Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 53965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
So I had a couple or five drinks before heading over there. And it helped, I know. I was a damn pro in there—unflinching, unblinking, and utterly in control, like a master actor. I looked that girl right in the eye and didn’t even flinch as I imagined ripping her soaking wet white sundress off in that baptism tank and sinking my fat cock deep into her sweet little cunt.
I smiled at her father before turning back to her and just imagining those soft, pouty lips wrapping tight around my swollen head, or that pretty pink tongue dancing over my fucking balls. I imagined my cum on her lips. I imagined her on all fours, her hair in my fist while I push every inch of my fat cock up her tight, eager little ass. And I didn’t break once.
…Like I said, I should be winning Oscars for this shit.
Going over there was a mistake, I know that now. I mean I knew it before, given what happened with Delilah. But now that it’s over, I truly know how dumb it was. Because beyond her, those people were… well, amazing. Kind, and giving, and truly likable. Those people welcomed me into their home, and fed me, and smiled at me, all while I was sitting there lusting over their daughter.
And now I just feel like an asshole for ripping this town and these people off for the next week. Well, as much of an asshole as I’m capable of feeling like, I guess. Which isn’t much, but, it’s something.
I scowl as I amble back out of town on the side of the road. The air is thick and muggy with the Georgia summer heat, and I can feel my clothes sticking to me like a second skin before I’m even five minutes from the Somerset house.
When I finally make it back to the field where I’ve set up, and walked across it back to the Winnebago, I strip down to boxers, grab some ice and the bottle of cheap whiskey from inside, and drop into a lawn chair next to the baptism tank. The scene of the fucking crime. I dump some booze over the ice in a coffee mug, give it a swirl to take the heat off to it, and knock it back with a grimace. This shit tastes like, well, shit. But it’ll do.
I kill the outside lights on the Winnebago and by the tank and sit back in my lawn chair. I pour another drink and grit my teeth as I look out over the moon-lit field stretching out before me.
I’m spiraling here, badly. This isn’t me—the getting sideswiped by a girl part, I mean. Or getting tangled up or having any doubts as to what I’m doing with my life. I’m focused these days—no bullshitting around. I move to the place, I set up shop and get their money, and I move on before anyone starts looking too hard at the sermons I sling or the miracle cures I sell.
I take another swig of whiskey, when the sound of footsteps almost makes me choke. I swallow down the booze as I whirl and look up to see a woman sauntering out of the field, from the side, which is how I never saw her coming.
I jump to my feet, frowning. “Uh, ma’am?”
The woman is dressed to kill, that much is pretty damn clear. She’s in sleeveless dress cut so low that her full breasts are all but spilling out of the top. The thing is short, too. It’d be short for a place like New York or LA. Here in Canaan, I can’t believe they haven’t run her straight out of town yet for wearing it.
Her lips are a dark red, her eyes smoky, and her long dark hair is done up elaborately.
“My my my, preacher,” she purrs thickly. She bats her eyes as they slide over me up and down, and I suddenly remember I’m in my fucking boxers.
“My apologies, ma’am,” I mutter, glancing around for my jeans. “I was about to retire for the evening—”
“Oh, don’t get all fussed over me, Mr. Marsden,” she croons out. “Really, I’m not offended. It’s a hot one out.”
I give up looking for my pants and shrug. “That it is, Mrs., uh…”
“It’s Miss, actually,” she says with a flirty wink. “Purcell. Lizzie Purcell.”
I frown, ignoring her obvious flirting. The name sounds… familiar, but I can’t place it.
“Purcell…” I say slowly.
She giggles. “It’s the same Purcell as the name on the bank downtown,” she tosses out casually. “That’d be my daddy’s bank, actually.”
“Ahh, right, right.”
I frown as she grins and steps closer to me.
“My my, Preacher Gabriel, the good Lord has been kind to you, now hasn’t he?”
I smile, but I don’t take the bait. This is far from the first time I’ve seen this act. And it feels like it’s played by the same damn actress every time. It’s always the richest or at least the most prominently known woman in town—the mayor’s wife, the sheriff’s daughter, that sort of thing. It’s usually a couple days into my stay, too, when they come all dolled up and seductive, looking to take a walk on the wild side with the mysterious stranger preaching hellfire and damnation.