7. Are We Happy With The New Pastor?
ARE WE HAPPY WITH THE NEW PASTOR?
Stella
The dining table is twice as long as it needs to be, a slick, monolithic slab of antique wood polished to a mirror shine.
Even with the leaf taken out, it runs nearly the entire width of the dining room.
I sit at one end, cradling a goblet of Pinot Noir in both hands.
Hunter is three seats away, the starched white of his shirt catching and splintering the light from the candelabra between us.
The rest of the table is a wasteland of empty china and silver, candles burned down to stumps in their holders, a single thread of smoke rising from the wick closest to me.
It is, objectively, the weirdest dinner I’ve ever had in this house.
The cleaning crew left hours ago; the house is so silent you could hear a mouse thinking about cheese.
The only evidence of last night’s bacchanal is the faint, sticky ring on the rim of my wineglass.
The table has been set by ghosts: napkins in precise fans, knives aligned with the edge of the charger plate, food plated with the mechanical artistry of a hotel banquet.
It looks like a painting, or a crime scene.
I don’t remember ordering half these things.
Maybe my father does it automatically—calls up the chef, tells her to plate two portions of every protein and vegetable just in case I have a friend or a date to entertain.
I can’t eat. Every bite turns into paste in my mouth.
Hunter is the opposite. He eats with the easy composure of someone who’s never once choked in his life.
His knife glides through the steak—rare, perfect—and his fork collects a bit of asparagus, a pyramid of mash, a single roasted carrot, and brings it to his mouth.
He doesn’t look at me as he chews. He rarely does.
When I finally push my food away, the motion is sharper than I mean. It rattles the fork on the plate, and the sound ricochets around the room.
Hunter’s eyes flick up, a blue so dark it’s almost black in the candlelight. He lifts his own glass, sips, and says nothing.
“Are you really okay with seeing the pastor?” I ask, breaking the standoff. My voice sounds thin, even to me.
He finishes chewing. Wipes the corner of his mouth with the cloth napkin, slow and precise. “You’re the one who wanted therapy, star girl.”
The nickname lands soft, but it still hits. I cross my legs, uncross them, then reach for the wine. The stem is cold, and my fingers are numb, but I can’t let go.
“I just—” I start, but the words catch. I take a long, bracing swallow. “It’s a weird thing. Isn’t it?”
He sets down the fork, leans back in the chair. “What’s weird is pretending this is a problem that can be solved with talk therapy.”
I stare at the table, tracing the grain in the wood. “That’s what people do, right? When they’re having a—” I gesture, helpless, “—thing?”
He huffs a laugh. “Most people who fuck their relatives don’t consult clergy first.”
I flush, prickling all over, but I refuse to look away. “We’re not related.”
He shrugs. “Tell that to your father.”
I want to argue, but instead I drain the rest of the wine. The taste is sharp, cherry and something darker underneath. It makes my lips go numb.
Hunter pours himself a refill, the decanter glugging softly. He doesn’t offer me more.
“I just don’t want to ruin anyone’s life,” I say, finally. “Least of all mine.”
Hunter’s face softens, just a fraction. He laces his fingers together, elbows on the table, and regards me over the little cathedral of his hands. “If you want to stop, then say so, Stella. I’m not holding you hostage.”
The thought is absurd—me, standing up and walking away, as if my own feet would even know where to go. But I pretend to consider it, just so he knows I’m not afraid. I even set my glass down gently, like I’m about to rise.
I don’t.
He watches the performance with the patience of a python. “You’re not quitting.”
“How do you know?”
A slow, small smile. “Because you like this. You like the danger.”
“I do not.”
“Liar,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. “If you hated it, you would have let that little boyfriend fuck you last night and never looked back. But here you are.”
I stare at the flames on the candles, picking out the little movements, the way the light gutters when I exhale too hard. “You’re a narcissist. And an asshole.”
He considers it. “Maybe. But I’m also right.”
There’s a long, charged pause. My chest is tight, my pulse a hard, fluttery thing in my neck.
“I think you like it too much,” I say, barely above a whisper.
He leans in, blue eyes gleaming. “Maybe I do. Maybe I like corrupting you. Maybe I like the way you taste after a night of sin.”
His words send a bolt of heat right through me. I try to mask it by smoothing the napkin over my lap. “You’re disgusting,” I murmur, but I can’t keep the tremor out of my voice.
Hunter lifts his glass. The gesture is almost a salute. “You have no idea how disgusting I can be, sweetheart.”
The silence after is as thick as pudding. I can’t look at him, not with my skin on fire and my stomach a knot of nerves and want. I focus on the candles, the wine, the way my own hands shake just a little as I gather the plates and try to look useful.
I don’t get far. Hunter stands, the chair pushed back with a low scrape, and crosses the distance between us in three measured steps. He towers over me, blocking out the candlelight, a presence so physical it might as well be gravity.
He puts a hand on the back of my chair, leans down so his mouth is at my ear. “When we’re done with this church discussion,” he murmurs, voice low and soft, “I want you on your knees again.”
My pulse spikes. I can’t help it. The memory is too fresh, too raw—the taste of him, the ache in my jaw, the feel of his hands tangled in my hair. I clench my thighs together, willing myself not to react.
I fail.
He sees it, of course. “Look at me,” he says.
I do.
His eyes are dark and bottomless. “Tomorrow, you can confess your sins to the pastor. But tonight, you’re going to worship my cock like a good girl during Lesson Two. Do you understand?”
The words are obscene, but I nod anyway, my face burning. I can’t find my voice, so I just nod again.
He straightens, smooths the collar of his shirt, then gestures for me to stand. I do. My knees are a little weak, and I curse myself for being so obvious.
He collects the dishes—one hand, stacked—and sets them on the buffet. I’m a little stunned by the domesticity of it, the way he moves through the room like it’s his own. Like he belongs here.
He comes back, takes my hand, and leads me out of the dining room.
The house is dark except for the candlelight, the white marble floors glowing in the absence of sun.
My bare feet slap quietly as we walk. The place looks different at night, as if the walls have shifted, the proportions gone strange.
Every painting in the hall seems to watch us.
The air is heavy with the scent of furniture polish and old secrets.
We reach the stairs, and he pauses, waiting for me to catch up.
His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me up.
I count the steps, each one a countdown.
The house is a cathedral of quiet; every sound is amplified, from the faint slap of my bare feet on the hardwood to the slow, deliberate thud of his footsteps behind me.
My room is colder than I expect. The thermostat is on some ancient timer, and the heat never reaches the third floor quite right.
The only light comes from the lamp on my nightstand, the bulb half-dead, casting a washed-out gold haze across the duvet.
The shadows are soft, but in this light everything feels sharper: the goosebumps on my arms, the twist of nerves in my belly, the scent of the last perfume I wore before I realized Hunter would be here.
I stand by the bed, unsure what to do with my hands.
Hunter closes the door, turns the lock with a soft click, and comes to stand in front of me.
His height is ridiculous; I have to crane my neck to see his eyes.
He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from my cheek, the backs of his knuckles feather-light against my skin.
“You look nervous,” he says.
“I’m not,” I say, though my voice betrays me. I swallow, but my throat is sandpaper.
He just smiles, a slow, devastating spread of teeth, and sets to work on the buttons of my blouse.
One by one, with a surgeon’s patience. His hands are big, but his fingers are gentle, and I’m so aware of each motion it feels like I might short-circuit.
He doesn’t rush; when the blouse falls open, he slips it off my shoulders, lets it slide to the floor, and kisses the bare curve where my neck meets my shoulder.
My chest rises and falls faster than I want it to.
I try to keep my chin high, like this isn’t my first time, but he sees right through it.
He steps back, just a bit, and looks me up and down.
I’m wearing nothing but a bra and the world’s thinnest pair of cotton shorts.
The bra is a white lacy thing, so tiny that it reveals more than it conceals.
My nipples are already hard, pressing against the cups in a way that’s impossible to ignore.
Hunter doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches me, dark and unreadable, until I’m on the verge of shivering.
Then he says, “Are you ready for Lesson Two, sweetheart? Because it’s the next phase of your cock worshipping lessons.”
I tremble at his nearness, and at his words.
“Yes, I’m ready,” I whisper. “Teach me, Daddy.”
Hunter grins, his big hand warm as he cups a big breast in his palm.
“Good, because I’m going to teach your pussy how to do some cock worship tonight. Last time was your mouth, but now it’s time for that creamy cunt to learn how to cling to Daddy’s cock.”