Preacher - Madison Faye Page 0,15
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.
It’s almost like they can smell the sinner hidden under the robes and the bullshit bible verses.
In another life, years ago, I fell into this trap time and time again. But age, and a few brushes with almost getting my nuts shot off by an angry father or husband or whoever, have taught me to stay the fuck away from women like this. And that’s without even counting for the fact that every single inch of my head is being taken up by Delilah Somerset.
I smile calmly at Lizzie. “And what can I do for you this fine evening, Ms. Purcell?”
She sighs. “Well, preacher,” she purrs, batting her eyes. “It’s my mortal soul.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“Ahh, of course, Ms. Purcell. Well, my tent is open to all, tomorrow morning, first thing.”
She pouts. “Well, Mr. Marsden, I’m just not so sure this can wait until morning. You see, my soul is awfully burdened.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, right, okay.” All I want is peace and quiet. And whiskey. And Delilah slowly riding my cock up and down, I suppose, if we’re getting detailed. I have zero patience or bandwidth for playing stupid flirty games with bored rich girls like Lizzie Purcell.
“Well, what seems to be weighing you down, Ms. Purcell?”
“Sin, preacher.”
It’s so very hard not to roll my eyes again. It’s like it’s the same script, every fucking time with these types of women—the types who want to try and seduce the traveling preacher man.
“Yeah, well, that’ll put a weight on your soul. Tell you what, Ms. Purcell—”
“Please, call me Lizzie.”
“Well, Lizzie, I think first thing tomorrow, you should come on over with some friends, and we can join our prayers together as one and beseech the good lord to unburden you from this sin.”
“It’s carnal, preacher,” she murmurs thickly. “Carnal sin.”
“The world is full of temptation, Lizzie.”
“Tell me about it,” she purrs, her eyes sliding over me again shamelessly. Where the fuck are my pants?
“I surely will,” I smile thinly. “Tomorrow.”
She pouts. “But preacher,” she says softly. “I was surely hoping you could… unburden me tonight.”
“Lizzie—”
She starts to walk towards me, her eyes hooded. “My, my,” she purrs, biting her lip as her eyes slide over me again. “My word did the good Lord do right by you, Gabriel.”
“Lizzie, I need to insist that—”
“Could you unburden me from this sin, preacher?”
“Lizzie—”
“Cleanse my soul?”
“Ms. Purcell—”
“It’s so hot, Preacher Gabriel, being this close to the fires of damnation!”
She reaches for the front tie to her dress, and I groan. “Lizzie—”
“Or maybe that’s just you, Gabriel,” she purrs. She yanks the tie open, and suddenly she shrugs the dress open and off her shoulders to pool at her feet.”
Goddamnit.
She’s got a whole little number underneath, too—this black lace ensemble of matching panties and bra, complete with garter-belts. To any moral man, this should be game over. This would be hello sin-town. I should be ripping my boxers off and tripping over myself to get my hands all over her.
…None of that shit happens, because this is not