Preacher Man Read online

  PREACHER MAN

  Jessa Kane

  Copyright © 2019 Jessa Kane

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Epilogue

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Mila

  Mama says I’ve got the devil in me and she must be right.

  Because I can feel the eyes watching me through my bedroom window, out there in the backwoods Mississippi darkness and most girls would scream and call for their daddies to get their rifle. Not me, though.

  Never met my daddy, either.

  I take my time reclining back on my narrow twin bed, pretending it’s covered in luxurious silks, instead of a ratty sale-bin comforter with frayed edges. My nightshirt rides up my thighs and I raise my hips, showing my bottom off to the man outside. He comes every Sunday night, like clockwork, to watch me through the window and it’s the highlight of my week.

  One afternoon in June, I noticed there was a worn patch of grass outside, beneath my bedroom window. The kind made from the continual treading of feet. A man’s feet. Large ones. And it excited me. Lord it did, even though I should have told my mama and asked her to call the authorities right away. The only kind of man who watches an eighteen-year-old girl through their bedroom window during private moments is most definitely a bad one.

  Imagine my surprise when I caught a glimpse of him one night during a full moon. The man lurking outside is one who everyone I know believes to be the best man among us all. A step above the rest. A direct line to God.

  The town preacher, Joseph Stark. A man whose very job is to quiet the devil inside his followers, yet he teases Lucifer himself to life inside me. Makes him dance.

  His eyes are on me right now and I arch my back, letting the nightshirt drag higher, until it catches around my waist. The blood at my pulse points pumps madly knowing he can see my panties, plain and threadbare though they are. It must excite him to see my barely covered private parts, since he keeps coming back every single Sunday. That mental reminder of his reliability makes any self-consciousness fade to nothing.

  There’s only me and the presence outside the window as I cup my breasts and twist my hips around, my breath rattling around in my lungs, sounding so loud in my ears. Look, Daddy. Look your fill.

  I told you the devil lived inside me, didn’t I?

  Those terrible, twisted thoughts are probably what made me tempt a righteous man. Mama says men are ninety percent animal and no amount of praying or repenting can stop those things between their thighs from standing up, searching for somewhere to…what? I’m not sure. All I know is that lately, down at the water hole, boys have been looking at me strangely, pushing and tugging at their bulging laps. I reckon it’s me that’s the cause. They can sense the devil inside me and know how unfulfilled I am.

  So unfulfilled.

  The preacher coming to my window is a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it cuts loose the wildness living in my bones. Lets me be me. Even if it’s only for a little while. His visits are a curse, too, because they make me hot, itchy, starved—and no matter how I touch myself or pump my hips against my pillow, I can’t seem to get relief. Oh, I kick up a fuss and pretend I’m experiencing the height of pleasure. Wouldn’t it be embarrassing otherwise? To let the man outside know I can’t make the ache go away no matter what I do?

  The bad seed inside me has been germinated and grown uncontrollable. Vines wrap around my lungs now, making it hard to breathe as I roll over onto my stomach, lifting my backside in the air and moving it in a slow figure eight pattern.

  What is the preacher doing out there?

  Is he touching that thing between his legs?

  The very idea makes me lightheaded. Joseph is the reverend of our town. A year ago, he arrived and built a small church on the edge of the woods. Since then, he’s been credited with bringing God to a community that had turned their backs on their creator. Every Sunday, he projects his deep, husky voice, sending it booming out onto the great lawn where his congregation spills out beyond the church doors. Women and men shout halleluiah and raise their hands over his sermons.

  And there I sit in the front row, wishing he would take me off into the woods and lay that big body down on top of me. Hard. Press me down into the earth and kiss me. Put his hands on my breasts and take off my panties. Look at me there.

  I know it’s wrong. I know it’s bad. He’s a man of God and look what I’ve done. I’ve cast my darkness in his direction and reeled him in. If my mama knew, she’d take the wooden spoon to my backside and bruise me good.

  When Joseph Stark came to town, he was just so…other. Quiet, intense, watchful. Different from everyone else. I’d lay odds he’s from a place faraway from Mississippi. A Yankee from up north, perhaps. Up until that first day I saw him behind the pulpit, I’d been spinning crazy tales in my head about the father I never met. Maybe he left to be an astronaut or solve crimes for the FBI.

  But when I glimpsed Joseph, I wanted him for my father. Yes, I did.

  There was no one better, more powerful or righteous. He could teach me to be a classy lady, make me a God-fearing woman and rub my back when I cried. And so those first few months, I idolized the preacher. Mooned over him from my pew, blushing innocently every time his eyes landed on me. Those dark blue eyes of his started to land on me more and more, though. That’s when I noticed the presence inside me. The awakening. The heaviness in my most private flesh. It bloomed and heated and grew weightier until Joseph became my father figure and the man who touched my body. In my dreams, anyway.

  “Daddy,” I whisper now, dropping my pelvis to the bed and grinding down, sobbing in frustration when the ache only deepens. “Please, please…”

  Every week, I ask please.

  The devil in me is growing tired of asking like this, though. So tired. I don’t know how much more of the pressure between my thighs I can stand before I go stark raving mad. Already I have no ability to concentrate on my chores or the travel books I used to love. My thoughts are consumed with images I don’t understand. Mouths and hands and the preacher’s voice. His body pinning me, those blue eyes piercing my very soul.

  Next Sunday is my baptism.

  It will be the closest I’ve ever come to the preacher in the daylight. He’ll be forced to put his hands on me to dunk me beneath the water, right there in front of the congregation. Mama thinks the baptism will drive the devil out of me. But I’m not sure anything can.

  Mama would agree if she knew my plan.

  I should do the right thing. Hang a curtain over my window and stop obsessing over the preacher. I’ve reeled him in with the unholy darkness inside me. I continue to tempt him, reveling in it, even. Cutting him loose would be the Christian thing to do. But there’s a whispering voice in the back of my head telling me his devil wants to dance with mine—and that possibility fills me with an overwhelming breathlessness. What if he’s plagued with the very same darkness?

  What if he’s the only one who’ll be able to get rid of my ache?

  Jesus help me, I have no choice but to find out. I can’t take it anymore.

  With my mouth open on the mattress, I slide a finge
r under the waistband of my panties and tuck it between my slick lips. Outside, I hear a muffled moan and I almost, almost reach the next height of my need—maybe even relief?—but it dissipates too fast and I choke down a sob. Still, I moan and let my body go limp, as if I’ve found the elusive next level of heaven. The throb between my legs remains.

  Seven days until Sunday.

  Seven more days.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Joseph

  I can feel her coming.

  There are four hundred people attempting to shoehorn themselves inside this fucking church and yet my blood changes direction when I hear the parking break of her mother’s station wagon. Pretending to study my sermon while everyone finds their seats, I picture Mila entering the church in the same cheap, thin purple dress she wears every week. The one I want to rip off with my bare hands.

  I’ve seen her wearing much less through her bedroom window, but the dress…it’s a symbol of the struggle I face every Sunday, trying to concentrate when my body is screaming at me to take the girl. Just give in and take her.

  Keep her.

  Up until a couple of weeks ago, that would have been considered kidnapping.

  What would my congregation think of me if they knew how I spend my Sunday nights? If they knew I park on the border of her mother’s property behind a copse of trees and cut through the darkness to Mila’s window, jacking myself dry while she humps the bed on the other side of the glass. I can’t stay away. Since that first day she walked into my church, I’ve been drawn to her like a bee to the sweetest honey and it’s becoming impossible to maintain distance.

  Just knowing I’m mere minutes away from seeing Mila has my dick hard as a rock, my balls cinched up tighter than my starched white collar. How I get through Sunday sermons with my erection battling my zipper is a mystery, but somehow I manage. Somehow I manage not to storm the audience, rip Mila away from the safety of her mommy and find a dark corner to inflict my raging lust.

  How does she do this to me?

  I’m consumed with thoughts of her, day and night.

  I’m consumed.

  Pasting a serene expression onto my face, I look up from my sermon and spot Mila in the milling crowd, a growl immediately building in my throat. Her long, black hair is down, as usual. A little wild, slightly tangled. Her head is bowed when she walks into the church, but she peeks up at me through her thick bangs with her huge, amber eyes and thorny need stabs me in the gut.

  Hello little girl.

  That automatic thought makes me look away, mentally commanding myself to put a strangle hold on my sick thoughts.

  I’ve never been a good man. But the thoughts I have about Mila go too far.

  The life I’ve built in this nowhere town is my safety net. No one from my past would ever think to look for me here. If the guys from my old South Boston neighborhood knew I was lecturing behind a pulpit, they would never believe it. These hands were made for inflicting pain, not for Bible thumping. Which is the exact reason this new identity works so well.

  This occupation as town holy roller kind of fell into my lap. I bought a plot of land upon arriving and since my skill sets are limited to firing bullets or swinging a hammer, I decided to build a church, planning to sell it and make a profit. Purely a real estate play, before I moved on to another town. But the locals started asking why I was building a church. Was I a preacher? Did I intend to lead a congregation?

  I decided there was no better cover.

  Yes, I’m a preacher, I said. Services will begin soon.

  And thus, I carved out a place in this world where I’m not constantly anticipating a bullet in the back. However, something tells me if I give into my incessant hunger for Mila, my true identity will be revealed. I’m not a half measures type of man. If I make her mine, I’ll murder anyone who breathes in her direction. I’ll be a possessive, jealous son of a bitch. Worse than that, she’s awoken a new instinct inside of me that I’ve never, ever encountered in my life. When I fantasize about Mila—and it’s an hourly occurrence—I’m being almost…parental toward her. I’m brushing that long, midnight hair while she’s perched on my knee, lecturing her about never leaving the house in short skirts.

  Or having an X-rated talk with her about the birds and the bees.

  One that usually leads to me lifting the hem of her nightgown and giving her a very detailed demonstration.

  Unable to help myself, I reach down and palm my distended cock, my hand blocked from the congregation’s view by the pulpit. Yeah, if I claimed that sweet girl, she’d go screaming to her mama about what I subjected her to. Rightly so. I deserve to have this whole town show up on my doorstep with torches and pitchforks. The man they think walks on water would suddenly be a heathen in their eyes—and their curiosity would be roused. They’d wonder if I’m really who I say I am.

  And everything I’ve built could come crashing down.

  Yes, beautiful, little Mila could be my downfall. A downfall that becomes more and more dangerously appealing with every passing day. Need her. I need her.

  The decreased murmur tells me the congregation is ready for the service to begin and I take one more moment to gather myself, my gaze straying one final time to Mila where she sits in the front row, along with the other people who are scheduled to be baptized this morning. How am I going to touch her without ripping her clothes to shreds? How will I keep myself from mounting her sexy body and rutting her here on the stage?

  There’s an intuition prodding me, telling me Mila would welcome my touch. That she needs it. But I know she’s simply at an age where her hormones have kicked in. That’s why she writhes about on the bed, rubbing her innocent pussy on the mattress. She doesn’t know she’s being watched and it’s yet another mark on my black soul that I invade her private moments.

  Somehow I must get through the morning without revealing myself.

  Somehow I have to put my hands on her for the first time without coming.

  One might think a former mafia hit man would have better self control. When it comes to Mila, only Mila, they would be wrong. I slip more and more toward madness with every day that passes without me inside her.

  Focus. I tear my attention off the object of my obsession and rest my hands on either side of the podium. “Good morning,” I say to the room, waiting for returned greetings and the echo of my voice to subside before continuing. “Today is very special for three members of our flock. Baptism is not only a cleansing of the soul, it is a testimony to God that you, a believer, will walk in the faith…”

  As I go into a long-winded section about John the Baptist, my hands begin to shake with anticipation. Mila’s olive skin looks so soft though her window. What will it feel like against my fingertips? I have to stop several times to clear my throat during the sermon, drinking from the glass of water on my podium to cure my dry mouth, and before I know it, the time has come to baptize Mila and the others, a middle-aged man and wife. Needing more time to compose myself, I call the man and woman on stage one by one, completing the ritual—in which I have no formal training—in minutes, dunking them into the small, in-ground pool that I installed beneath the stage’s floorboards. My loins tighten, everything seeming to move in slow motion, when I turn to Mila and beckon her to the stage.

  She moves with such grace that my heart starts a riot. Good lord, she’s the most beautiful creature in this fucking world. I was so wrapped up in my own lust earlier, I didn’t notice her new, light blue shawl. She clutches it tight to her body, but I can still see the mounds of her tits, the swell of her hips. The way she sways that body side to side has me sweating under my collar and I’m so focused on controlling myself, I think I’m dreaming when she reaches me and drops the shawl.

  The congregation gives a collective gasp.

  Mila is not wearing the purple dress.

  No, the only thing covering her is a tiny white slip and it’s so thin, I can see her nipples through the material, hard, dark pink and straining toward me. Between
her legs is a slight shadow. An X marks the spot right over her pussy.

  She licks her bee-stung lips. “I’m ready, preacher.”

  My cock jerks and I nearly ejaculate down the leg of my trousers. It’s everything I can do not to lift Mila, wrap her thighs around my waist and fuck her standing on stage in front of God and everyone. What is she doing? Does she realize what a temptation she is? I cast a quick glance over her shoulder and see the men in the room are riveted by Mila, squirming in their seats. Some of them even leave the room, bent forward at the waist, attempting to hide their erections with the flaps of their dress jackets. They’re running off to find somewhere to jack off thinking about my little girl and I’d like to hunt them all down and slit their throats.

  MINE.

  I realize I’m bearing my teeth and snap my mouth shut. Prepared to brazen out the ritual, I take Mila by the elbow to guide her toward the pool—but her mother runs on stage in a flurry of hand motions. “I’m so sorry, preacher,” she says in furious whisper, red faced. “I-I had no idea she’d left the house in this get-up. I won’t force you to sully your hands with her.”

  Sully my hands? She’s a fucking angel. And I’m already damned to hell for my past sins, but I’ll be damned twice before Mila gets humiliated in front of the entire town. Not even over my dead body will I allow that to happen. She’s only a sweet, young girl who hasn’t yet learned the appeal of her own body. She can’t possibly understand the effect it has on men yet.

  “Come with me, you trollop,” Mila’s mother grits out, reaching for Mila.

  “Go sit down,” I growl, before catching myself and pasting on a smile. “Everyone is welcome in the house of the Lord.”

  “But, preacher…”

  Mila and I are already walking toward the miniature pool and every part of me is aching, having this contact with her satiny smooth skin. Being this close to her. I’m doing my best to keep my breathing measured as she kneels down in the water, even though the white slip turns see-through upon touching the water. And now I’m the only one who can see her thighs, her belly button, the sparse collection of curls between her thighs.