Chapter 1
I was standing alone in the chantry. Just through the open door I could hear the whole church breathing; relatives, friends, my soon-to-be husband, all waiting for me. Let them wait a moment, I thought. I looked down at my body, gift-wrapped in lace and silk. I ran my hands slowly over my breasts, pushed up by the tight, boned bodice, imagining my new husband running his hands over them tonight, undoing the tiny pearl buttons, unwrapping them, taking the nipples into his mouth.
A polite cough made me turn: the priest, come to see what was keeping me. He was blushing slightly, embarrassed at catching me touching myself so brazenly in his church. “Are you ready?” he asked in a husky whisper.
He was young: big, hazel, serious eyes fixed on mine, large hands fiddling nervously with the trimmings on his robe. I turned fully around to face him, my hands still resting on my breasts. He was looking at me intently, with fascination, almost with fear. I held his gaze, testing him, seeing how far I could stretch the silence. Somewhere in the church, I heard a child begin wailing.
“Nearly,” I replied. “There’s just one thing—perhaps you could help me with it?”
“Of course—what is it?” he asked.
I just had time to whisper, “This,” before my mouth was on his, my fingers in the curls at the back of his head, pulling him into me. For a split second the shock held him rigid, and then his instincts took over and his tongue plunged into my mouth as fiercely as mine had entered his.
Even through his robes I could feel his erection, big and hot. He’s been stiff since he first saw me, I thought. His hands were on my breasts, my ass, pulling me hard against him—like he wanted to devour me, swallow me whole, tear pieces from me like fresh bread and stuff them into his mouth.
I wanted to get my hand inside his clothes, to touch that cock I could feel pushing insistently against my belly, but I couldn’t find the hem of the cloth. Instead I pressed my hand over it and squeezed through the layers, hard and fast. A low moan, like a cry of surrender, escaped his mouth, still pressed against mine. He seemed for a moment to lose control of his limbs and, as his hands loosened, I slid down onto my knees in front of him, my train spreading out into a pool of white lace.
Now I could get under his robes. I fumbled quickly, unzipping his fly, and finally had my hand on his cock. It was almost burning hot, swollen taut with desire. I tried to push my head through the layers of priestly fabric to take him into my mouth, but my godly friend had other ideas: nearly falling on top of me in his urgency, he dropped to his knees and pushed me backwards onto the cold stone floor.
It was my turn to have my skirts thrown aside. He was so desperate to get inside me that he didn’t even stop to pull my panties down; he dragged them to one side and entered me in a single, forceful stroke.
Excited as I was, already slick with arousal, I gasped at the force with which he penetrated me. With one hand he held my head back, fingers twisted deep in my hair, and kissed me as if his tongue were fucking me as well as his cock. The other hand gripped my shoulder tightly, bracing me against the force of his thrusts. My bare thighs above the white stockings scraped faintly against the cold paving stones beneath me.
He fucked me hard—deep and fast. The end of his cock struck the neck of my womb with every thrust, his body grinding against my clit. The pleasure was almost painful, his size and his pace merciless, relentless. I felt, with a kind of certainty, that nothing could stop him now until he came.
I looked up and saw, behind him, rows of hymn books lined neatly along the shelves. I thought of the congregation sitting patiently, waiting for us to join them. I imagined my fiancé coming to look for us and finding us here—me on my back on the floor, my white dress spread in the dust, and the priest fucking me like an animal.
He pressed his face into my breast to smother the cry that tore from him as he came, his whole body shaking violently as his thrusting broke apart into uncontrollable spasms. Biting down on a handful of his robes to stifle my own voice, I was overtaken by my orgasm—waves that shook me from the inside out—as I pictured my fiancé’s face: shock and disgust tangled with something darker, something unmistakably aroused, at the sight of me being fucked on the church floor.
“Kayla?”
The familiar voice startled me violently.
“Wake up, we’re nearly there.”
My sister’s amused eyes met mine in the rear-view mirror, and my brother-in-law shifted irritably as I lifted my head from his shoulder.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Have I been asleep long?”
“Nearly an hour. We got held up on the highway, so we’re going straight to the church.”
My relatives knew that the only way to ensure my attendance at family weddings was to drive me there and back again, with the added advantage—for me—that I never had to endure a single sober moment.
In truth, my feelings about weddings were undecided. On one hand there was the excruciating round of polite conversation with people you only ever saw at weddings and funerals, and with whom you had nothing in common except, at best, a surname. On the other hand, as my dream had just reminded me so vividly, there was something perversely sexy about a wedding. Maybe it was the virgin bride waiting to be ravished by her groom; maybe it was the one central fact of a wedding—that it is official sanction for two people to fuck each other senseless—being the one thing you must never, ever mention aloud. Whatever it was, this wasn’t the first time I’d had a hot dream on my way to a cousin’s wedding.
As my sister slowed the car, searching for somewhere to park in the narrow lane leading up to the church, I tried to smooth the creases from my black silk dress. Max, her husband, brushed at the shoulder of his jacket where I had been resting my head. He looked uncomfortable. I smirked inwardly, wondering just how much I had betrayed the sleazy intensity of my dream. Max was nice—but that was just it. Sometimes my sister, younger than me, seemed years older.
We were, in fact, late. The bride—our cousin—was already waiting outside the veranda as we hurried up the churchyard path beneath the blossoming magnolia trees. We flashed apologetic smiles and slipped quickly into the darkened church. Entering first, I paused for a moment as my eyes adjusted from the brightness of the spring sunlight. The heads of the congregation turned, expectant, anticipating the bride. Instead, they found me. Suddenly aware of being the center of attention for entirely the wrong reason, I felt heat rush to my cheeks as I hurried into the nearest pew, just as the organ swelled into the bridal march.
