Page 52 of Altered By Fire (Undercover Sinners 1)
I start tiptoeing across the floor before I realize how stupid that is. These men are badass, and they sure as hell aren't going to be fooled by me keeping my heels off the floor. With a roll of eyes, I start walking normally, letting myself into the church with its vaulted ceilings, beams, and stained-glass windows.
It's all beautiful, meant to intimidate the masses, show them the true power of the church.
And I wanted to be a nun, I think as I move over to one of the pews in the front and sit down, taking another swig of vodka and staring up at a statue of the Virgin Mary. It made sense in the moment, when I was dripping wet from the ice-cold rain, nowhere to go, no one I could count on. After getting fucked on the altar of this church, it doesn't make any sense to me now.
Clearly, I'm not … suited for the life of a nun. That, and I'm pretty sure I don't believe in God either. Maybe I don't believe in anything? How can I, after the life I've led? What higher power could I possibly look to after the things I've seen?
After a while, the massive room begins to blur at the edges, and I realize I've downed the entire bottle. Chucking it aside, I stand up and start to explore the huge building and all its hidden nooks and crannies. There are little rooms that look like they should house gargoyles, elaborate murals and stonework, and smaller altars along the right and left sides of the building that belong to saints.
There are small boxes with little slots to put money in. Leave a Donation, Take a Candle the sign says. There are tiny white tea lights scattered across a table and jars full of matches. I don't have any money to donate, but when I stumble upon a painting that grabs me, I stop, and light one anyway.
Saint Rita, patron saint of the impossible.
Something about the painting of her in her nun's habit calls to me. As I light candles—because one just isn't enough for the impossible—I read the little metal placard describing her life, how her husband was abusive and how she won him over with kindness and faith. Gag. Thinking about my father, about Dmitri … well, no amount of kindness or faith would ever change the monsters inside them.
After all the candles are lit, I sway with the flames for a few moments and then debate crawling into bed with one of the guys. You could very well be a sex addict, I tell myself. But it's not like it matters. Really, that's the least of my issues.
I turn and head back down the aisle, stumbling slightly and catching myself on the edge of a nearby pew. Yep, definitely time to head back upstairs. If not for sex, then at least for sleep. As I'm moving back toward the door that leads to the living area, I spot a tall candle with a glass holder that has a picture of Saint Rita on it.
Mine.
With vodka sloshing around inside my brain, I stumble over and pick it up, spotting another door to the right of the altar, hidden by the unique shape of the architecture in a little nook. It's locked, but I also know who has the keys.
Not Hawke, as to be expected, but Weston.
Chewing my lower lip, I make up my mind and head back into the boys' 'house', up the stairs, and into the room that Colt and West share. They're pretty adorable together to be honest, lots of bro love between the two of them.
And they feel so good when they're inside of me together, too.
Sneaking into the room, I bend down and start searching through the pockets of discarded clothes for the keys.
"What are you up to, Miss Petrova?" Weston grumbles, rolling over to crack sleepy eyes in my direction. Since I'm already on the floor, I crawl toward him on hands and knees, and then up and onto the bed.
The mattress creaks beneath me as I push his blankets aside and find his bare cock, half-erect and tantalizing in the moonlight. Tucking some brunette hair behind my ear, I lick my lower lip and stare down at Weston, nude and sleepy and disoriented. It's sexy as hell. I wrap the fingers of my left hand around his shaft, and even though I'm sore as fuck and in desperate need of a nap, I'm also in the mood to uncover a little mystery.
I'm a real proper sleuth, a member of the A-team now! A small giggle threatens to escape my throat, but I don't want West to know I'm drunk. Instead, I stare into his eyes and work his shaft with my hand, using slow, strong strokes to bring a lazy groan tumbling from his lips.
