Page 22 of Property of The Grump

Unfortunately, my prayers aren’t working. All I’m thinking about is how naked she is on the other side of that door. How hard her nipples must be in the chill of the room. How pretty, pink, and soft her little pussy must feel.

A moment later, she spills out of the bathroom, arms crossed over her chest, covering her round little tits, her long bare legs swallowed by the fabric of my shirt.

My cock pulses at my zipper as I watch her sit on the edge of my bed, every masculine impulse inside of me desperate to grab her ankles, tug her little ass up, and fuck her until she’s begging me to stop. Then, once I’ve made her mine, I go find the asshole she was married to and murder him.

I meditate on that plan for a moment and redirect my focus toward the light.

“I usually shower around six and take a ride out to the lake for some morning reflection. You’re welcome to join me, but feel free to sleep in,” I say, tucking the blanket up around her shoulders. “I’m sure you could use the extra sleep given the night you’ve had.”

“No, actually,” she whispers, her blue eyes staring up at me, “a ride sounds nice. I haven’t been to the lake in ages. Which one do you like?”

“There’s this spot out of town I go to. Not sure if the lake has a name or not. I just know there’s not many people there, and it’s a good spot to remember how insignificant I am.”

Her eyes close and open again quickly as though they’re heavy, her head laying on the same pillow I was dreaming about her on an hour before. “I can’t wait to see it,” she says, drifting off again. “If you change your mind and want to join me, I probably wouldn’t even feel it.”

“Sounds good,” I say, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “Good night.”

“Good night,” she mumbles, no mention of the kiss, thank God.

It’s not like I haven’t kissed anyone’s forehead before. I kiss plenty of foreheads. I kiss foreheads all the time, though I’ve never thought about it as much as I’m thinking of it now. It’s never felt as wrong… because of those ulterior motives again.

I need to tell her the truth. I need to tell her how I feel, get all this out in the open, and let her choose whether she’d feel safer with another priest.

Not tonight, though. Tonight she’s been through too much. Tonight she’s content in my bed, already fast asleep. I’ll tell her in the morning.

I watch her body for far too long. The rise and fall of her hips. The way she sighs in her sleep. The way she throws her arm up in the air when she twists and turns. Lord, I hope she’s not having a nightmare. A nightmare about the slime who hurt her.

My chest tightens at the mere thought of some self-important, shit leader of a man coercing control over this woman with physical abuse. I shouldn’t want to hurt him like I do. I should leave that to God. I should pray that my little lamb is shrouded in the safety of God’s arms. That he watches over her and keeps this man from her life.

I drift off in my recliner with a prayer for Wren’s safety on my lips.

Chapter Eight

Wren

Seven Years Ago

I wake up in sopping wet panties and the memory of a dream I probably shouldn’t have been having.

Father Anderson with his big rough hands on my hips. Father Anderson thrusting into me from behind. Father Anderson growling out commands while I take them willingly.

I’m in a church, there’s a cross hanging right above this bed, and I’m staring at a picture of some saint right now. I only left my husband last night and my filthy mind is already imagining what it would be like to have Father Anderson’s massive body all over me.

Maybe I’m the problem.

I mean, if I wasn’t, would I want to close my eyes again and finish the dream? Would I want to know what it feels like when the priest tenses behind me? What it sounds like when he growls out my name?

Oh no, I’m in the weirdo category of women now. The one where I have fantasies about the super-hot, silver fox, biker priest.

I need help!That, or I’m just incredibly vulnerable to kindness given the fact that I’ve been in a soul-crushing relationship for years. I’m going with the second one.

Who wouldn’t feel a pull toward the one man who was listening and showing genuine care? What woman in her right mind wouldn’t have a throbbing clit if a man this attractive was attending to her every need?

He steps out of the bathroom, the T-shirt and jeans he wore yesterday swapped for a new T-shirt and another pair of jeans. They could be the same ones, but would it matter? Either way, he doesn’t look like a priest, which I think I need a reminder of when I look at him.

“You ever ride a bike before?” He grabs his watch off the dresser and walks toward me like we’ve done this a thousand times. Me in his T-shirt, legs hanging off the edge of the bed, him buckling his watch.

“No, but it looks fun. Is the lake far from here?”