His dark eyebrows lift. “Isn’t everyone welcome at church?”
“That’s what they say, but they never mean it.”
He shrugs and wedges himself into the narrow gap between my knees and the back of the next pew. He’s facing me, so the crotch of his jeans is pretty much level with my face. And hepauses, right there, looks down at me, and smirks.
The image flashes into my mind—me drawing down his zipper, taking his cock out, popping the head into my mouth, sliding my lips down the shaft. Heathcliff sinking his thick fingers into my hair, making me take him deeper. What would the congregation do? What would they say? Would my dad shoot me afterward for bringing shame to the Earnshaw family?
“For god’s sake, move,” I whisper. “You can’t sit with me. You’re a Lockwood. My father would kill me if he knew—if—” I glance around, distressed to see that nearly everyone in the sanctuary is looking our way. Conversations have stopped, and dozens of pairs of eyes are fixed on us. Blood rushes to my cheeks.
We don’t get visitors here. I’m not sure what he said at the door to make them let him in, but he’s drawing way too much attention.
Heathcliff squeezes past me and sits about three feet away, just enough distance to make it clear we’re not together. He tries to maneuver his long legs into a comfortable position, then gives up and angles himself sideways, stretching them out. He’s wearing the same work boots from yesterday. Crumbly bits of dried mud mark the carpet where he stepped.
The church’s scanty choir files into the two rows of chairs on the platform, behind the pulpit, in front of the baptistry. The scattered groups of people throughout the sanctuary move to take their seats as well, many of them casting curious or suspicious glances at Heathcliff.
Luckily there’s no one else in the back row on either side of the aisle, and no one in the pew in front of us. Moving my lips as little as possible, I mutter, “Why are you here?”
“Thought it was about time I check outthisgod and see what he’s all about. Maybe confess my sins.” He jerks his head toward one of the confessional booths.
“I suspect your confession would take a very long time.”
He chuckles. “And yours wouldn’t?”
“Not at all.” I shouldn’t be encouraging him, but I can’t help adding, “I just make something up and then confess to lying at the end.”
“Simple. Effective.” He nods. “I like it.”
“Stop talking to me.”
“You started it.” He crosses his arms and slouches lower as Deacon Mohan opens with announcements. When the worship pastor directs the congregation to stand for the first song, I grab a hymnbook and open it, just to have something to occupy my shaking hands.
As the congregation begins to sing, Heathcliff takes a sideways step toward me. He leans in, as if he’s trying to read the words of the hymn, and without thinking, I hold the book closer to him, angling it so he can see.
He reaches for the book casually, sharing the task of holding it open. His big hand spreads across the cover, and the tips of his callused fingers brush against mine.
The touch is like a lighter to gasoline. Heat zaps from my fingertips, flows up my arm, quivers in my chest like a warm, fluttering bird.
Heathcliff is singing, low and deep, gruff and slightly off-key, lyrics about being taken, molded, filled, used…and sure, it’s supposed to be about god’s spirit or whatever, but damn it if those words don’t take on an entirely different meaning with this beautiful man at my side. I can feel my cheeks flaming as I mouth the words I can’t manage to sing.
When the song ends, I yank the hymnbook back into my possession. Heathcliff glances down at me, and the corner of his mouth curves up.
The prayer comes next. It’s a long one, an endless invocation by one of the older men in the congregation. I’m supposed to stand still, keeping my head bowed and my eyes closed, and I don’t know how I’m going to manage that with the churning unrest in my body. I’m desperate for distraction, so halfway through the prayer, I turn my head and sneak a peek at Heathcliff.
He’s looking at me. Openly watching me while the rest of the congregation stands with lowered heads. There’s a roguish heat in his eyes, a tempting menace in the way he smiles at me. Like a wolf who would devour me whole if it weren’t for the rest of the flock standing around us and the watchdogs waiting in the front pew.
He slides his hand to his belt and tugs at the waist of his pants a bit, just enough to tighten the fabric and show me the outline of the thick erection beneath them.
I suck in a tiny breath, face forward, and shut my eyes again.
Heathcliff is a walking blasphemy, and I love that. But I can’t really enjoy it because my mind feels like it’s splitting open. I’m losing the battle with my secret self. She’s compelled to crawl out of my soul, to be heard, to herald the oncoming death of someone in Wicklow. Not even a quickie in the church bathroom would help me now.
I should have told Dad about how I felt. He might have let me stay home from church. Unlikely, though, because I’ve used that excuse multiple times when it wasn’t true, and now I’m the girl who screamed wolf.
Just as I’m making up my mind to slip out during the prayer, it ends, and we’re all ordered to sit down. The ushers come forward with silver collection plates, passing them along the rows so people can contribute to the weekly offering.
As Deacon Kitt reads a Scripture passage, the urge to wail out loud swells in me with such violence, I nearly explode. Pressure pounds in my head, a driving pain. I dare not open my mouth to breathe, or a shriek will burst out.
I have to leave. Now.
