One of Many Read online

  “Of course. I couldn’t have been Chosen if I wasn’t a virgin.”

  “Yes, you could have.” The way he says it tells me one of the other wives wasn’t a virgin… and Father Weston was none the wiser. Without warning, Kiev moves down and spreads my legs. He kisses the soft skin on the inside of my thigh. My heart speeds up, and I close my eyes, his hot breath almost too much.

  Slowly, he turns his head, and his lips brush against me, his tongue finding the sweet wet spot that aches with want. With need.

  I should stop him. This isn’t right. I’m married to his father.

  “You’re not married.”

  His words echo through my mind. Legally, no, we’re not. But I took an oath, said vows.

  Vows I didn’t mean. Vows I didn’t want to say. I didn’t want to marry a man the same age as my father. I didn’t want to share a husband with four other women. I didn’t want to be forced to sexually pleasure a man I feel no attraction to.

  Yet, I said those vows. I didn’t protest. Because I believed I was Chosen.

  “Kiev,” I moan, slitting my eyes open.

  He slides his hands under my ass and lifts my hips off the bed, bringing me to his face, to his mouth, where he works his tongue against me, and for a minute I can’t think, can’t feel anything but the pleasure winding inside me, making me grow hotter and wetter each time that glorious tongue lashes against my clit.

  “Kiev,” I say again, my voice trembling. He mistakes it for me moaning his name in pleasure. Which I am. I can’t deny that.

  He hooks my legs over his shoulders and slips a finger inside me. I gasp. He adds another, pushing in deep. He’s rough, knowing what he wants and taking it without hesitation.

  “Stop.”

  He slows his movements and looks up at me. “Are you sure?”

  No, I’m not sure at all. I don’t want him to stop, not when I’m close to the edge of orgasm. “This isn’t right.”

  “Sweetheart, nothing about this is right. Look where you are. Look at what you are. A fifth wife to a man double your age who thinks he’s a fucking prophet.” He curls his fingers, rubbing my inner walls in such a way I almost forget everything else.

  Almost.

  “Audrey, what do you want? Tell me you want me to stop, and I will. But I don’t think you do. I think you want me to fuck you. Your tight pussy wouldn’t be this hot or this wet if you wanted me to stop. Tell me, Audrey. Do you want me to stop?”

  “I don’t,” I pant. “I don’t want you to stop at all.” My body is begging me to let him finish. “But I shouldn’t.”

  “Look at your wrist,” he growls.

  I let go of the sheet that’s balled in my hand and look at the scratches on my right wrist. They’re hard to make out in the dark, but they are there, deep scarlet stains on my pale skin. The pain seers through me again, and I remember the rage in Father Weston’s eyes. All I did was ask a simple question, and he hurt me on purpose.

  I extend my arm and take a tangle of Kiev’s hair.

  “I want you to fuck me,” I whisper.

  He flashes a devious smile. “Patience, Little Bride.” Kiev bobs his head, his open mouth pressing against me. He moves his fingers in rhythm with his tongue. Slow, then fast and hard, then slow again.

  My breathing quickens, and my heart hammers in my ears. Pleasure winds tightly in me like a coil. My legs tighten around his neck, and I let go of his hair so I can cover my mouth with both hands, stifling the moaning.

  The orgasm ripples through me with such force my entire body shudders and my ears ring. Kiev holds his mouth against me, feeling my pussy contract, until I’m left breathless, lying paralyzed on my bed.

  I can’t open my eyes, can’t move yet. The mattress sinks down around me, and I know he’s moving up. His body heat surrounds me first, then his arms follow suit, holding me against him.

  “Have you ever come that hard before, Audrey?” he whispers, saying my name as though it brings him pleasure.

  “No,” I breathe.

  “Have you ever come at all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who made you come?”

  “Myself.” I’m not ashamed to admit it.

  I’m not ashamed of anything around Kiev. And that scares me. Lack of fear is dangerous. As dangerous as the man holding me.

  I turn on my side, still feeling pleasure pulse through me, and put a hand on Kiev’s side. I don’t want him to leave. He might be dangerous, but I understand his brand of danger.

  “Kiev,” I start but don’t get to ask any more questions. The floor creaks outside my door. The other wives don’t walk around at night. Only one person would be up this late.

  Father Weston.

  Chapter Eight

  Kiev

  Fuck me.

  I pile drive my arms on either side of Audrey's head and throw myself off the mattress.

  After landing softly, I dive toward the closet and fold myself inside at the same time I pivot and close the louvered doors.

  I bite the inside of my lip to keep from yelling.

  There was no chance to warn Audrey. Tell her to act like the submissive wife. If she doesn't—she'll pay.

  And God help me. I don't think I can stand by and watch her abuse from the sidelines.

  The night-light glows, casting strange, jagged amber lines across the room like drawn swords.

  Audrey rises halfway up in the bed, drawing the sheets underneath her chin—her gaze glued to the door.

  There is no knock.

  I'd know the tread anywhere.

  Weston.

  He slides inside, loose pajama pants his only wardrobe. I'll give him this, he stays in shape. All the better to beat his wives.

  His powerful shoulders and pecs ripple as he closes the door, his ravenous gaze already nailing Audrey to the bed.

  “I thought you'd be sleeping.” His voice is dissonant gravel to my ears. My fists clench at his tone.

  “You woke me,” Audrey says with only a slight waver to her voice.

  I'm proud when I notice she doesn't give me away with even one flick of her eyes.

  I can see Weston's glare from here. “You didn't lock your door, either.” His chastisement is a hammer to glass.

  Audrey's pulse pushes at the hollow of her throat. Maybe Weston will take that for virgin nerves.

  My fingers were hell on her hymen. I felt it. The barrier that is the proof of her innocence.

  Suddenly, I want to be the one to pound through that shield. Weston doesn't deserve to fuck her. I know this to my marrow.

  Audrey's mine.

  Weston doesn't know that yet.

  Audrey gives a small lift of her shoulders. “I forgot.”

  He grabs her chin. “Don't forget again. Kiev lives here, you know.”

  She yanks out of his hold. But I know from grim experience that if Weston wanted to keep hold of her, he could.

  “Why? If he's so awful and has been excommunicated from The Community, why do you allow his presence?”

  He approaches quickly, and I tense. Ready to exit the closet, ready to fuck him up.

  “Why are you interested in Kiev, Audrey?” His gaze presses her for truth.

  “I-I'm not.”

  Stammering now. That's bad.

  Guilt knifes through me. Fuck—I made this happen—her uncertainty. She's young and sheltered from living in The Community.

  Audrey is like a lamb brought to slaughter.

  Weston smirks. Loving having that power over her, the control.

  He changes the subject, a typical tactic. “I wanted to give you a gift.”

  Her eyebrows pop, and lips that I nailed with kisses only minutes ago softly part.

  What gift? What's this punk-ass game he's going at?

  “I thought you were with Rachel tonight?” Her voice contains a quiver.

  Of fear.

  “I was.” He smiles like a wolf.

  “We've done what we can. Now it's in God's hands.”

&nbs
p; My lips thin. He's fucked Rachel to have a hole to stick his dick in. Because only God knows—and me—he can't get her knocked up. One of the main reasons to have a Chosen. Supposedly.

  My jaw unhinges at his next words.

  “I can still give pleasure that is due my newest wife. Though I am too spent to perform at my peak—I can do this for you.”

  Audrey's eyes do flick to the closet and quickly away, but Weston's too lust-driven to notice.

  I do. I see her fervent plea for me to stop this.

  He won't fuck her. Dear old pop can't manage it. But I can't self-delude completely, and it kills something inside me that he'll touch her.

  The only thing that gets my rocks off is I touched her first.

  “Stand up, wife.”

  My heart begins to gallop. I don't know what's going to happen.

  I'll knock his teeth down his throat if he hurts her again.

  But sex isn't hurting her.

  Audrey stands, swaying slightly.

  Hang in there, I mouth from my place in the closet, though she can't see my silent affirmation.

  Sweat trickles down between my shoulder blades, my palms dampening. I peer through the spaces between the wood louvers like a pathetic peeping Tom.

  “Strip,” Weston barks.

  Audrey jumps. With visibly shaking fingers, she removes the nightgown.

  My heartbeats trip up, tangling together erratically.

  God—she's beautiful. Even with my father making her get naked when she clearly doesn't want to, she's something to revere.

  He doesn't revere her.

  Her large, pendulous breasts mound together as she covers her pussy with her hands. Little does Audrey know how hot she’s made the view.

  Her nipples harden from the light breeze at the cracked window.

  “Beautiful,” he breathes, uttering my exact thoughts.

  No shit.

  Her unruly hair cascades around her shoulders, falling forward to hide one nipple.

  “Lie back and spread your legs.”

  Audrey doesn't move.

  My hand somehow finds its way onto the interior handle of the closet of its own volition.

  He won't fuck her, I repeat.

  I clench my eyes.

  Open them.

  Take in her splayed pussy and stop breathing.

  Audrey has clamored onto the bed and let her legs fall open.

  She still glistens from the orgasm I gave her.

  I can't see the color of her pussy from here, but I'm banking on a bright pink.

  I find I want to see it.

  Weston is staring at her as though he has all the right in the world.

  He has no rights.

  My fingers go numb from my hold on the closet door handle.

  Weston trails a finger along her slit, delicately outlining her labia with his index finger.

  My dick gets hard.

  I hate what he's doing. But I'm turned on as fuck that Audrey's naked and I can see what's happening to her.

  “Stop,” she says.

  No consent.

  I push open the closet a little, ready to land on that fucking sperm donor if he tries to rape her.

  That would be the only reason though. I have to stick to my plan.

  Audrey is just a wife. A wife that I'm toying with. A wife that will progress my vengeance. If I can save her, that's fine. If I can't, and she ends up as collateral damage, I'm still taking The Community down.

  But Audrey being raped is not part of the plan.

  “I'm not going to penetrate you. Not tonight.”

  My whole body uncoils.

  His face moves into grim lines. “It will wait for The Reckoning.”

  He sure as hell wants to. Guess Rachel wore him out.

  I tense up again.

  Weston's too much of a perv not to get something from Audrey, though. He can come in here, toss around his position, and remind her that she's his. Anytime, anywhere.

  What the fuck is this reckoning? I'm going to find out the instant I'm free of my voyeuristic perch.

  His finger dips out of sight, and I know he's sinking it inside her. Finding the same thing I did.

  Sure enough, Father Weston gets a glazed smile. “Pure,” he mutters, then blows me away with, “wet.”

  His eyes snap open from their hooded gaze. “Have you been thinking about me, Audrey?”

  Hell no, asshole. She’s soaked because I made her that way. That's the highlight.

  Unfortunately, I primed the pump, and he begins to finger fuck her.

  Audrey moans, and I snap to attention.

  What the hell? She likes it? Or is she faking it for his benefit?

  No doubt about it, her back arches, and she allows her knees to part a little wider.

  “That's it, little whore, spread those virgin legs.”

  Audrey stills. “I thought—I thought you wanted me to like it,” she asks in a small voice.

  Hell yes, he does.

  “I do, but maybe not this much.”

  Audrey lifts her head, and suddenly Weston punches two more fingers inside her, and Audrey cries out in half pain, half pleasure.

  “Let's get rid of this little obstacle.”

  I have the closet open, and Audrey shakes her head when she sees my tense eyes.

  I watch her as Weston dips his head to her crotch, his fingers still pumping inside her.

  I point at my eyes. Look at me, I will her.

  Audrey does.

  My father licks her pussy, finger fucking where my fingers were, his mouth where my mouth just was, and she stares at me. I don’t want to feel anything, but I do.

  I feel sick. I feel helpless. I feel bad for Audrey. I’m not supposed to feel any fucking thing for her. I can’t help her, but I can hold her gaze, let her pretend it’s me touching her, not that sick fucker Father Weston.

  Her eyes hood, and her breathing goes from steady to panting.

  And I can pretend I’m touching her just as well. I need a reprieve from this fucked-up situation. Me and Audrey. Together. Just the two of us. The thought brings me peace and comfort as much as it turns me on.

  I palm my cock, moving my hand up and down in hard strokes, being as quiet as I can.

  But seeing her pleasure and knowing she's thinking about me as Weston is working her over is fucking hot—hard not to do a little panting myself, deviant and fucked up as that is.

  I feel my balls suck up against me tight and know I'm going to blow my load. I duck back inside the closet as Audrey comes again, loudly.

  She doesn't call my name, but I silently wish she would, as a giant spread of cum darkens my athletic pants and my head kicks back. I squeeze my prick as I think about the sounds she makes.

  Knowing they're for me.

  I barely manage to shut the closet door in time.

  Weston stands, wiping off her juices with a casual hand. “There. No more pesky barrier, no more virginity.”

  Audrey doesn't speak for a moment, and I lean my head against the wood casing inside the closet, my cock throbbing painfully inside my hand.

  The small space is closing in around me, claustrophobic—suffocatingly hot. I inhale deeply through my nose. Exhale out my mouth.

  In. Out.

  Like Weston's fingers.

  His tongue.

  I shut my eyes.

  “I'm still a virgin. I've never had sex with a man.”

  Father Weston gives a dark chuckle. “True, but the proof of your innocence is a tad eroded now, dear.” He sneers.

  Audrey doesn't say anything, slowly closing her legs, and I nearly weep at the loss of the view.

  Weston steals from her tonight anyway. No, Weston didn't fuck her. He fucked with her head.

  He's expert at that.

  Sort of like I'm doing. If I was a decent human being, I'd come clean about everything.

  My plan. My suspicions. My obvious sick perversions.

  I hate Weston, but I let him finger fuck Aud
rey—I let him go down on her.

  And I liked it. Liked it so much I came into my hand.

  “And the only man who's going to make you a whore is me.”

  “I'm not a whore,” she says quietly.

  “God says I can have as many whores as I want. A quiver that is full of as many women as I choose. Who will bear me many children. It is my role in this life.”

  I grunt out an exhale. He can't have more children. A bald lie if I ever heard one.

  But Audrey doesn't know that. She draws her knees up underneath her chin, and my treacherous heart feels a beat of compassion.

  I squelch that bullshit at the bud.

  He turns to her, a smile twisting his lips. “I hope you enjoyed your gift.” His words drip with sarcasm.

  Bastard.

  A tear slips out of Audrey's eye, sliding down her cheek.

  I want to catch it. I want to stop her sadness.

  But that's what Weston promises, a life of servitude in the guise of religion.

  He leaves as quietly as he entered.

  I move out of the closet, and Audrey covers her eyes, sobbing.

  Ignoring the sticky stain on my pants, I move to her side and sit. I open my arms, and she moves into them.

  Her naked body presses against my bare chest.

  “I imagined that was you,” she cries softly against me. “I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

  I stroke her hair.

  “I am a whore,” she whispers in despair.

  I pull her away, tilting her chin with a finger. “You're no whore. It was his fingers inside you, his tongue on your pussy—but what really made you come?”

  She blinks, and I can tell she's considering my question.

  The tears dry.

  “Whose face did you look into? Whose hands, tongue, and fingers were you thinking of?”

  A full minute pounds by between us.

  “Yours,” she finally whispers.

  I tuck her head beneath my chin.

  I hate myself. I hate everything.

  Except maybe Audrey.

  Chapter Nine

  Audrey

  I step out of the black SUV, and the smell of fast food fills my nostrils, awakening something inside me.

  It’s two days before my fourteenth birthday, and I’m walking along the sidewalk in front of the mall, my arm linked through Michelle’s. We’re trailing yards behind Justin Walker, the cutest boy in the entire middle school. Our giggles carry on the wind, and he hears us, turns around, and smiles.