Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 127(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 127(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
I ache for her cunt.
I ache. And ache. And ache.
These thoughts of mine have no place at the foot of an altar. Thoughts of her spread thighs, her hitching breaths, the sleek grind of her pussy when she climaxes. I’ve lost the battle with lust…but my lust, my need, is not some disgusting sin as I always imagined it would be. No. Because my passion for Farrah runs deeper than skin. It descends to the bottom of the fucking ocean. She makes me feel found.
She makes me feel more righteous and good than the church, as blasphemous as that is to admit. And love…should be celebrated. This love cannot be hidden or ignored. It’s too consuming. Too huge. Too urgent. The surety and joy in my chest are real. They’re something I had no idea I was missing.
“Until Farrah,” I breathe into hands locked in prayer.
My entire being sighs at the mention of her name.
There is no way I could ever give her up. My will to live would be nonexistent. And if I can feel this devoted to one single person, I will never become my father. I reach up and finger my collar, removing it with a tweak of my wrist, settling it down on the altar in front of me—
“Does that mean what I think it means?” asks Monsignor Hannibal from the front row of the church, catching me off guard. How long has he been sitting there? “You are forsaking the church for a brazen hussy?”
I come slowly to my feet, but my ire is not so slow to rise. No, it’s swift and sharp. “Your tongue is the next thing I drop on this altar if you speak ill of Farrah again.”
The monsignor pales but doesn’t lose his smirk. “Well? Where have your prayers led you this morning?”
“To her,” I rasp, eager to hold my girl. “Everything has been leading to her.”
He’s surprised. “And yet you’ve resisted her considerable charms for the past two days.”
“No, I didn’t.” Low moans. Squeaking bed springs. Our mouths hot, seeking. “We partook of one another quite…intensely. She is likely already pregnant with my child. And I will rejoice to the heavens if she is.” Happiness making me almost dizzy, I turn and look up at the crucifix above the altar. “If God has sent her to me, I must have been a righteous man at some point—a good man—to deserve such a treasure.”
A long pause. Is he battling a smile or is that my imagination? “I see.”
I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Like he knows something I don’t. Suddenly, there is a very urgent need to see her. My palms are sweating, too, with an intuition I don’t understand. “I must go to her and ask her to be my wife.”
“She might already be someone else’s wife,” drawls the other man.
The church might as well be falling around me for the roaring in my ears, the crumbling sensation in my middle. “What the hell does that mean?” I wheeze. “Farrah! Farrah!” I start shouting, though I have no idea if she’s even nearby. I just need to yell for her. Yell her name. Implore the universe to bring her to my side, immediately. When there’s no reply, I lunge for the monsignor, gripping him by the front of his robe. “Explain yourself.”
He fears me, as he should, yet he is still visibly enjoying my panic. “I might have arranged for Mr. Tandy to meet her outside of the church gate.” He smiles with teeth. “To escort her to the justice of the peace. There’s no time to waste. She’s destitute. And he’s got some very pressing plans to enact with your little Farrah.”
My legs are barely holding me up. Pain is lancing me like a hot blade, the fear and denial so intense, I can’t think straight. “Why? I don’t understand. Why did she leave?” I bellow. “Why have you done this?”
“Because I have the power to do so. And it pleases me to watch you flounder.” His eyes flash with something sinister and a chill blows down my spine. “You thought you could get the best of me by being so kind and pious, well, I showed you, didn’t I?”
Those words leave so much to examine, but for now, I don’t waste another second on this cretin. Time is too valuable with Farrah on the line. I simply strip my robe off over my head and start running as fast as my legs will carry me toward the village, the words “someone else’s wife” ringing in my ears.
I’m coming, Farrah.
Please trust that I’m coming.
Chapter Eleven
Farrah
Istare through a veil of tears at the justice of the peace, my cold, dead fingers clutching a cheap bouquet of daisies. I’m numb. Thank goodness, too, because if I wasn’t numb, my skin would be crawling over the way Mr. Tandy leers at me while the justice recites the marriage rites. Bart. My husband-to-be’s first name is Bart.