Chapter 29 Cece #2
I'm lost in him, in the way his body presses mine against the railing, in the delicious friction of denim against denim as his hips rock into mine. The wrongness of it only heightens everything—the rebel in me that Brayden has nurtured over the past year flaring to life.
“The choir sits here every Sunday,” I gasp as his hand cups my breast through my shirt, thumb circling my nipple until it hardens beneath the fabric. “Mrs. Holloway conducts from right where you're standing.”
Brayden chuckles against my throat, the vibration sending shivers down my spine. “Maybe we should move to the pew then,” he suggests, guiding me backward until my legs hit the front row of the balcony seating.
I sink down onto the polished wood, looking up at him with what I hope is challenge in my eyes. “Isn't this sacrilegious?”
“Sweetheart, I think we crossed that line when you started unbuckling my belt,” he says with that wicked half-smile that still makes my stomach flip. His hands slide to my thighs, fingers playing with the hem of my riding jeans.
I should feel guilty. I should stop this madness right now. Instead, I reach for him, pulling him down until he's kneeling between my legs, his broad shoulders blocking out the twinkling Christmas lights behind him.
“I'm going to hell for this,” I whisper against his mouth.
“Then I'll keep you company,” he murmurs back, kissing me with a hunger that makes my toes curl in my boots. His hands find the buttons of my jeans, working them open with practiced ease while I fumble with his zipper.
A door slams somewhere in the church, the sound echoing through the sanctuary like a gunshot.
We freeze, my fingers still tangled in Brayden's belt loops, his mouth an inch from mine. Brayden presses a finger to my lips, listening. Heavy footsteps sound in the foyer, followed by voices—plural.
“Shit,” I hiss.
Brayden's hand slides up to cover my mouth completely, the pressure firm but gentle. With his other hand, he presses a single finger to his lips, signaling me to stay quiet.
I nod against his palm, my heart hammering so hard I'm sure whoever's down there can hear it echoing through the sanctuary. The voices grow louder, discussing something about the sound system. Church volunteers, maybe? Or the worship team coming in for an early rehearsal?
Brayden doesn't move away. Instead, his hand slides from my mouth down to my throat, then lower, his touch feather-light as it traces the neckline of my shirt. The danger of being caught only seems to excite him more.
“We'll check the wiring tomorrow,” one of the voices says. “Pastor wants everything perfect for the Christmas service.”
“Fine by me. I could use a beer anyway.”
Their footsteps move across the sanctuary floor, heavy boots on polished wood. I hold my breath as they pause directly beneath us, something metal clattering against the floor.
“Dropped my keys,” one of them mutters.
Brayden's hand continues its slow, torturous path down my body, slipping beneath the open waistband of my jeans. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound as his fingers find the edge of my panties.
The men below us continue their conversation, completely unaware of what's happening in the choir balcony. I squeeze my thighs together, trying to control the heat building there despite the danger, or maybe because of it.
His fingers slide lower, brushing against the damp fabric between my legs. I bite down on my hand to keep from gasping. The bastard is actually going to try to get me off while there are people right below us.
“You coming or what?” one of the men calls from the doorway.
“Yeah, just making sure everything's locked up.”
There's a click of lights being switched off, plunging the sanctuary into semi-darkness. Only the Christmas lights remain, casting multicolored shadows across Brayden's face as he leans in close, his lips brushing my ear.
“Don't make a sound,” he whispers, his fingers pushing my panties aside.
I should stop him. I should absolutely stop him. But the thrill of it—the danger, the forbidden nature of it all—has me wetter than I care to admit. I bite down harder on my knuckle as his finger slides inside me with agonizing slowness.
The church doors close with a heavy thud, and silence falls over the sanctuary once more. Still, Brayden doesn't rush. His movements remain torturously slow, his eyes never leaving mine as he watches every flicker of pleasure cross my face.
“You are so fucking beautiful like this,” Brayden whispers. “Trying so hard to be quiet when I know you want to scream.”
His thumb circles my clit as his finger curls inside me, finding that spot that makes my vision blur. I'm trembling with the effort to stay silent, my hips rocking against his hand of their own accord.
“Anyone could walk in,” I gasp, the words barely audible. “We should stop.”
But my body betrays me, pressing harder against his hand, seeking more of that delicious friction. The knowledge that we're doing this in my father's church, in the choir loft where I sang hymns as a teenager, makes everything more intense, more forbidden.
“You want me to stop?” he asks, already knowing the answer as he slides a second finger inside me. My head falls back, mouth open in a silent cry as he increases the pace.
“No,” I admit, surrendering to the heat building. “Don't stop.”
“God, what are you doing to me?” I whimper as his thumb circles faster, his fingers curling inside me. The choir loft feels like it's spinning around us, the colored Christmas lights blurring as pleasure builds to an almost unbearable peak.
“Coming apart for me in church, princess. That's what you're doing.”
My thighs begin to tremble as he works me closer to the edge. The danger, the sacrilege, the pure wrongness of it all somehow makes everything more intense. I'm seconds away from shattering when we hear it—the unmistakable sound of the side door opening again.
“Shit,” I hiss, my body freezing in panic even as it throbs with need.
Brayden doesn't stop. His fingers continue their relentless rhythm as his other hand covers my mouth. “Come for me,” he whispers against my ear. “Right now, while they're walking in.”
It's too much—his command, the footsteps growing louder, the knowledge that we could be caught any second. I fall apart against his hand, my cry muffled against his palm. My body convulses, inner walls clenching around his fingers.
“That's my girl,” he murmurs, slowly withdrawing his hand. I strain my ears, but don't hear any more footsteps. The sound must have come from outside, or maybe it was just the old building settling. After a moment of breathless silence, I relax against Brayden's touch.
“I think we're still alone.”
Brayden rises up, pressing his body against mine. “Good,” he growls, his lips finding my neck. “Because I'm not done with you yet.”
The thrill of almost being caught has left me hypersensitive, every nerve ending firing as his hands slide under my shirt, pushing it up to expose my skin to the cool air.
I should feel ashamed, doing this here of all places, but I don't. Maybe it's the year away, maybe it's the woman I've become with Brayden by my side, but all I feel is desire burning through me like wildfire.
“Are you sure?” I ask, even as my hands are working his jeans down his hips. “What if someone really does come in?”
“Then we'll hear them, and we'll stop.”
But we both know we're past the point of stopping now.
His hands make quick work of my jeans, tugging them down my legs until they pool around my ankles.
The wooden pew is hard and cold beneath me, but I barely notice as Brayden positions himself between my legs, the head of his cock pressing against me.
I'm still sensitive from before, my body convulsing with aftershocks as he pushes inside me with agonizing slowness.
“Fuck,” he groans, his forehead falling against mine. “You feel so good, princess. So tight.”
I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. The pew creaks beneath us, the sound obscenely loud in the empty sanctuary. I should care—I really should—but all I can focus on is the delicious stretch of him filling me, the weight of his body pressing mine into the hard wood.
“Someone could walk in any second,” I whisper against his mouth. “My father could walk in.”
“Then we better make this quick,” he growls, his hips snapping forward with new urgency.
I bite down on his shoulder to muffle my cry, my nails digging into his back through his t-shirt. He sets a punishing pace, each thrust pushing me closer to the edge again.
“God, I've missed you like this,” he pants, one hand gripping my hip while the other braces against the pew. “Wild. Desperate.”
I arch beneath him, meeting each thrust with one of my own. “We had sex this morning,” I remind him.
“Still too long,” he growls, suddenly grabbing my hips.
With a swift movement, he pulls out and shifts us both. He drops onto the pew, his erection slick and standing proudly between his thighs. “Come here.”
I barely have time to process the change before his strong hands guide me to turn around, bending me over the pew in front of us. The polished wood is cold against my palms as I brace myself, my jeans still tangled around my ankles limiting my movement.
“Brayden,” I gasp as he positions himself behind me, one hand splayed across my lower back, pushing me down until my chest nearly touches the bench.
“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice husky but sincere, always checking even in the midst of our most reckless moments.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Please.”
He enters me with a single powerful thrust that steals my breath. From this angle, he feels impossibly deep, hitting places inside me that make stars burst behind my eyelids. I bite my lip hard to keep from crying out, the taste of blood mixing with the forbidden thrill of what we're doing.