He imagined pressing her against that wet wall and fucking her raw.
The door was ajar; he nudged it even wider, the hinges giving without protest. Steam billowed out in white strands, curling around him, drawing him in.
Through the haze, he saw her — or rather her silhouette behind the white curtain — arched under the spray, one hand braced against the tile, the other —fuck— the other was working that detachable showerhead.
Judah’s cock throbbed, fully hard now, straining against his jeans. He palmed himself through the fabric — a rough squeeze that did nothing to ease the ache.
She was moaning now — soft and unrestrained. Judah watched her shadow play against the curtain, the way her body curved, hips tilting forward as she directed the pulsing water between her thighs. Her free hand slid up the wall.
Fuck. If he didn’t get out of hereright now, he’d do something stupid — and Judah Beaumont didn’tdostupid.
The cross he wore on a chain under his shirt sat against his sternum — hot as sin. God was mocking him.
Another sound. Softer than the last. Her breath, maybe, or something that had started as breath and become something else.
He imagined his mouth on her, tongue working her pussy until shescreamed.
He took a deep breath.
He had to get out.
His feet carried him to the kitchen while his mind was still drowning in the gutter.
Judah picked up the ledger. The keys. Took the folder and left before his self-control could leavehim.
The clergy meeting ended at twelve-thirty. Darlene appeared in my doorway and I knew instantly that she was someone who had been doing this long enough to time it perfectly.
“Attendance folders to the meeting room,” she said. “They'll want them for the close.”
I gathered them, knocked and went in. Judah was at the head of the table, mid-sentence, and he glanced up when I set thefolders down. Just a glance. Back to whatever he was saying before I'd fully turned to leave.
I told myself that was normal. He was running a meeting. I was dropping off paperwork. The fact that I noticed the glance at all was my problem, not his.
I stepped outside into the noon heat and almost walked directly into a cream Jaguar parked across two spaces like the lines on the asphalt were a suggestion someone hadn't gotten around to reading.
I stopped.
The man leaning against the hood had his face tipped up to the sun, eyes closed, a joint burning down between two fingers. I could smell that earthy singe of MJ wrapping around the church.
Dark blond hair. Shirt open at the collar. Someone who had nowhere to be and nothing better to do.
Mrs. Arceneaux and Mrs. Cormier were already in front of him, which meant this had been going on for a while.
“This is church property,” Mrs. Arceneaux said. Her hat was doing something architectural in her agitation.
The man didn't open his eyes. “Yes ma'am.”
“You cannot smoke that here.”
“I'm outside.” He took a slow drag, exhaled toward the sky. “Technically I'm smoking at the sun.”
“Young man—”
He lowered his chin and finally looked at her. “Aunt Ida.”
Mrs. Arceneaux's spine went rigid.
“Your potato salad at the Easter potluck has gotten worse every year for a decade,” he continued, pleasant as sin, “and not one person has said a word because they're all scared of you. I'm not. Shut your fucking mouth and go find something to arrange.”
