Page 25

The power of the car thrums underneath me as the array of fall-colored leaves zoom past my vision. Marcelo wasn’t kidding, he likes to drive fast—and right now, I couldn’t be more thankful for it.

I woke up this morning thinking today was going to be awful. No, preparing is the better word. I prepared for today to be awful.

It’s Sunday, the one day a week church is more of a duty and less of an offering. The one day everyone always expected us to show up on time, prim and proper, and on our best behaviors. The one day other families might notice if we weren’t there, so we’d have to go even if we weren’t feeling well. The one day they used to stone townspeople as punishment for not attending back in Puritan Massachusetts.

From the moment I woke up when the first church bell rang, I knew Mother and Daren were somewhere under the very same roof I was, ready for Mass. I didn’t have a phone, so it’s not like Mother could’ve called me to ask where I was, but . . . I get the feeling she didn’t even try. Or care.

Luckily for me, Marcelo is making sure I don’t have to find out.

I have no idea where we’re going, but wherever it is, it’s away . Which is exactly where I want to be. Not in the church, not at the organ, and definitely not with my mother.

From the corner of my eye, I see Marcelo shift gears. His knuckles are bruised and there’s a small gash just under the cross tattoo on his index finger as he palms the shifter. He’s not wearing his regular priest attire, but looks more like my masked man—in all black, with a fitted T-shirt and a hoodie to hide all those tattoos. All that’s missing is the mask itself.

After that first bell, he put a small pile of clothes on the couch next to me and gave me a tiny steaming cup of coffee.

“Get dressed. We’re going out.”

I sat up, taking the coffee. “Where are we going?”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ll see.”

The coffee was absolutely delicious, and nothing like I’ve ever had. It was rich and so fucking strong with the perfect amount of sweetness, I felt wired after the first sip.

“ Cafecito straight from Miami. That shit’s like cocaine.” Marcelo laughed, watching my expression.

After downing the rest of the drink—and feeling like my heart was going to explode out of my chest—I threw on the sweats he gave me, swimming in the too-long pants and hoodie.

Now, in the car, my butt is way too big in them though, and I feel the fabric pull every time I adjust in the seat. I even had to wear some of his shoes since I showed up at his door with nothing . And while it has been such a nice break not wearing a constricting, painful bra for the last two days, the girls are in desperate need and my back has never been angrier at me.

“I think I got a lead last night,” he says, breaking me from the hypnotizing view of passing trees. “Are you okay checking it out with me?”

“Is that where we’re going now?”

He shakes his head. “Later, if you’re okay with it.”

The idea that I’ll be . . . part of something absolutely thrills me. That I can help with something, that he wants my help in the first place. “Of course,” I say. Hunting demons—hopefully it’ll go better than how it does in the movies.

“Great, then I want you to wear this. Don’t take it off unless I tell you to.” He hands me his metal rosary. “It should keep you safe in case of anything.”

I slip it over my head and tuck it under the hoodie. The metal is cold against my skin as the beads and cross land between my breasts, sending a small shiver over my body.

“Speaking of the demon . . .” I start, not sure where the confidence to say this to him comes from. “There’s something I never told you. I wanted to, but I . . . I got scared.”

Marcelo stays quiet, listening.

“I don’t know when it started, but . . . I get these bouts of—of arousal. It always starts when I’m in the church, and it doesn’t go away until . . .” I can’t say the words, not without combusting into a small sun. But I hope he knows what I mean. “Anyway, it always felt like something happening to me, rather than my body reacting to something outside.”

He scrunches his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Like—like—”

“June, you came all over my fingers two nights ago, and I am dying for you to do it all over again. Now, use your big girl words and tell me what you mean.”

The memory makes my toes curl and an instant heat spreads from my core.

“Wh—When you did that to me, I was . . . aroused because of you, because of the moment. When it happens at church, when I can’t stop it, it feels like something is forcing it on me. Like my body just warms up and needs to be touched. It doesn’t stop until I orgasm—and sometimes one isn’t enough.”

“Do you feel touched when it happens?” he asks, and his voice sounds more clerical, as if he were a doctor asking about my condition.

I think back on the feelings, my face hot from even saying these things in front of him. “Not really. More like I need to be touched, I need to orgasm—”

“Well,” Marcelo says, “next time that happens, let me help.” He looks at me from the corner of his eyes, and my God, he looks stunning with one hand gripped on the wheel, and the other holding the gear shift. The veins on his hands pop as he squeezes the leather just a little. “Okay?”

I nod, squeezing my thighs together. He let me use his hand the other night, but I have a feeling that doesn’t even scratch the surface of what he can do to me , how he’d use those hands on my body, how he’d use them to make me come. “Yes,” I breathe, and I’m not sure it doesn’t sound more like a moan. Clearing my throat, I say, “I’ll go to you.”

Marcelo smirks. “Good girl.”

And before I can fully melt at his words and ask him to touch me right now, we’re pulling into a massive parking lot to a huge mall in the next town over. I used to come here in my teens, but it’s been years.

“The mall?” I question.

He parks the car and fully shifts in the bench seat to look at me. “I went to your house last night to try to get you some clothes, but I realized . . . most of it wasn’t actually yours, was it?” Marcelo eyes me up and down. Last night? Is that what the bruises on his hands are from? “Or, if it was, it wasn’t something you actually wanted, and definitely wasn’t something that fit you.”

My stomach sinks. I don’t want to go home, but it’s not like I have money to shop. “It’s fine, I can still wear—”

“No. You can’t. For starters, you’re not going back there.” He takes my hand and pulls it to him. “And you’re not wearing underwear from ten years ago that digs into your skin.”

“Marcelo.” I wince. “I don’t have any money. None. My mother didn’t let me have a job and any money I got from the church went right back to her.”

His grip on my hand tightened. “I didn’t bring you here for you to spend money, June. I’m buying you whatever you want.” He cupped my face, and brought my eyes to meet his. “ Whatever you want, June. Not whatever you need. I want you to pick clothes you like, stuff you want.”

“But what about—”

“Don’t worry about money. I get paid to be an exorcist but all my expenses are also covered by the job. So, I have a lot that I never use.” He rubs his thumbs along my cheeks. “Let me do this for you,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you.”

All I hear is my mother’s voice screaming in my head, “ No, no—don’t accept handouts. ”

“Okay.”

Marcelo takes my hand the moment we’re out of the car, guiding me into the mall. It’s a little surreal being back here, and much more quiet than I remember it being in my youth. There are a few families walking around, but it’s early on a Sunday morning. I only assume people are sleeping in or in church.

But I’m thankful for it. With my eye still not totally right, no bra, Marcelo’s clothes and shoes, and the general anxiety of being seen next to this gorgeous human, I would like to be perceived as least as possible.

My hand feels so small in his as his fingers intertwine with mine. I find myself rubbing the little cross with my thumb, and something about it is just so soothing, it immediately quiets my racing heart.

“What first?” he asks.

Like ripping off a bandaid, I’d rather get the worst over with first. “Underwear.”

He nods. “Remember, anything you want , June.”

Marcelo guides me into a store filled with neon purple and a brilliant lights. Bras, underwear, and other lingerie sets line the walls and counters.

I hesitantly pick up a very normal beige bra. The underwire looks a little intense, but it also seems . . . reliable? Useful? Able to get the job done?

Marcelo pulls his lips in and huffs a breath. He takes the bra from my hands and places it back where it was before rubbing my back. “Pick whatever you’d like, whatever calls to you,” he says, letting go of my hand and gently pushing me to the table. “Whatever you want to wear, or be in, or try—” He leans into me from behind, whispering in my ear, “or whatever you think looks sexy.”

I blush at his words again, imagining how different the night would’ve gone if he had come to my room when I was wearing the pink set he’d bought me. How his eyes would’ve devoured me, and how turned on that would’ve made me.

I look around, immediately spotting a few things I think I like. Thankfully, it seems the store is pretty size inclusive, so most of the styles that catch my eye are easy to find in my size. Something that was very rare where my mother and I shopped. I also had to size down at least by two cups in order to find anything that would fit, and up in band size to compensate. And nothing that ever actually came in my size was this cute.

I grab a few things, including some normal bras and panties, others strappy or more like a corset with matching thongs, a lacy bodysuit, and a black chemise sleep teddy. Marcelo carries the store’s black shopping bag, holding it open for me whenever I grab something new. I don’t miss the small smirk and eyebrow raise he gives the teddy and matching thong the moment I throw it in the bag.

A gorgeous woman in fitted black clothes and a name tag walks up to us. She has a gleaming smile shining at us as she asks, “Are you finding everything okay?”

She’s so gorgeous, and the way her eyes are lit up on Marcelo has my gut twisting in such an ugly, uncomfortable way.

“She’s skinny, so she’s prettier than you. Marcelo is going to think she’s prettier than you, too. Why can’t you be skinny? No man is ever going to choose you over someone like her.”

It’s my mother’s voice again, saying words in my head that she’s never said aloud.

Marcelo’s warm and heavy arm wrapped around my shoulder, pulling me into his hard body. “Yeah, she was actually just getting ready to try this stuff on. Can you show us to the dressing room?”

The woman guides us to a small hallway of dressing rooms tucked deep into the store. It’s incredibly private and with so few people in here, even more so.

“Let me know if you need anything else or if you want me to grab different sizes.” The woman smiles and then walks away.

Marcelo hands me the bag and sits on the small couch just outside the door, also smiling at me a final time before I shut it behind me.

The moment I take off his clothes, nothing feels right and I don’t feel I look . . . good.

Fat, fat, fat , I hear my mother say again and again.

But, I don’t feel ugly . Not necessarily. Sure, I have a tummy. Sure, my thighs are big. Sure, I’m wider than most. But . . . doesn’t this still look good? Why did Mother always say fat as if it meant ugly?

I put on one of the lingerie tops, fitting my breasts into the cups, as a small knock sounds on the door.

I know it’s Marcelo before I even open it, but the moment I do, he’s squeezing through the door and stumbling into the small changing room.

“I couldn’t stand being on the other side of this door, waiting, wondering what you look like in all these. I wanted to see.” He turns to me, and just as I imagined, his eyes absolutely devour me. His chin dips as his eyes darken, roaming over every curve of my body.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “Look at you.”

The plum-colored corset hugs my breasts so nicely, and ends at my waist, accentuating whatever hourglass figure I have.

As his eyes drink me in, I see the exact moment Marcelo notices—I haven’t put the matching panties on yet.

His eyes go wide, and his nostrils flare as he stares so intently at me.

“You are absolutely breathtaking, and you don’t even realize, do you?”

I feel stunned into silence, biting my lip and waving my arms back and forth like an idiot.

“Come here,” he demands, beckoning me toward him with one finger. The moment I take a step in his direction, he grabs my hips and turns us both, pulling my back flush to his chest as he forces me to face the mirror. “I want you to look at yourself, songbird. Look how fucking sexy you are.” His hands begin to roam my body, cupping my breasts, and gripping my hips. “See how much you turn me on?” He grinds his hardening length against my ass, and I have to stop myself from moaning.

“Does this make you feel sexy?” he whispers against my ear, and the tickle of his beard against my neck sends shivers all along my spine.

“I—it does,” I breathe.

“Okay, then we’ll get it.” He kisses my neck, his lips so terribly soft. “I want you to never question whether or not you’re beautiful, because you are the most devastating thing I have ever laid eyes on. You ruin me, June Forester.” His tongue claims my skin and I can’t help but lean into his kiss, his touch. What he just said should be so . . . heartbreaking. But it only makes me believe him. He said he’d break his vows for me, and his tongue on my neck is showing me just how much he means that.

Marcelo’s hands slip behind me as he starts undoing the corset.

“Let me show you how beautiful you are.”