Page 124 of Held-
“Home sweet home,” I murmur, flicking on lights as we move through the corridor.
“But it looks so different,” I say, stopping in my tracks as we reach the hallway that opens into the sanctuary. I flick on the lights, illuminating the space that's both familiar and foreign. “When did all this happen?”
Where there was once a simple wooden pulpit and a piano, there's now a sleek stage with a drum kit and several microphone stands. Professional lighting rigs hang from the ceiling, and mounted screens flank either side of the altar area.
“Looks like your dad finally dragged the church into the 21st century,” Brayden remarks.
“This is...” I walk further into the sanctuary, running my fingers along the edge of what appears to be a brand-new keyboard. “Dad fought for this for years. Richard Kincaid always insisted the church remain traditional. No amplification beyond the basic microphone system, no drums, definitely no screens.”
“Guess your dad finally got his way.” Brayden fiddles with one of the switches, causing a light to flicker above the stage.
I walk down the center aisle, toward the alter. The podium sits in the center with the band’s setup flanking him on both sides. Christmas trees line the stage, brightly lit with a rainbow of colors.
I'm still taking in all the changes when I feel strong arms circle my waist from behind. Brayden's chest presses against myback, his warmth seeping through my riding jacket as his chin comes to rest on my shoulder.
“Not very often that we have an entire church to ourselves, princess,” he murmurs.
His lips brush against my neck, and I catch his meaning immediately. The thought should scandalize me—this is my father's church, for heaven's sake—but instead, a delicious heat unfurls in my belly. A year with Brayden has certainly changed me in ways my former self wouldn't recognize.
“Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?” I ask, leaning back into him as his hands slip beneath the hem of my jacket.
“Just saying we've got at least an hour before your dad gets back,” he whispers, his fingers tracing circles on my hip bones. “Seems like a shame to waste it.”
I should say no. I should remind him that this is a church, that my father could return early, that this is absolutely crossing a line. Instead, I turn in his arms and press a quick kiss to his lips.
“Come with me,” I say, taking his hand and leading him toward the back of the sanctuary where a narrow staircase winds up to the balcony.
“Where are we going?” he asks, though the slight curve of his mouth makes it clear he isn’t all that concerned about the destination.
The stairs creak beneath our weight as we ascend to the balcony where the choir usually sits during special services. Up here, we're hidden from view of the main entrance, tucked away in our own private sanctuary within the sanctuary. The balcony is decorated with garlands and twinkling lights, casting a soft, intimate glow over the space.
“My father would have a heart attack if he knew what I was thinking right now,” I whisper, turning to face Brayden. Hiseyes sharpen with unmistakable intent, the gray deepening as he closes the distance between us.
“Then maybe we shouldn't tell him,” Brayden murmurs, pressing me back against the railing. His hands find my waist, sliding beneath my jacket again, warmer now against my skin. “Though I think the Reverend has made peace with the fact that his daughter is sleeping with a biker.”
I laugh softly, tilting my head back as his lips find my neck. “There's a difference between making peace with it and having it happen in his church.”
“Mmm, forbidden fruit,” Brayden whispers against my skin, his teeth grazing my pulse point. “Isn't that what started this whole religion thing in the first place?”
A moan escapes me as his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. I lean into his touch, all thoughts of propriety dissolving under his skilled hands.
“We shouldn't,” I whisper, even as my fingers work at the buckle of his belt. “What if someone comes in?”
“Then they'll get one hell of a show,” he growls, capturing my mouth in a kiss that steals my breath. His tongue slides against mine, tasting faintly of the coffee we stopped for on the ride here.
I'm lost in him, in the way his body presses mine against the railing, in the delicious friction of denim against denim as his hips rock into mine. The wrongness of it only heightens everything—the rebel in me that Brayden has nurtured over the past year flaring to life.
“The choir sits here every Sunday,” I gasp as his hand cups my breast through my shirt, thumb circling my nipple until it hardens beneath the fabric. “Mrs. Holloway conducts from right where you're standing.”
Brayden chuckles against my throat, the vibration sending shivers down my spine. “Maybe we should move to the pewthen,” he suggests, guiding me backward until my legs hit the front row of the balcony seating.
I sink down onto the polished wood, looking up at him with what I hope is challenge in my eyes. “Isn't this sacrilegious?”
“Sweetheart, I think we crossed that line when you started unbuckling my belt,” he says with that wicked half-smile that still makes my stomach flip. His hands slide to my thighs, fingers playing with the hem of my riding jeans.
I should feel guilty. I should stop this madness right now. Instead, I reach for him, pulling him down until he's kneeling between my legs, his broad shoulders blocking out the twinkling Christmas lights behind him.
“I'm going to hell for this,” I whisper against his mouth.