7. Are We Happy With The New Pastor? #3
He’s gorgeous, his lashes so long they look almost feminine, a contrast against the strong angle of his cheekbones. He’s bold and masculine all over, with bronzed skin and heavy, slab-like pecs.
I slip out of bed, legs trembling a little, and tiptoe to the bathroom. My reflection is a disaster: hair everywhere, skin flushed and marked with faint bruises where Hunter grabbed too hard. I touch the inside of my thigh and wince, but the pain is good, like a secret trophy.
I pee, then stare at myself in the mirror for a long minute.
I look older, somehow, or maybe just more real.
I brush my hair, wash my face, and when I come back to the bedroom, Hunter is awake, sitting up with the sheet pooled around his waist. He looks like a god, the white sheets only emphasizing his deep tan.
He watches me cross the room, his eyes lazy, pleased.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” I reply, feeling suddenly shy.
He stretches, and I catch a glimpse of his cock, soft now but still impressive.
“Come here,” he says, crooking a finger.
I obey, climbing onto the bed. He pulls me into his lap, hands settling on my hips.
“Still want to do the pastor thing?” he asks, nuzzling my ear.
I nod. “More than ever, seeing what we just did.”
He laughs. “That was a hell of a first night.”
“I was surprised you went gentle,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “That was gentle?”
I roll my eyes, then bury my face in his neck. “You could have gone harder.”
He smirks. “Duly noted.”
We sit like that, wrapped in each other, until the sun is high enough to make the dust motes shimmer in the air. The rest of the world doesn’t exist. Not the coming day, not the awkwardness of what we are, not the fact that at some point, one of us is going to have to call my dad.
It’s not until we’re in the kitchen, wolfing down cold leftovers, that Hunter brings up Pastor O’Toole again.
“So, this pastor dude. Have you met him before?”
I shake my head, stabbing a fork into a cold asparagus spear. “Assistant pastor, actually. And no. I’ve only met Pamela before, but I guess she’s too busy for us. But I thought he was cool, based on our one time talking to him.”
Hunter leans back, crossing his arms. “Do you think he’s good looking?”
I choke on the asparagus, surprised. “What?”
“You heard me. Do you think Pastor O’Toole is good-looking?”
I consider it, biting my lip. Should I lie? But what would be the point of that? Pastor O’Toole a man of god, so I tell the truth. “Yes, I guess. He’s got this whole Nordic-Scandinavian thing going on. Blue eyes, gold hair, looks like he should be on a Viking ship. Why?”
Hunter smirks. “Just wondering how hard I’ll have to compete for your attention.”
I flush, heat prickling up my neck. “Don’t be ridiculous. Pastor O’Toole is a religious man!”
He stands, circles the island, and pins me with his gaze. “Religious men have eyes, and as far as I know, he hasn’t taken a vow of celibacy.”
I stare at him. “What are you saying? Are you saying that me and Pastor O’Toole—!”
Hunter shrugs, his stance relaxed.
“I know you, Stella. I know how your mind works.”
He steps closer, so close I can feel his breath. “If you want him, you can have him.”
I look up, eyes wide. “Are you fucking serious? You are insane! One hundred percent certifiably insane! We’re going to see him because of the taboo attraction between us, and now you’re saying that I should date my pastor too? Have you gone crazy? Are you drinking too much?”
Hunter shrugs, unperturbed. “I’m just saying. I think you should have everything you want, Stella, and that man notices you. He had a hard-on for you while we were in his office.”
I gawp at Hunter, my eyes as round as saucers.
“You are definitely insane, and Pastor O’Toole did not have a hard-on for me. We were practically doing marriage counseling!”
“Except we weren’t,” Hunter says in an easy tone. “And he had a hard-on, mark my words. I don’t blame him. You’re a very beautiful young woman, and you have no idea of your appeal, Stella.”
I gawp again because this conversation has taken a massive left turn, and I have no idea how to reply. But my heart hammers so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
He grins and cups my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip. “But for now, you’re mine.”
He kisses me, slow and thorough, then pulls away with a wicked smile.
“Finish your breakfast,” he says. “You’ll need your strength.”
Then, Hunter strolls out of the kitchen, hands in his pockets while whistling a nonchalant tune.
I’m left alone with my breakfast, my mind whirling as my pulse pounds.
What the hell just happened? Did my step-uncle just insinuate that I should flirt with our pastor?
Date him, even? Really? The one who’s doing couples counseling for us?
No way, the voice in my head says. This is not real.
But that’s the thing. This is real life, and my life has just taken a left turn so sharp that I’m dizzy and disoriented. Yet I want to see what’s there. Pastor O’Toole resembles a gorgeous Norse god, and I’d love to see what he can do with his massive tool.
Is that wrong?
Of course it is.
But still, if I’m ever going to experiment, then the time is now.