licks her fucking lips. “What did you do?”
Her fear and curiosity is an intoxicating mix. I want to bend down and whisper all the nightmares of my life into her pretty little ear. I want to hear her gasp when she finds out what kind of man I really am. That would take a long time. Time I don’t have during this break. I lean down, inches away from the softness of her, and settle for a single sentence.
“Maybe I hurt curious little cult girls who ask too many questions.”
I’m rewarded with one deep gasp and she turns—not away from me, but into me. Her cheek brushes against my lips. The soda can falls to the ground. Fuck it. Fuck all of it. I catch her in her turn and back her against the oak tree.
And then I kiss her. Hard and rough, her mouth opening beneath mine.
She tastes sweet and new, like nobody has ever kissed her before. The thought of being the first one to take her mouth like this makes me want it even more. Mine, I think through a haze of animal want. She’s mine, she’s mine. She’s not, not really, but the sharp tug of war in my mind is nothing compared to her tongue against mine. Does she know she’s making those desperate little noises? Probably not. Hungry noises. But I know exactly what I’m doing when I palm one of her tits through her dress. No bra. Only sweet flesh. There’s practically nothing separating us. Her nipple kisses my palm through the cotton. I could have her stripped in five seconds flat.
But I leave her clothed and work her over, tasting her, touching her. It’s not a pretty kiss, and I’m not gentle. I bite into her mouth like I’m going to consume her. That’s not the astonishing part. That’s not the part that makes every part of me bend toward every part of her.
It’s the way she arches off the tree. It’s the way she kisses me back. It’s the way she obviously fucking wants this, the little mewling sounds she makes are her hips press against my dick.
Chapter Five
Dove
My whole body is on fire. It’s awake. I’m awake. I can feel everything, from the rough bark of the oak tree against my back to the rough stubble on his face. It burns my skin. I want to be burned. I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t even be on this side of the highway. And yet here I am, on the wrong side of the highway, being kissed by Jake the construction worker.
Jake’s body is huge and solid next to mine, even bigger now that he has his hands on me than I thought. He’s rough. When his hands make contact with my skin I can feel just how rough, the inherent strength of him, the calluses that coat his palms. He’s a man who works, who bleeds. He’s not sheltered from anything. Not like I am. The world can get to him, and the world has. It’s there in the scars on his hands and the deep tan on his skin. Those are signs of worldly work. Leader Michael warns against those kinds of jobs for girls—for women.
The pressure of him against me—him against me and nowhere to go because of the oak tree—is just like the things I imagined last night in my bedroom. The bad, bad things. It has to be bad if it makes me feel this way. My nipples are peaked against the fabric of my dress and Jake rubs a rough thumb over one of them. He breaks away to look down at it, then rakes his eyes back up to mine. He’s the first person to look at me like he might devour me in one bite. I’m like Daniel in the lion’s den. He's saved from the lions because he's found blameless before God. I won't be blameless here. I bet Daniel wasn’t so breathlessly intoxicated by those lions.
“Little girl—”
“No, no.” I pull him back in, my fists in his shirt, and he doesn’t resist. It’s exhilarating, like I imagine diving off a cliff attached to a parachute would be. That free-fall. That rush. He’s sweaty and gleaming with hard work and the dust on his vest comes off on my dress. This is living. This is gettin dirty, out in the world, where there’s nothing to protect you. A stab of guilt thrusts through the center of my own hot desire. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be letting him do this to me. I’ll probably go to eternal damnation for this. That’s the price I’ll have to pay. I swallow down the old fear of being sent to hell.
Because before I go to hell, I might end up married to Leader Michael. I’ll spend the rest of my life praising the Lord by praising him. I’ll be caught in an endless loop of cleaning his house and raising his children. And that’s—that’s good. That’s holy. But I need to live first. Even if it only lasts a few minutes.
I do owe Leader Michael, I know, I know. I owe him and the entire House of Rapture for taking me in and taking care of me. I wouldn’t have a life without him and the rest of the members. They gave me my life. I don’t plan to change that. I can’t change that. It’s already happened. But I can take this moment for myself.
Even if there are consequences later.
Jake pushes me harder against the unforgiving oak tree. His teeth scrape against my bottom lip. The moment of pain only heightens the pleasure of being kissed so thoroughly. God, I never imagined—I never imagined it could be like this. With Leader Michael it would only be pecks on the cheek, I know that. My soul heats with the sensation of this man’s mouth on mine. He’s an enormous, powerful stranger, and I’m alone with him. My skin is alive with the danger of this, like a thousand pleasurable shocks all at once. Goose bumps spread across my shoulder blades and up my neck.
I wish Jake would pull my hair. It’s the strangest wish, so wrong, but I wish he would do it. What else have I been growing my hair out for all this time? The Lord has a plan for everything. That’s what Leader Michael told me when I first came to the House of Rapture. Could he possibly have meant this, too? That I’ve been growing out my hair to please the Lord and to give Jake something to wrap his fist around? It can’t be a pure thing to do, but right now I don’t want to be pure. I want to be his. Jake’s. No matter what that means. A shiver shakes its way down my spine and circles my hips.
I only know what it means to belong to a man in the vaguest terms. A servant. A helpmeet. This—this isn’t that. That can’t be what Leader Michael meant when he said we were meant to serve men of God. Can it? I feel feverish, wanton, and none of my thoughts make sense. They move slow through a jumble of want and need and yes.
Someone makes a noise—pleading, almost a whimper. They make that noise again. The third time it happens I realize it’s me. Jake swallows each of the sounds. His hand comes up to caress the side of my neck. He squeezes a little, which forces another small sound from my throat. This is not how people touch each other in the House of Rapture. I have the feeling that this isn’t how people touch each other out in the world, either.
That can’t be. His confession bounces around in my head. I’m a convict. I was in jail. Lord, why would I like the kisses of a convict so much? I can’t work it out and it doesn’t matter, in the end. All that matters is the tug of his teeth against my lip and the plunge of his tongue into my mouth. He takes what he wants. He works his fingers into my hair, finally, finally, and I tip my head back to give him more of me. His lips come down onto my neck, sucking and licking and nipping. If he leaves a mark, Leader Michael will know. I almost want that to happen. But no, it can’t.
I’m not ready to be done when he pulls back and slaps a hand to his lips, eyes on fire, breathing hard. I’m breathing hard, too. Oxygen floods my lungs with every deep pull of air. My pulse thrums like I’ve been sprinting, but of course I haven’t. Jake pinned me in place against a tree. That’s the opposite of sprinting. My hands go to my hair, my face, the front of my dress, patting and smoothing.
“Run away, little girl.” His hand falls to his side in a fist. He unclenches the fingers one by one, but the rest of his muscles tense and work along with them. “You won’t like where this goes next.”
He means sex. That’s what he means. Heat rushes across my cheeks. I’m sure I’ve never blushed this red in my life. “I don’t know.” My lips buzz with the echo of his kiss. “Maybe I will like it.”
Jake steps closer with a growl, eyes darkening. “Don’t forget what I am. A criminal.”
He’s right. I shouldn’t forget that he’s a dangerous man. I know he’s dangerous. That he could hurt me.
I also know that the danger of him excites me. It’s the same feeling The place between my legs feels hot and aching for him. The ache expands to fill my belly and I rub my thighs together beneath my dress. Anything, anything to relieve the pressure. It doesn’t work.
A sinner—that’s what I am. There’s something sinful inside me, something deep down where the Lord can’t get it out. That’s why I want him. I want him so badly my knees shake. But they don’t buckle. I stay standing. I suck in a breath.
I reach up to touch his chest.
My fingertips brush across the top of his orange vest and I press them against the front of his shirt. His heart pounds. Jake goes perfectly still as I walk my fingers up to the collar of his white t-shirt. It’s dirty, just like him. Just like me.
I slip my fingers under his collar.
Jake lets out a groan, his head falling back a few inches. I feel like I’m a hundred feet tall, and strong. He’s not the only person with power. I have some, too. I can draw that sound out of him with a single touch.
I add another touch to the back of his neck to bring his face back to mine. Courage swells through my body. It’s like a drug. Like I imagine a drug would be, if I’d ever had drugs. It’s the pure, strong sensation of being lifted by the Lord. It can’t be that, of course, because the Lord would never condone the things I want Jake to do to me. I’m beyond that now. Later I’ll repent, I’ll beg forgiveness, but in this moment I’d rather beg Jake for all the dangerous things I know he could do.
It’s so wrong and so far outside my experience that I can’t find the words. Even thinking about the words I’d have to say makes my face hotter.
Speaking is a lost cause. The only thing to do is rise up on tiptoes to kiss him.
Who have I become, in only the space of a day? A girl brave enough to kiss a man like Jake? Yes. That’s who I’ve become. When words fail, act. Was it Leader Michael who said that? It doesn’t matter, because I’m acting. I’m taking what I want.
Jake drags up the hem of my skirt and presses it into my hands. “Hold it for me. I need to see that pretty little pussy. I need to taste you.”
Shock sends a wave of heat through my body. It centers at the place where Jake wants to see me… wants to touch me… wants to taste me. I’m too surprised to argue with him. And too curious to stop him.
He makes a choking sound. “God, you’re so pretty. So pink.”
I squirm against the tree, my legs pressing together. “It hurts.”
“I know, baby. That’s because your pussy needs something inside it. Maybe my fingers or my tongue. Most likely it needs a big fat cock inside, but I don’t think you’re ready for that.”
“Yes,” I gasp out, because the ache’s almost unbearable. “I’m ready.”
He kneels to the floor and meets my gaze. “No, you’re not. You have to trust me to decide these things for you, but don’t worry, I’ll pet that little kitten. I’ll make the hurt go away.”
Without thinking my leg moves to the side an inch, giving him room. It’s not enough. One rough palm moves my thigh even wider apart. Then the other, until I’m spread for him.
“Yeah,” he says, sounding almost drugged, as if the same thing that’s running through my veins is running through his. Lust. And maybe freedom, too. “Look how wet you are.”
“Is that… normal? Is that okay?”
“That’s perfect. You’re wet so you can take my cock without tearing yourself open.” He touches two fingers to my opening, stroking forward and back. He pushes inside an inch, and I gasp. “Yeah, you’re gonna need to be fucking drenched to take me. Feel how tight you are, baby? My fingers aren’t even half as wide as my cock. We’ll have to stretch you, make you come… about a few hundred times before I pound into you, won’t I?”
A sob escapes me, maybe denial, maybe acquiescence. All I know is sensation.
He leans forward and presses a kiss to that secret place, the one full of sin and shame. He smooths aside the hair and kisses me in a particular spot that makes me yelp with overwhelm.
“Please please please,” I say, mindless with need and hunger.
“Oh hell,” I hear him mutter through my haze. “You’re so goddamn beautiful. I’d do anything for a taste of this. Survive anything. I’d even go back to jail to pump this pretty pussy full of cream.”
The last words make me gasp, but then his mouth is on me again, sucking, licking--even biting, until I’m mewling something incoherent, pressing my cheek against the bark of the tree. Pleasure draws a thick rope around me, its surface rough like the hands holding my legs apart, scratchy enough to make me squirm, and then it draws tight. It cinches close enough that I let out a tight scream. Rapture washes over me in heavy, ungainly surges, leaving me weak and hoarse. Jake licks me softly until the last tremors are gone. Then he leans back and drops my dress to cover my legs.
He stands and leans down for a kiss.
Our lips have barely made contact when a voice cuts through the sultry summer air. A voice that I’d know anywhere. A voice that steals all the excitement from my body and replaces it with cold, hard dread.
“Dove? What are you doing?”
It’s Robin.
Chapter Six
Jake
How the fuck did that girl get over here without me seeing? Because I was too damn wrapped up in this one, that’s how. Dove. The new knowledge about her feels good, but I wish it hadn’t come with such a price.
I put a big step between me and Dove. All that bravery is gone now. She tugs helplessly at her dress, eyes on the ground. Her lips are puffy with my kisses. The skin at the side of her neck is flushed. Her hair’s a mess. She reaches up to smooth it down and I force myself to look into the devil’s face.
I don’t have much experience with cults. Never been in one. But I do know about evil, and that’s what stalks in the dark eyes of the girl who’s caught us. She’s going to get my little girl in trouble. That intention is clear as day and I’m helpless to stop it. My stomach drops into my toes. I haven’t been this fucked since the day they slammed the cell door shut behind me in prison.
“I know you heard me, Dove.” The devil sounds like a teenage girl. I’m not fucking fooled. “You’re not far enough to hide. I saw what you were doing.”
Time is running out. I can feel the moments dripping away. All I can do is angle my body between Dove a
nd Satan incarnate and inch forward enough so that she can hear me when I pitch my voice low.
“Will you be okay? Will they hurt you?”
“No, no.” She doesn’t quite meet my eyes when she says it. Damn it, she’s not sure. Every cell in my body longs to protect her. “They won’t. They would never hurt me.”
I’m not convinced and that helpless wave rolls over me. Well, what the hell can I do about it? I’m on parole for murder. They called it manslaughter. The last thing I need is to have the cops called on me for mauling this innocent girl while I was supposed to be working. And I have no doubt the story will become more than what it was thanks to the cunning girl.
“Don’t worry about me,” she whispers. “I was coming home.” This bit is louder, probably for girl-Satan’s benefit, as if she can pretend this moment away.
She runs away in a flash of white, heading for the highway. Her hair flies over her shoulders as she checks for cars and she keeps running, feet hitting hard on the blacktop.
The other girl stays, jaw set, that evil glare on full display. “I saw what you did.” Casual. Threatening. There should be no threat in a girl her size wearing a white dress like that, but it comes off her in waves. Trouble. Cruelty. Did she learn that in the cult or was she born with it? Nah, someone had to teach this girl to hate. It’s there in her eyes, lurking beneath the anger--the hurt. The need to lash out because of pain. I don’t feel bad for her, because I know she’s going to make my girl’s life a living hell. My girl. She’s not mine. But she feels like it.
The dark-haired girl turns on her heel and goes, walking at a measured pace. I’m too busy watching my girl go through the gate and pull it shut behind her. Buying time.
It takes all my strength not to follow her. Not to drag her back out and lay a claim to her. Except I have no business taking a woman that I can’t care for proper. No business with a woman I can’t protect.