I am already painfully hard just fromkissing her.
And if I don’t stop now—right now—I’ll end up doing something monumentally stupid. Like taking her, right here in this pew.
With what feels like superhuman effort, I tear myself away, chest heaving, head spinning. “Daisy, I shouldn’t have. I apologize.”
“Don’t you dare,” she snaps.
Before I can even begin to process what’s happening—which is proving difficult given that all my blood has abandoned my brain in favor of more southern pursuits—she’s on her feet, gripping my wrist, dragging me toward the nearest prayer alcove.
I could stop her.
Easily.
She’s tiny. I could plant my feet, and it would be over.
But I don’t.
She shoves me onto the pew—the ancient wood groaning under my weight—and suddenly, impossibly, she’s hiking up her dress and straddling me.
Jesus fucking Christ.
My breath heaves out of my lungs.
Every sound is amplified in this sacred space: The whisper of fabric against skin. The sharp click of her heels against stone. The soft, barely-there catch in her breath as she settles against me.
And god almighty.
I feel her. Warm. Soft. Pressed exactly where sheshouldn’tbe.
“Absolutely not,” I groan, my hands already betraying me, settling on her hips like they have a will of their own.
The position puts her breasts directly at eye level. She smells like vanilla and temptation. And wine.
“Shut it,” she breathes. She looks possessed.
A beautiful demon come to ensure my damnation.
I need to stop this. The vicar could walk in with my damn mother at any second.
“This is not what these areas are intended for.” It’s supposed to be a reprimand. It comes out as a strangled groan. “They’re meant for private worship.”
I can’t form coherent thoughts with her weight in my lap, with her heat pressed against my cock. I feeldrunkon her.
She leans in, lips brushing mine. “You can worshipme, Dr. Cavendish.”
The way she says my name makes something primitive snap in my chest. Makes me want to show her exactly what kind of worship I’m capable of.
I’ve completely lost the plot.
And I do not care.
Her lips crash against mine again, urgent, and I meet her just as fiercely, swallowing the little gasps that escape her throat as her body presses tighter against me, perfectly aligned with my aching cock.
Two years of nothing but my own hand and now this—this maddening, wicked creature writhing in my lap, making me groan with every deliberate grind of her hips.
“Edward,” she whispers against my mouth.
And then she moves.
