Page 11 of Crossed
It isn’t until a gust of hot air whispers along the back of my neck, goose bumps sprouting along the length of my arms, that I realize just how distracted I am. And then a voice rumbles, so deep and commanding that I swear to God it vibrates through my bones.
“Hello, petite pécheresse.”
Chapter4
Cade
I’VE CONVINCED MYSELF THAT FOLLOWING PARKER all day is recon work. He thinks I’ll be his puppet, and Bishop Lamont seems to have brought me here under false pretenses of helping, just to tell me I need to acquiesce to Parker’s requests. But I bow before no one but God, and it makes me uneasy, knowing my superior is easily swayed by something as simple as greed and money.
Plus, on a more personal level, my monsterachesto rid Parker of his demons.
And now he’s here.
Péchant.
Sinning.
Just like the rest of them.
I’m not surprised. Parker Errien has a lot of money, innumerable amounts, and that’s what money does. It turns and tortures and corrupts until there’s nothing left but an inflated ego and an empty soul. Again, my mind flies to Bishop Lamont. To the church that I’ve taken vows for. Dedicated mylifeto. This can’t be what God has in mind for His people.
I move through the crowd scattered around the strip club, disgust churning my stomach as I burrow deeper into my coat and hat. The club itself is far enough away from Festivalé that I don’t have to worry about being recognized, but I’m always cautious, just in case.
The Chapel is filled with religious artifacts being desecrated, and it makes my skin itch. I find a hidden corner behind long plush purple couches and lean my shoulder against the wall, watching Parker push his slimy body through the crowd toward the front of the stage.
His head bobs and weaves, and my view of him keeps being momentarily blocked by a stripper on the couch in front of me, her barely clad pussy grinding against the lap she’s on.
My upper lip curls, irritation and judgment bleeding from my insides. I skim my gaze around the room, cataloging all the lost souls here. I imagine most of them are empty, searching for something to fill the gaping holes inside themselves, aching to feel as though they have purpose. Meaning.
They won’t find it here. I’m not sure if they’ll find itanywhere, not that I’d ever admit that piece out loud.
Parker falls in my line of vision again at the head of the main stage, his attention rapt on the woman who’s spinning effortlessly around the pole in the center.
Esmeralda, I think the DJ announced.
Her knee is wrapped around the metal and the rest of her body is floating in the air, her hands running down her front, a large green stone shimmering from a necklace that dangles in the valley between her breasts. Her complexion is flushed a light blushing brown, and it makes her look ethereal, like a sparkling topaz gemstone. The way she uses the stage and flings her body in the air around the pole makes it seem as though she’s flying, high above the ground, her muscles tensing and forming around the silver bar. It’s art, pure and simple, and it chips a piece of ice away from my chest, heat blasting through my center.
All thoughts of Parker fade away.
She’s mesmerizing.
My cock thickens, and I clench my jaw to keep from shifting to ease the discomfort.
If being here is sinful, then this woman is sin, wrapped in a fiery bow.
My stomach dips, a shot of panic washing over me. Watching her makes me feel likeI’mthe one spinning, my focus being thrown off- kilter until my feet are scrambling to find solid ground. A thin layer of sweat breaks across my brow the longer I swim in these unfamiliar emotions, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
Look away, I tell myself.
But I don’t. I can’t.
She flips around, slinking her body back to the ground, her knees spreading apart, flashing the white silk of her underwear, leaving just enough to the imagination. But I know every man here is thinking the same things I am. Picturing what’s beneath the fabric, desperate to see if her cunt is pink and flush, begging for a tongue to soothe its ache.
Before I can even attempt to put up a fight, my monster surges up, tearing through its cage like it’s trying to burst through my skin and devour her whole, carnal attraction blazing in my veins until all I can see is her.
Her long red hair cascades down her body like a waterfall, caressing her curves similar to a lover, but the way she moves on the stage is what really steals the energy from the room. Something scratches at the back of my brain while I watch her. A small, timid voice, screaming for me to look away. To remember everything I’ve promised.
But temptation is a devastating mistress.
