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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

AMbrOSE

M ercy moans beneath me as I kiss along her throat and scrape my teeth against her skin, something I’ve been dying to do since I heard her beautiful, melodious scream this morning. I’ve been awake all night, the windows cracked open, waiting for it.

I know this is stupid. But she tastes like the jugo de cana that I used to drink when I was a young man and knowing that she actually saw my work has me delirious. Her loud, sobbing tears alone were enough to send all the blood straight to my cock.

I kiss up along her jaw so I can taste the salt residue left by those tears, and she whimpers again. I half-expect her to push me away, but she doesn’t. One of her hands drapes around my shoulder. The other runs up and down my spine. Her body rocks against me, her legs spread, opening up for me despite the thick layers of her dress.

“Wait here,” I mutter into her ear before dragging myself away. Mercy blinks up at me, dazed, her lips plump and swollen. Fuck, I want them around my cock. But I also need to show some restraint .

“What are doing?” Mercy asks breathlessly.

“Told you. Calling Gunner.” Reverend Gunner, I remind myself. I’m still playing a role here, even if seeing Mercy like that, red-eyed from weeping and spread out for me on the sofa, is enough to make me forget. “Reverend Gunner. I’ll tell him you’re safe, I’m calming you down, and he can speak to you when you’re ready.”

Mercy sits up, her skirt rustling, and her fear takes on a unique undertone: she’s afraid of Gunner . “Don’t let him get jealous. I’m not supposed to be alone in your cabin.”

I jerk my gaze over to her, more sharply than I intend. That motherfucker gets jealous ? He uses her, passes her around, and he has the nerve to get jealous ?

“You saw something unimaginably awful for the second time in a week,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice even. “And came to me for guidance.”

I resist the urge to ask what would happen if Gunner did get jealous. What he would do to her. I can tell that her fear is a fear of experience.

I pull out the cheap burner phone I bought for this mission, then look at Mercy expectantly. She hesitates, but only for a second. Then she rattles off a phone number.

Gunner doesn’t answer, thank fuck. I don’t actually want to talk to him. “Reverend,” I say when the voice message beeps. I never take my eyes off Mercy—I want to drink in every aspect of her fear and her lust and her despair. “This is Ambrose Echeverría. I have Mercy Gunner here with me. She told me what happened. She, ah, unfortunately saw the body?—”

Mercy blinks, big fat tears shimmering on her eyelashes. I’ve never wanted to taste salt so badly.

“She’s very upset. She did tell me she’s not supposed to be alone in my cabin, but I think we can make an exception here, yes? She’ll need some time before she can come in to speak with you about it. Please, call me if you have any questions. ”

Then I hang up and switch my phone over to silent.

“There.” I go back over to Mercy and kneel down in front of her. A tear streaks over her cheek, and this time, I really can’t help myself. I nestle between her legs and rise up to catch the tear with my mouth.

“Ambrose,” she murmurs.

“Shhh.” I guide her back to where I want her—on her back, with her legs spread wide.

“This isn’t right,” she whispers. “We should—we should pray , or?—”

“You want to pray?” I push her skirt up enough that I see the simple cotton panties underneath. They already have a damp spot, and I desperately want to taste it.

I look up at her, waiting for her to answer. The sharp, piquant fear she experienced when I mentioned Reverend Gunner is gone, although a richer fear remains—a fear of me. Not Ambrose the preacher, not the Ambrose she thinks she knows, but Ambrose the boogeyman. Ambrose the killer.

But it’s intertwined with the scent of her desire, and I think I might lose my mind from the combination. Probably I already have.

“We should pray,” she whispers weakly.

I notice that she has not pushed her skirts down.

“I have an idea.” For the second time this morning, I drag myself away from her trembling, willing body. But if she wants to bring God into this—well, I’ll invite him in. “Wait here.”

I go into my bedroom and dig out the old pocket Bible I brought with me. I’ve had it for years, since the 1970s, at least—if you’re going to hunt in Texas, having a Bible in your pocket doesn’t hurt.

I flip through it as I walk back into the living room. When I step through the doorway, Mercy yelps a little and jerks her hand away from between her legs.

She’d been touching herself .

“Practicing what I showed you?” I grin as her face turns red with embarrassment. She doesn’t even bother to deny it.

“Is that a Bible?” she asks instead.

“Yes.” I amble across the room, each step slow and careful. Making her wait. Making her tremble. “You said you wanted to pray.” I hand her the Bible and flip it open to Song of Songs. “So you’ll pray.”

Mercy looks down at the open pages. “You want me to—” Confusion mars her pretty features as she glances up at me. “To read this?”

“Out loud.” I settle down in front of her and curl my fingers around the band of her panties. Her muscles contract; I feel the sudden siege of tension on the air.

“While you’re—” She blushes again.

“While I’m eating your cunt, yes.”

The reaction I get from her is like a shockwave. Lust and arousal flood the air. Should I have said it like that, when I’m supposed to be a preacher? Probably not.

Do I regret it? Not in the slightest.

I yank her panties down and, for the first time, get a real look at the cunt in question. It’s gorgeous—wet and swollen with need, covered with a fine pelt of light brown hair. I arrange myself between her legs and breathe in deep that scent of human prey in heat.

“Read,” I order, and Mercy gasps softly. I know she’s going to obey, and it’s not because she’s a good Christian girl trained to be subservient. This goes deeper than that. She witnessed death, and when humans witness death and want to survive, they need to fuck. If there’s anything I’ve learned in my two hundred years, it’s that.

Mercy takes a deep breath and looks down at the Bible. “‘L-let him kiss me with the?—’”

And I do. I press my mouth against her wet labia and lick them with my tongue, savoring the first musky taste of her. Mercy cries out, hips jolting against me. I pull away.

“Read,” I command, and I realize a second too late that I’ve just spoken to her the way I speak to someone I plan to kill.

But she doesn’t know that. And, with the pulse of her blood, I feel how much she likes it.

“Do not stop until you come.” I keep using my Hunter voice on her, because fuck, I love how her body reacts. Her eyes turn all to pupil. Her breath quickens. Her thighs push further apart.

For a moment, she stares at me over the pages of the Bible. I don’t move. I won’t touch her until I hear her read.

Then she drops her gaze down and starts again.

“‘Let him kiss me with the k-kisses of his mouth—for thy love is—is—is?—’”

I lick along her slit and push my tongue up into her pussy, relishing the way she momentarily stutters and loses her words. But she’s a good girl, and she finds them again, even as I flick my tongue against her swollen clit.

“‘—Better than wine,’” she gasps out, thick thighs trembling beside my head. “‘Th-thine oils have a go’—oooooh.” That last word dissolves into a moan as I kiss her deeper and nudge my nose up against her clit.

“Keep reading,” I say into her drenched pussy, right before I attack her again, devouring her essence. I’ve eaten so many humans in my long life, but nothing compares to this.

“‘Thy name is as oil poured forth. Therefore do the—ah! Therefore do the virgins— love thee !’”

I smile at that, the way she shouts out love thee , and then fixate on her clit again, strumming it hard with my tongue as she stutters out the rest of the verses. It’s getting harder for her to read; her voice is jagged and shuddery, and she stumbles over her words as much as she pronounces them.

But it just makes me harder, knowing that I’m unraveling her completely .

“‘F-for why sh-should I b-be as one that-that is v-veiled—’” Mercy pants and shakes, legs quaking on either side of my head. I tongue-fuck her in response, lapping up against her inner walls, giving her clit a rest so she can catch her breath. I know Song of Songs by heart, and I’m going to make sure she comes with the final verse.

“‘—be-beside the fl-flocks of thy c-companions? If th-thou know not—oh thou f-fairest’—Ambrose, oh my god, oh my?—”

“Keep going,” I growl after withdrawing my tongue and licking her soft, silky cleft. I bite gently against her inner thigh, making her screech and jolt. “‘Oh, thou fairest among women,’” I recite, peppering her thighs with kisses. “‘Go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock, and feed thy kids beside the shepherds’ tents.’”

I punctuate the verse by attacking her clit again, flicking my tongue fast against its pulsing heat. Mercy shrieks and thrusts against my face, and I love that wantonness. I bring one hand up and slide a finger into her pussy, gently massaging the pad of flesh that drove her wild the other night. “I don’t hear you fucking reading, Mercy.”

“‘Go thy way forth!’” she shouts, still jerking up against my face. I lick her clit and finger her pussy as she struggles through the rest of the verse. “‘By the footsteps! Of the flock! And feed!’ Feed thyyyy oh my god!”

She’s getting too close to coming, and we’re still only halfway through Song of Songs. I force myself to draw back, denying her the release I know she wants. Her gasps, her moans, her arousal soaking my chin and lips—it tells me everything I need to know.

“Keep going,” I purr, licking her labia—licking everywhere but her clit, the way I know she wants. And my good little Christian girl obeys me again, panting out the next verse:

“‘—feed thy kids beside the shepherds’ tents. I have c- compared thee, oh m-my love, to a-a steed in Pharaoh’s ch-chariots. Thy cheeks?—‘”

I settle into my slow, lazy teasing, relishing both the salty-hot taste of her cunt and her ragged reading of the Bible’s version of erotic poetry. I’ve always liked Song of Songs, with its litany of strange compliments— Pharaoh’s horses and bags of myrrh and eyes like doves. But I’ve never listened to it while buried in a beautiful woman’s pussy, and I have to say, I think this should be the preferred reading.

“‘My beloved,” Mercy whispers, her voice ragged, “is unto me—unto me a c-cluster of henna-flowers?—‘”

We’re almost to the end. Time to reward Mercy for her obedience. As she whimpers out henna-flowers , I thrum my tongue against her clit, faster and harder than I have before. She bucks in response, her hips slamming up against my face. But God help me, she doesn’t stop her recitation.

“‘Behold, thou art fair!’” she screams. I don’t actually know if she’s reading. I think she might be screaming the verses from memory. “‘My love! Behold—thou art!’ Oh—right there—that feels?—“

I slap the side of her thigh, hard enough to remind her what she’s meant to be doing. And maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear her clit jolts when I smack her. Is it possible my sweet human Mercy is a bit of a pain slut?

I can’t imagine the Reverend Sterling Gunner, prophet of God or not, has any idea what to do with such a treasure.

“‘Thine eyes are as doooooves,’” Mercy moans, thrusting against my mouth. Fucking my face. I barely have to do any of the work at this point—just keep my tongue out so she grinds against it. “Be-behold! Thou art! Fair! My beloved!’”

I think she’s going to spill over before she finishes the passage, but even I’m not cruel enough to pull away. In fact, I shove her thighs open and match my hungry licks with her thrusts, a rocking, perfect rhythm that rolls underneath her recitation of the verses.

“‘The beams! Of our! House are! Cedars!’”

The couch scrapes against the tile. I bury myself deeper in her, dig my nails into her soft creamy flesh. She’s screaming words—are they from Song of Songs? Are they prayers to her god? Blasphemies for her devil? I don’t know—I’m so focused on bringing her over the edge that I can’t register them.

Finally, I swipe one long lick up her her slit, landing hard on her clit, and it happens. Mercy arches her back like she’s possessed. Every muscle in her body vibrates. I keep my tongue pressed against her clit as it flutters furiously, matching the frantic racing of her heart.

And fuck, the sound that comes out of her mouth—a deep, throaty moan, at least two octaves lower than her speaking voice. Her fists beat against the cushions. Her pussy quivers. My face is a glorious fucking mess, and when I’m certain she’s finished coming, I pull away and draw the back of my hand against my mouth, wiping it away—only to lick the flavor off my skin.

Mercy stares at me, a vision of destruction. Her cheeks and lips and chest are all ruddy from excitement, and I can smell the coppery tang of her blood from underneath her skin. Her eyes are as bright as glass. Her hair’s a nest of golden tangles.

Seeing her like that, I know I have to keep desecrating her. I have to mark her. Baptize her. I am playing the preacher, after all.

“Don’t fucking move,” I say, and then I pull out my cock.