Page 125 of Held-
“Then I'll keep you company,” he murmurs back, kissing me with a hunger that makes my toes curl in my boots. His hands find the buttons of my jeans, working them open with practiced ease while I fumble with his zipper.
A door slams somewhere in the church, the sound echoing through the sanctuary like a gunshot.
We freeze, my fingers still tangled in Brayden's belt loops, his mouth an inch from mine. Brayden presses a finger to my lips, listening. Heavy footsteps sound in the foyer, followed by voices—plural.
“Shit,” I hiss.
Brayden's hand slides up to cover my mouth completely, the pressure firm but gentle. With his other hand, he presses a single finger to his lips, signaling me to stay quiet.
I nod against his palm, my heart hammering so hard I'm sure whoever's down there can hear it echoing through the sanctuary. The voices grow louder, discussing something about the sound system. Church volunteers, maybe? Or the worship team coming in for an early rehearsal?
Brayden doesn't move away. Instead, his hand slides from my mouth down to my throat, then lower, his touch feather-light as it traces the neckline of my shirt. The danger of being caught only seems to excite him more.
“We'll check the wiring tomorrow,” one of the voices says. “Pastor wants everything perfect for the Christmas service.”
“Fine by me. I could use a beer anyway.”
Their footsteps move across the sanctuary floor, heavy boots on polished wood. I hold my breath as they pause directly beneath us, something metal clattering against the floor.
“Dropped my keys,” one of them mutters.
Brayden's hand continues its slow, torturous path down my body, slipping beneath the open waistband of my jeans. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound as his fingers find the edge of my panties.
The men below us continue their conversation, completely unaware of what's happening in the choir balcony. I squeeze my thighs together, trying to control the heat building there despite the danger, or maybe because of it.
His fingers slide lower, brushing against the damp fabric between my legs. I bite down on my hand to keep from gasping. The bastard is actually going to try to get me off while there are people right below us.
“You coming or what?” one of the men calls from the doorway.
“Yeah, just making sure everything's locked up.”
There's a click of lights being switched off, plunging the sanctuary into semi-darkness. Only the Christmas lights remain, casting multicolored shadows across Brayden's face as he leans in close, his lips brushing my ear.
“Don't make a sound,” he whispers, his fingers pushing my panties aside.
I should stop him. I should absolutely stop him. But the thrill of it—the danger, the forbidden nature of it all—has me wetter than I care to admit. I bite down harder on my knuckle as his finger slides inside me with agonizing slowness.
The church doors close with a heavy thud, and silence falls over the sanctuary once more. Still, Brayden doesn't rush. His movements remain torturously slow, his eyes never leaving mine as he watches every flicker of pleasure cross my face.
“You are so fucking beautiful like this,” Brayden whispers. “Trying so hard to be quiet when I know you want to scream.”
His thumb circles my clit as his finger curls inside me, finding that spot that makes my vision blur. I'm trembling with the effort to stay silent, my hips rocking against his hand of their own accord.
“Anyone could walk in,” I gasp, the words barely audible. “We should stop.”
But my body betrays me, pressing harder against his hand, seeking more of that delicious friction. The knowledge that we're doing this in my father's church, in the choir loft where I sang hymns as a teenager, makes everything more intense, more forbidden.
“You want me to stop?” he asks, already knowing the answer as he slides a second finger inside me. My head falls back, mouth open in a silent cry as he increases the pace.
“No,” I admit, surrendering to the heat building. “Don't stop.”
“God, what are you doing to me?” I whimper as his thumb circles faster, his fingers curling inside me. The choir loft feels like it's spinning around us, the colored Christmas lights blurring as pleasure builds to an almost unbearable peak.
“Coming apart for me in church, princess. That's what you're doing.”
My thighs begin to tremble as he works me closer to the edge. The danger, the sacrilege, the pure wrongness of it all somehow makes everything more intense. I'm seconds away from shattering when we hear it—the unmistakable sound of the side door opening again.
“Shit,” I hiss, my body freezing in panic even as it throbs with need.