Preacher - Madison Faye Page 0,10

says that good Christian girls don’t get excited either when they do feel something like that pressing against them. I quickly blush and swallow the thought back, trying to take a breath.

What I felt today is something I’ve never felt before. But I know what it is. Canaan might be bit more conservative and religious than other places in this country—I mean, I don’t live in a bubble, and I do have an iPhone, and the internet. But while we might be a bit more old-fashioned down here, we do learn about, well, the anatomy of conception in school. I know that men get… hard, uh, down there, when they’re aroused. But I also know darn well that a preacher should not be getting like that in the middle of a baptism.

And you shouldn’t be so excited about it, the voice in my head spits back. I want to deny it, or claim that I’m just incensed, or scandalized. But those aren’t really the right words for it, and I’ve sinned enough today without adding lying to the mix.

No, the word is “excited,” even as horrible as that is. I was excited when I fell into the roguishly handsome, sinfully good-looking man with the broad shoulders, big hands, and tantalizingly wicked tattoo ink. The man with the dark hair, the square jaw, and the piercing blue eyes that looked right into my very soul.

But, my own sins of faltering into the temptations of the flesh aside, I know what the rest of my family doesn’t: that Preacher Gabriel Marsden is a wicked, sinful man. I even wonder if he’s a preacher at all.

The spoon in my hand stirs the gravy on autopilot as I slip deeper into my thoughts, and of thinking of Gabriel. I’ve never felt this scandalized before. But the worst part of it is, it’s not an altogether unwanted scandal. It’s like the feelings of the forbidden that his touch today brought out in me are something I want more of. But I quickly try and squash them down yet again.

No. I’ve had thoughts like that before and felt the things they do to my body and my soul before. Sinful, horrible things, too. I’m ashamed to say I’ve given in to them before, too, on occasion. There’ve been times when the wickedness of my own mind was too powerful, and I… well, I touched myself, there, because of them.

Thankfully, every time that’s happened, I’ve managed to pull myself back from the brink of damnation. But those other times, we still had a church in town. Those other times, I could run there on Sunday and soak in His holy spirit and Word and read the passages chosen for the day as hard as I could in order to cleanse the wickedness from my heart.

But there’s no church in Canaan anymore, after Pastor Michaels took the job in Athens and the rickety building he was holding services in here was finally deemed unsafe. The only church is the one we infrequently go to in Huntington Parish. And now, the only one in town is his—Gabriel Marsden’s wicked Church of Carnal Sin and Eternal Damnation.

“Delilah!”

I snap out of it and gasp at my mother’s call. I look down and realize I’ve forgotten to keep stirring, and the gravy is getting too thick.

“Sorry, mama,” I mutter and keep stirring, bringing it back to creaminess just in time.

I frown. See, these are not the sort of thoughts a preacher should be instilling in his flock. And yet, this is the very man who’s coming to freaking dinner at our house, tonight. The man doesn’t instill righteousness and Godliness in me. The thoughts in my head are wicked, sinful ones, and he’s the one who’s put them there.

As if on cue, the doorbell rings, and my heart skips a beat.

“Honey, would you get that?” my mother says from the dining room where she’s setting out plates.

My gut clenches, and a horrible, heated, devilishly wicked feeling of excitement washes over me before I can stop it. I swallow thickly, my throat tightening, when suddenly my father saves me.

“Oh, I’ll get it, dear.”

Thanks goodness. The idea of opening my front door to him, and facing him after earlier is… well, it’s either an entirely mortifying or an entirely far too exciting thought. Perhaps both, which is even worse.

I hear the door swing wide, and my father warmly greeting the wicked preacher himself.

“Come in! Come in, preacher!”

The door shuts, and I can hear the