120 Mph (8 page)

Chapter
Nine

Sara did not respond in the way that he
wanted her to. Christian wanted her to be angry. He wanted the woman in his
arms to push him away in disgust. To tell him ‘no’—them together was all wrong,
and how dare he think otherwise.

Instead, she physically melted into his
touch, devouring as much as giving. Her fingers slid into his hair to run
across his scalp. Her firm, twenty-something breasts pressed through the thin
material of her hot little dress, tormenting him beyond all sane thought.

He knew he should not be doing this but
he couldn’t figure out how to stop, as the heat between his legs set flame to
spark, and then spark to damaging need.

Christian spent his life preaching the
gospel. He didn’t have much to his name, and he didn’t care what most others
thought about him. They were judged by God . . . not him.

Sara was a woman caught up in the anger
of her town; as the local health inspector, she found unsatisfactory conditions
and shut down a place frequented by nearly every man in Preacher’s Bend maintaining
a working penis.

He was supposedly good.

She was supposedly bad.

Yet he could not let her go . . . and
she did not want him to let go, so this made them equals.

Forced apart when the doorbell rang, two
incredibly guilty adults looked at the other, shamefaced. The bell rang once
more before either could speak.

Before it could ring again, Sara was the
first to utter, “Aren’t you going to answer the door?” well before Christian
dared try using his tongue for words.

Regrettably, he could not stop the
formation of, “No,” from slipping out of his mouth.

The bell rang a third time, followed
closely by a fourth peeling. Someone wanted him and that person seemed as
though not about to give up with the search.

“I do believe there is another who
desires your attention, Reverend Mohr,” she said, licking her lips.

He smiled, allowing the woman in his
arms to get into his head. “I know she does. That is why I am not answering the
door for a few more seconds, Sara.”

When she looked ready to contradict
this, all he had to do was lower his eyes to the front of his suit pants for Sara
to understand. He could not answer the door in the condition he was in. He had
such a hard-on it would take a near miracle for his cock to settle down; enough
to walk toward a door without an awkward waddle to his gait. On the other hand,
perhaps an act of God performed to defeat a man from sinful desire.

“Christian?” came loudly through the
closed panel. “Reverend Mohr? Are you at home?”

The bell rang out a fifth time, followed
by a harsh knock.

Sara offered to answer the summons but
his hand snaked out and stopped this terrible mistake from happening.

“No. I will get it . . . eventually,” he
told her.

A raised brow mocked his words. “Are you
sure you’re able?”

“No. Not really. But how would it look
if you went and answered the summons for me, dressed as you are and freshly
kissed . . . and I standing right here?” he determined.

“Ah, yes. Quite right,” she ruled,
taking a hasty seat on his couch.

Christian gathered in a deep breath then
moved toward the front door. He gave Sara a quick glance over his shoulder
before he would pull the door open. Answer the rather demanding call of one of
his flock hadn’t been in his evening’s plans. She returned a smile, nodded her
head, and with a held breath he cautiously turned the knob.

Harriet.

Of course, it would be old lady Harriet Thorn
to ruin a man’s night of likely the most incredible sex he’s had in years! Sara
was hot, hardly dressed, and here. Three perfect reasons it would have been
incredible.

“Hello, Harriet. And how is your
evening?” he asked, shaming his conscience that he dared care, due to the fact
his was suddenly taking a nosedive into the toilet.

At least a ruined night came with a
gift. In Harriet’s hand was a fresh-from-the-oven blueberry pie. She gave the
dessert over to him as she physically barged into his home without proper
invitation.

“My night would have been much better if
I hadn’t the need to stand on your doorstep ringing a bloody damn doorbell for all
of ten minutes,” she quibbled.

It was only two minutes, three tops, but
who was he to correct her of the mistake.

Harriet stalked toward his living room
in haste while Christian was too distracted by closing the front door. As his
gaze followed the path of the old woman hurriedly crossing the worn carpeting,
he got the enjoyment of firsthand witness to Mrs. Thorn stopping dead in her tracks
the second she found Sara Ruby seated on his couch.

Her frail hand went to her throat and
the look on her face would’ve been priceless, if the words following that look
hadn’t made the blood grow cold.

“Am I interrupting something of
importance, Reverend Mohr?” she muttered sharply, as her sight traveled from
Sara, to the stacked books on the floor, then to Christian’s face.

He might be man enough to take her sharp
tongue and intrusive nature on most other occasions, but he was not man enough
to let her make an escape without leaving him the pie. If his night was to be
ruined, he sure as hell was going to eat himself into an oblivious state.

He set the still-steaming dessert down
on his dining room table and went quickly to the couch, where Sara looked more
than uncomfortable and trapped under the scrutiny of Mrs. Thorn. Her incredibly
short dress made even shorter by her body nearly sunk into the cushions.

“Um, no, Mrs. Thorn,” he told her.

Without plan, Christian sat next to
Sara. He hoped it would be cause for Harriet to leave. It did the exact
opposite.

And Sara, without much notice, slid further
away.

As he leaned back into his couch, and
put his arm over the back of it, directly behind Sara’s head, he told the
busy-body old woman, “We were just having a lengthy discussion, Mrs. Thorn.”

Harriet quickly grabbed a chair and
dragged it nearer them. She sat down, readjusted her outfit, and was suddenly
all ears.

“Does your talk have anything to do with
Sunday’s awful sermon you promised me you would retract?”

Well, shit! He hadn’t promised her a
damn thing! In fact, he clearly recalled driving over to her place to show her
exactly the place he found his words and exactly why he’d said them to a packed
house of wretched men and women who thought themselves better than their God.

The only reason he bought a lousy
chipped bowl just to appease the old bat was that he had more than stated there
wouldn’t be any retraction . . . of any kind.

The look on Harriet’s face at the moment
told Christian she was not about to give up without a fight. Nor openly have
her right to be inside her minister’s home as taken away unless told the truth.

So he had to check the tone of his voice
before any truth was told. “Um, no, Harriet.” In fact, his voice had lowered
more toward condemnation than civility. “We were just discussing important matters
concerning Ms. Ruby.”

He’d meant the words to translate into ‘None
of your damn business what we are talking about,’ but this wouldn’t have been
nice, and he would’ve likely then be required to apologize for each, more so
than condemning the wicked men and women of Preacher’s Bend to the eternal pits
of Hell.

He should’ve known Mrs. Thorn was never
put off when the scent of fresh blood by way of juicy gossip was so close at
hand.

As Sara remained mute through all of
this, she even slid another inch away from him; nearly touched the arm of the
couch on the opposite end. She’d started out in the middle of his couch.
Perhaps his having sat so near to her while Harriet inside his home had made
her nervous.

“Do these matters have anything to do
with what she did to the men of this town?” Harriet asked, pointing an accusing
finger directly at Sara. An unstoppable train wreck—with caustic agenda.

All of a sudden, Christian had far more
than enough civility for one evening. First, the restaurant? Now this?

He pushed his body off his couch,
stalked over to Harriet, and physically removed the old bat from her chair. His
firm grasp on her upper arm was meant to state business.

He wanted her out of his house before he
lost his temper. A hand was going to guide her in the direction of an exit well
before a foot put to the ass could. Although the muscles in his leg as surely
itching to try.

“What we were discussing . . . is
between the three of us, Harriet,” he warned the old woman. “Thank you for the
pie. I will enjoy your treat to the utmost. But I would like to get back to
Sara’s and my conversation before it gets too late.”

What he really wanted to do was get back
to the moment when he had a hard-on and Sara in his arms, responding as he
wanted her too.

Harriet nodded her head in agreement.
“Why, yes dear. You, me, and her.” Again, a finger pointed at Sara, who quickly
looked the other way.

“Um , no, Mrs. Thorn,” he corrected,
saving face. “That would be between me, Sara, and God.”

Harriet’s eyes widened. “Oh!” was all
she could make as her response.

Yet Christian could see the wheels
turning in the old woman’s head as if set before the eyes. And those wheels
were far too dangerous for him, as a man and not as the Reverend, to ignore.
Had he done so, Mrs. Thorn would have run him over, taking no prisoners.

“Oh, nothing, Harriet. This is a private
conversation. There is nothing even to ‘Oh!’ about. Nor is there anything that
should be put into one’s head for later use.” He meant used as the opening line
to a gossip vine.

Harriet gave him a hurried smile that
said otherwise—gossip in Preacher’s Bend a rather lucrative business—as he
walked her to his door, frail arm in firm grasp.

“Whatever you say, Reverend.” Her smile seemed
a little too forced for peace of mind.

Christian opened the door, pushed Mrs.
Thorn over the threshold, and said his good-bye. When he turned around, after
Harriet safely locked out and unless breaking and entering could not get back
inside to throw holy water on the wicked, he found Sara standing over by his
front window. She was watching the old woman pull out of the drive in an
equally old station wagon.

He took a breath, held it, then let it
go on a heavy sigh. As the air drifted from his lungs, Sara turned her face to
his.

“Do you see now why I didn’t want to
answer the door?”

Sara looked ready to cry. Without
thought, Christian stepped forward and eased her into his embrace.

“What’s this?” He set his thumb to the
corner of her eye where brimming tears were being held back.

She gathered in a deep breath then held
firm until capable of speech. “You physically threw an old woman out of your
house, Reverend.”

“I know,” he rued, albeit with a
shameless grin set on his lips. “God will forgive me for doing so . . . even if
Harriet Thorn does not.”

“Why did you do that?” she asked, the
moisture welling quickly.

He tried to make Sara smile; with any
hope, change her souring mood before it ruined the rest of his night. “It was
the most fun I’ve had all week.”

“She will now go back into town and tell
anyone who will listen to her that I am here!”

Christian’s brow rose in sharp contrast
to his thoughts. “So? I don’t see you being here as some sort of problem.”

Sara’s blue pools trapped his. “Well, it
is. She will now tell each and every one of them exactly what is going on
between us.”

“Is there something going on between us?”
he teased. “From my standpoint, I’d say we’ve sort of hit a brick wall in
regards to anything
going on
.”

Christ! There wasn’t much going on at
all! At least not according to the itinerary of a rather horny man thwarted at
every possible turn . . .

Nor was there much action due to the fact
old ladies were pious and supposedly knew better than everyone else.

When a glare came his way, he backed off
from this particular thought, stating another. “Sara Ruby, do not tell me you
are afraid of an old woman.”

She shook her head firmly. “No. I’m not
afraid of Harriet Thorn, Reverend. I am rather terrified of what Harriet Thorn
will put into the heads of others.”

“She can’t hurt you,” he ruled.

“No,” she agreed. “But she can hurt you.
And that was the very last thing I had wanted to happen tonight.”

His arms pulled her closer. The words,
“I’m a big boy, Sara. I can take care of myself,” were slid off the tongue
without regret.

“I know you are.” She had meant this
literally, not physically; although he physically larger than she. “But can you
defend yourself against the wrath sure to come your way once they find out you
had me inside your home so late into the evening?”