Page 12 of Preacher Man

And her pussy twanged. Damp and wanting.

For a devil, he tasted pretty much like how she imagines heaven is; Perfect.

Damn him.

He didn’t respond, just stared at her with wet lips. The wetness from her mouth.

“Do you feel better now you got that out of the way? You can move on to your waitress crew.”

“No. I feel worse.”

Her eyes narrowed.Offended. Not that she wanted him to love kissing her, it wasn’t that, she insisted vehemently, but no woman wants her kisses to be repulsive.

She had to ask. “My kiss made you sick?”

“Yes. You should do it again and give me the cure.”

Ruby wouldn't grin. “Nice try. Now get gone.”

Preacher laughed and dipped down as if to kiss her. She braced waiting for those lips again. Her eyes fluttered. And the big bastard whispered instead. “Come to the party. I’ll give you all the kisses you could ever want, beautiful.”

Her narrowed eyes watched his retreating broad back until he’d left.

Bastard. Definitely not going anywhere near that Renegade Souls party.

Nope. Never.

A second later.

What would she even wear?

She had Preacher on the brain.

The filthy manwhore knew how to kiss.

Ruby really needed to hate him. Or just not to desire him, because frankly,thank you cheap red wine, for the drunk honesty, that biker was bad news and she'd had all the bad news she could swallow. He could take his Momoa voice and his thick dick and just … stand far over there, so she couldn’t smell him. So much bad news.

How much could one person take in a lifetime and not go stark raving mad?

Her parents. Bad news. Her sister. Bad news. Ex-boyfriend's epic bad news. Community college, waste of time. Most every job she'd ever had bad news in one form or another, and not to forget the cherry on the shittiest of life sundae so far, thecreepo el-creepoguy from the cabin.

Ruby shuddered and swallowed the last of the boxed wine she'd had in the fridge. The less thought about him the better because she was in two minds whether to believe it happened or she had had one of her rape fantasies again.

Yep, she was one ofthosewomen. With a drunken grimace, she toasted the empty room. "To perverts." It wasn't though she wanted to be raped for real, she wasn't that shitfaced. She'd seenthatBDSM movie, hated the books, loved Jamie Dornan, she liked the idea of forced play, of dominance, of someone holding her down and taking what he wanted from her body, all with her permission.

What happened at the mountain cabin had been ... had been ... she'd done a good deed for a stranger and paid for it. But it wasn’t just revulsion and humiliation that she felt. There was something even worse underneath it all that plagued her if she dared let it in.

Something ugly but undeniable.

You got off on it.

"Not by fucking choice," she said aloud. Her body in starvation mode would eat its own muscle fat, similar in survival mode, it had reacted without her mind engaged.

It didn't count.

It didn't.

It wasn’t one of her consensual rape fantasises, she hadn’t asked him to be callous and cruel, that man had taken something not given freely because he was a predator.

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