Page 15 of Altered By Fire (Undercover Sinners 1)
"You're sort of … a guest, whether you like it or not?" Weston muses, slouching in his chair and pushing up his sleeves slightly to reveal both arms covered to the wrist in ink. I have no idea what these guys think of the priesthood, but the way they walk around makes me wonder if they're as clueless about religion as I am. As I watch, he reaches up and removes both lip studs, his eyebrow piercing, and also the silver ring pierced through the center of his nose. As he moves, his priestly robes slide up his arms and reveal more of that beautiful color and strongly corded muscles hiding underneath.
"That's promising," I say with a sigh as Weston notices his bare arms showing and curses under his breath.
"This gig sucks total ass,” he grumbles, tugging the sleeves back down. “Pretending to be pimps last year was a hell of a lot more fun."
Both my brows go up at that, but Weston doesn’t seem to notice, and Colt is staring at me with his beautiful green eyes glittering.
"All he means is that he preferred cutting lines of coke in the bathroom with half-naked women to dressing up as a sober, celibate man. And also," Colt continues as Weston pulls his robes over his head and flashes a muscular body in a black tank that's so goddamn beautiful I have to look away. “I don’t fucking blame him. This disguise is starting to give me tennis elbow from all the jacking off I’ve had to do. The parishioners of this church are less loose-legged than I’d hoped.” His green gaze sparkles with mischief as he looks me over in a way that makes his invitation clear.
I shift in my chair, feeling wet heat collect between my thighs. I've never been good at saying no. Fuck, I've never had to. Any man I want, I can have. Because I'm pretty, because I'm rich, because my dad will fucking kill any man who makes his princess cry …
"That I can understand," I choke out, flicking my eyes from Colt's face back to Weston's. He tears the tank top over his head and then grabs a long-sleeved black shirt from a duffel bag that's sitting on the floor near the stairs. He drags it over his head, the fabric stretching over taut, lean muscles and ink. The sleeves go all the way to his wrists, effectively hiding all of that gorgeous artwork.
As soon as he's got his robes back on, Weston takes a hideous fucking black wig from the same bag and shoves it over his head, tucking away strands of green-streaked hair while he's at it. The shaggy black thing looks ridiculous on his head, like a toupee or something, but shit, maybe that adds authenticity to his look?
"Better?" he asks with a roll of his dark eyes. They're such a rich brown, they're nearly black.
"Close enough," Colt says skeptically and then the two of them give each other a stupid little high five. "Have fun in mass, West," he says as his friend flips him off and heads out the door into the church.
"Wow, you guys sort of suck at being priests," I murmur, lifting the coffee to my lips and taking a deep, long swig. The caffeine hits the spot, but holy crap, Colt was right: this stuff is total shit. Even though it's against my very nature, I reach over and grab some cream and sugar that's sitting at the edge of the small table. There are cards all over it. Somebody's been playing poker.
"Yeah, you see, it's not our usual thing. Besides, you know we’re faking it now, so why keep up pretenses?" Colt whispers, standing up straight and reaching over his shoulder to grab a handful of the fabric. He whips it over his head and tosses it aside, totally and completely shirtless underneath.
Jesus H. Christ.
Wait. Am I allowed to say or think that?
Who gives a fuck?
"What is your usual thing?" I ask, and somehow, my voice comes out husky when I wasn't intending it to.
"Well," Colt says, sauntering over to the table and putting his palms flat on the surface. He doesn't seem to have any tattoos at all from what I can see, but holy hell, he makes up for it with such an intense stare that I find myself shifting in my seat again, my cunt swollen and throbbing. God. I suck at denying myself anything that I want: coffee, drugs, alcohol, men.
And look where that's gotten you, running for your own life from your father.
Okay, so I don't think he'd ever really kill me. No, I'm his precious jewel. But like any shiny bauble, he'd lock me up and never let me go. If he catches up to me now, I'll be a bird living in a gilded cage.
