Excerpt for Convincing the Preacher by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

This page may contain adult content. If you are under age 18, or you arrived by accident, please do not read further.

Convincing the Preacher

Saylor St. Cloud

Copyright 2016 by D. Miles

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover photography copyright g-stockstudio/Shutterstock.com.

Convincing the Preacher

I’m sweating like a sinner in church, and it isn’t because of the Texas heat beating down on my skin. I’m having some very sinful thoughts about the preacher in my new town, and he’s making me a literal sinner in church.

Preacher Jesse Bishop’s dark brown eyes and charming accent are only cherries on top of a very delicious sundae that I can’t wait to devour.

He just needs a little convincing.

Contains mature content, for readers 18+ only!

More by Saylor St. Cloud

Sugar Baby Tales

First Date

Convincing the Preacher

Dealing in Dominance

Lessons in Italy

Holiday Themes

Mission Under the Mistletoe

Convincing the Preacher

When I’d first moved to this small town I wasn’t expecting anything to happen, least of all developing a crush on the local preacher.  I’d thought I would have some trouble accepting the fact that everyone went to church and if I wanted to fit in I’d have to go to.  I’d thought I’d have trouble paying attention to the sermons and religious rhetoric, not keeping my panties dry on holy ground.

Preacher Jesse Bishop stands in front of his flock, talking with his large hands and filling out his clerical clothes enough that one flex might bust a button. Each time he paces in my direction I feel an extra wave of heat rush over my already flushed skin. I’m waiting for him to look at me, to meet my gaze as he seems to do with everyone else in the church but he never does. As he walks away my eyes fall onto his behind, staring a little too long while I wonder how many squats he does each day to keep himself looking that good. Someone clears their throat behind me I snap my attention to the cross that hangs a few feet away.

It doesn't matter how hard I try to keep myself distracted while he talks, every time I look away to study the architecture of the old church my neighbour Mrs. Smythe taps the back of my hand.  I'm almost thirty and she treats me like a child, and she's also the one that originally brought me here four weeks ago.  How much of a sin is it to damn someone while sitting in the pews?  I don't care, because now I'm staring at the preacher’s lips.

There's a bit of stubble on his cheeks, somehow permanently there every time I see him.  He moves behind the podium, flipping through a bible there. I let my eyes wander to his hands as they grip the podium.  Even though he's often going around town talking to people on behalf of the church they have rough callouses from hard work.  He's been restoring the church for years now, apparently, all on his own.  It's obvious in the way his muscles move beneath his black shirt that he's never shied away from the physical challenge of rebuilding the pews I now sit on.

Matched with dark brown hair and even darker eyes, I'm certain I'm not the only one swooning.  But when I glance around most people are nodding along to his words, most of them perfectly at peace in the Texas heat without an air conditioner.  I wish the heat from the sun was why I'm sweating, but I'm pretty sure it's the fires of hell coming to drag me down. The thoughts running through my head are nowhere near appropriate for church.

I have no idea what Jesse is saying.  I'm blinking slowly, sweat trickling down my temples and spine, and soaking through my Sunday best.  The pale blue dress is probably going to be stained black by the time I leave.

“Are you all right dear?” Mrs. Smythe leans forward to get a better look at me and as I turn to face her my eyes won't focus.  I manage a brief nod but my vision is rapidly turning black.

When I close my eyes again, I can't open them, and the last thing I hear is someone calling for the preacher.

I let out a groan, my body shivering.  For a moment I can't figure out what's going on, and I open my eyes to see a wooden ceiling.  It's sanded and polished and looks brand new, nothing like my plaster walls at home.  My head rolls to the side to find I'm laying on a couch, corduroy and dark brown, and sitting in the preacher’s office.  I blink rapidly as a drop of water falls into my right eye.

There's a water soaked cloth on my forehead, cool and making me shiver.  I pick it off with one hand a sit up, vision still adjusting to the dark lighting of the room.  Across from me the heavy curtains block out the sun, and maybe that's why I don’t notice Jesse right away.  He's peeking out of the curtains, letting a single line of light cross his features, leaning against the broken bricks of the exterior wall.

“Preacher?” I ask, voice hoarse.  “What happened?”

“Oh, don't get up too quickly,” he says, hurrying from the other side of the room.  He kneels beside me, reaching for a glass of water that sits on a small table beside the couch.  “You're overheated, drink this.”

Rather than passing me the glass he holds it to my lips, gentler tipping it back until the water brushes my lips.  I open my mouth, still a little dazed, and take a sip, letting the liquid wash down my throat.

I touch my fingertips to the back of his hand to let him know I'm done, and he pulls back slowly.  “Better?”

“Yes,” I admit.  I take a deep breath, leaning in my elbow with the wet rag in hand.  “Do you have AC in here?”

Jesse gives me a sly smile.  “It's not on all the time; I made a special exception.”  He throws me a wink, forcing a blush over my cheeks.

I grip the cloth tighter and press it against my face, dragging it down my neck.  How I manage go from ice cold to burning is beyond me, but I let out a little moan as a single drop falls down my collarbone and between my breasts.  My dress, as a few women mentioned, is a little low cut for church but it's the most appropriate thing I own, and the only thing that keeps me cool in this heat.  When I reopen my eyes I notice the preacher staring at the drops that chase after the first.

“How long have I been out?” I ask.  Jesse blinks a few times and then practically jumps backwards, landing on his ass before planting his hands firmly down to save himself from further embarrassment.  I see his own blush creep beneath the stubble on his cheeks.  I arch a brow at him.  

Maybe I'm not the only one the fire’s coming for in this church.

Those romantic brown eyes of him that always seem to be so innocent are now watching my legs as I slip them over the end of the couch.  Living in the south has gotten me into the habit of shaving more often, and my legs let off a healthy shine in the sliver of sunlight that hits them.

“Preacher?” I question innocently.

“Not long,” he stammers, climbing to his feet.  I notice a bulge in the front of his pants, which he's quick to hide by going around his desk.  “You should drink more water in this heat; you're just lucky someone was around to help.”

“Yes I was,” I reply.  “I really owe you one.”  I dab the cloth on my neck again, taking a long inhale at the same time and letting my head roll back.  

“Just--just keep coming to Sunday mass and I'll be happy.”  The leather of his chair squeaks as he shifts.   His southern accent is thicker than it’s ever been when giving a sermon.

I stand, thinking I have more power than I really do.  The cloth falls to the ground and I stumble forward a few steps as a wave of dizziness takes over.  Within seconds Jesse is coming around his desk and grabbing me around the waist, propping me up against his chest.  He's solid and strong, and hard in more than one way.  There’s a pressure against my thigh that I know isn’t the weekly roll of quarters Mrs. Smythe donates. “Careful,” he warns again.

“I'm lucky you're here,” I say.  My eyes fall on his lips as he licks them. Dragging my gaze up I let my hips rub against his pants. I think I almost have him where I want him when he plants his hands on my shoulders and pushes me away.

“You know you’re not the first to show me…attention,” he tells me. He walks towards the window, floorboards creaking beneath his weight. I watch as his shirt stretches across his shoulders, his muscles flexing under the stress.

“Oh,” I say, a little disappointed. I shouldn’t be surprised that other women have thrown themselves at him, but I’m a little embarrassed to be considered one of the masses. Just another member of his flock.

Jesse throws open the curtains, blinding me a moment with the light. When my eyes readjust he’s looking out the window, his right hand still holding the curtain. I step towards him, the floorboards staying silent this time. My legs are stronger now, head clearer, and I press my palm to the curve of his back.

He flinches before he turns quickly, still holding the curtain. There’s a loud sound of plastic snapping when the entire pole overhead comes down, and before I know it the preacher’s arms are wrapped around me, his body encompassing mine. I can feel his heart beating fast against my cheek, his breath tickling the hair on the top of my head. The pole that had been holding the curtains is on the ground, rolling to a stop against the bricks.

I tilt my head up to look at Jesse and he begins to move away but I quickly stand on my toes and capture his lips. He hesitates, but he stays. I can feel his stubble rubbing against my upper lip as I open my mouth, flicking my tongue across his bottom lip. He tastes like chocolate and mint, and I’m desperate for more of him.

“Jesse,” I say as he pulls back. “I—“

“I can’t do this, it’s—it’s against the rules,” he interrupts. One hand rubs over his mouth but his other arm stays on me.

“Don’t priests get married all the time? What’s wrong with this?” I know exactly what’s wrong with it and that makes it so much sweeter. I place my hands on his chest and touch my forehead to his.

“We aren’t getting married, we would be…I’m already ordained by the church.” Despite his words his fingers are running through my hair, his thumb tracing the curve of my jaw. His eyes haven’t met mine in quite some time.

“I won’t tell anyone,” I whisper.

“God will know,” he retorts.

“Then I guess he’ll enjoy the show.” I plant my lips on his again and this time he doesn’t hold back. His tongue meets mine, giving me more of him than I had thought would be possible. All those hot days I’d spent in the pews, daydreaming about wrapping my legs around this man and now I find out he was thinking the same things.

I link my arms around his neck, pulling myself higher when he grabs the back of my thighs and lifts me up. My legs cross over his back, my dress swinging through the air as he turns around and places me on the windowsill. My back touches the glass, and for a moment I have to stop to think that someone might walk by. The window overlooks an empty field, but people stay after the sermons and make a half-day of their Sunday visits.

“What if someone sees?” I breathe. The thought that Jesse is a virgin preacher is very wrong as he nibbles on my earlobe and grips my hair. He’s more possessive than I thought he would be, but apparently when he sins he goes all in.

“I guess they’ll enjoy the show.” Jesse’s answer makes my hips buck forward, pressing against his bulge in a desperate attempt for friction. His hands run down from my hair to my shoulders where he yanks at the thin straps of my dress. It slides off easily, revealing my rather plain strapless black bra. I’m cursing myself for not going with something sexier. Jesse takes no time to admire it as he unhooks it with a single try, and gropes my right breast. His lips graze over my collarbone before encircling my nipple.

“Preacher!” I gasp. “I didn’t think you’d be so…”

“I was only ordained two years ago,” he says, planting butterfly kisses across my chest before rising to meet my lips. “I’ve gone two years without sex you have no idea the thoughts I’ve been holding back about you.”

I smile into our kiss when he retreats, a chill floating across me.

Jesse falls to his knees and throws the skirt of my dress up, hooking a finger in my panties and pulling them off. I lift my legs, playfully stopping him when he yanks them back down and tosses my panties behind him. He presses his hands into my inner thighs, forcing my legs further open before he says, “And call me Jesse.”

Jesse reaches up and inches my ass forward before leaning in a licking a long stripe down my core. The pleasure of his tongue shoots outwards like sparks, the heat travelling into my entire body. He finds my clit quickly and begins to lick circles around it, and he gets to the letter E before I realize he’s doing the alphabet. My hands fly to the exposed brick on either side of us, my nails scraping along the surface. My heels drag along the wall as Jesse keeps my legs from closing around him, and I’m pushing against the bricks to keep some kind of control. I let out a string of profanities as the electricity in my centre builds but he doesn’t come up to chastise me. Instead he takes three fingers and tickles my opening before thrusting them in. A cry, something like a whine and a squeal, escapes my throat. He pumps in and out, and just when I think I’m about to reach my high I whine, “Damn it, oh, God damn it.”

When Jesse’s retreats and stands, I think he’s ready for it to be his turn. My head rests against the glass, a cool reminder that anyone could walk by and see us. But instead of asking for his own gratification he says, “It’s a sin to take the Lord’s name in vain.”

I arch my brows as Jesse takes my hands, pulling me to my feet. My legs are shaky but I manage to stand. He turns me around forcefully, ordering, “Bend over. Hands on the back of your neck.”

I do, resting my elbows on the window and linking my fingers together beneath my hair. “Jesse…”

He stands behind me, shoving his clothed cock against my ass as he bends over me. I’m looking out over the golden field of grass but all I can focus on is what he might do if I tilt my hips into his. He brushes my hair back and whispers in my ear, “You’ll get ten smacks for that; count them.”

Jesse takes a step back and to the side when I feel the first sharp sting of my spanking. I let out a cry and he waits. “One,” I say.

Another smack. “Two.” The heat is pooling faster between my legs.

Smack. “Three!” He hits the same spot each time.

Smack. “Four!” The sting flowers out across my left cheek.

Smack. “Five!” My juices are flowing down my legs now, and I’m squeezing my thighs together as tightly as possible to relieve the desire. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Jesse, and with one large book he kicks my feet apart, forcing my legs to separate once more. My core beats for some kind of contact, some kind of touch, for Jesse. I edge onto the balls of my feet as I resist the temptation to move them back together.

The final five smacks come in fast succession. So fast I can barely shout out the numbers. I want to move my legs together again but I’m not sure what Jesse will do, so I wait. I stand there, knees shaky and core aching for attention, when Jesse places a hand on my elbow and turns me to face him.

He cups my face and brings me in for a kiss. He pushes me back until I’m sitting on the window ledge again, my hands eagerly working with the buttons on his shirt. My fingers slide over his muscles, each one perfectly formed from hard labour rather than going to a gym six times a week. After finally uncovering his body I reach down and undo his belt buckle, making quick work of the button and zipper there. I pull out his cock; it’s large enough that I have to stop our kiss to look down at it, wide eyed.

Jesse smirks at my surprise and to wipe it away I run my thumb over his slit before giving him two hard pumps, tracing my finger along the vein on the underside. He groans, pushing my back against the glass. If anyone were to look in right now, with my dress in shambles and his hands on my ass they wouldn’t have to wonder what we’re doing.

Another pump along his shaft and he’s removing my hands, angling his head at my entrance. His eyes meet mine, as if he’s making sure this is really what I want and I can do nothing but nod. With one hand squeezing my ass, Jesse pushes into me, and we both moan.

His stubble scratches at my neck as he begins to suck on the skin there. I almost want to tell him not to leave any obvious marks. Almost. But then he starts to thrust, lifting my hips up with a single arm while his other begins to fondle my bosom. His thumb grazes over a nipple, his teeth over the soft flesh behind my ear.

I loop my arms around his neck and pull myself higher, allowing me to buck my hips into his. Our pace is quick and in sync. I’m gasping for air, burying any cries that might be too loud into his neck as my hands tangle in his hair. I pull at it, groan and squirm every which way but he keeps me in place. I can feel the sparks building up; only a few more thrusts and I know I won’t be able to walk straight for a day at least.

Jesse traces his hand over my dress and between us, this thumb finding my sweet spot. He rubs at my throbbing bud, and pounds his hips harder until I’m letting out a scream. My back hits the window again and again, the glass shaking as I cry his name along with God’s. It isn’t long until Jesse is biting down on my neck, his thrust becoming erratic and uneven. I’m bucking towards him when I feel his cock twitch and he reaches his peak, releasing his seed into me. It coats me, and my walls clench his sex, squeezing out as much as possible before letting him go.

Ragged gasps fill the silence of the room. My head leans back against the glass, which thankfully didn’t break like everything else in the church. Jesse moves his forehead to rest against the crook of my neck, his hands still holding onto my hips but not nearly as hard. A little bubble of laughter escapes my lips.

“Dare I ask why you’re laughing?” Jesse mumbles against my skin.

“I just…was thankful nobody walked by,” I reply, my breathing beginning to even out.

“Oh darlin’,” Jesse says, his accent making me want to kiss him even more, “Mrs. Smythe has been gaping at us for about thirty seconds.”

I jump forward, my feet hitting the floorboards with a heavy thud. I’m scrambling to fix my dress, but by the time I cover myself and turn around I’m only looking at the field. Jesse’s arms come around my waist, his voice close to my ear. He chuckles, “Gotcha.”

“Oh, oh God,” I breathe. My hand touches over my heart when Jesse’s grip tightened.

He hums into my neck. “That’ll be twenty next week, since you didn’t learn your lesson.”

Excerpt from First Date

The last thing I do when meeting a potential sugar daddy is be alone with him on the first date. The second last thing is daydream about a possible future with him, professional or otherwise. So far I’ve had a few good relationships with SD’s, but nothing’s stuck except my rules; my needs first, everyone else second. When I meet Morgan Godfrey, all six foot one and salt and pepper beard and rumbling voice my rules dissolve into those dark green eyes of his.

He’s a man used to getting what he wants, even from a girl half his age, and he’s going to take it, if I let him. A first date can set the tone of a relationship, and I’m ready to let a real man be in charge for once.

Mature themes for readers 18+ containing light BDSM.

When I pull back the curtain, I’m met with a devastating silence. My eyes are on the carpet, prepared for a shy glance upwards. It wins most potential Daddy’s over, but as I begin lift my gaze I find an actual shyness taking over.

“Damn,” Morgan mutters beneath his breath. I finally look up to see his eyes taking all of me in. They move from the keyhole cutout to my hips, and then down my legs until the reach the heels and back up again. “Spin around for me.”

I do as I’m told, slowly moving in a circle with a hand on my hip. When I’m facing him again he’s stepping forward, taking my chin between his thumb and index finger. “You,” he says, “need to get that pretty round ass back into the change room.”

Once more, I do as I’m told and walk backwards. He matches each step I take until I’m standing in the middle of the stall and he turns away. He sweeps the curtain shut with a single motion, making sure to knot both sides of the rope. He’s slow to face me, and when he does his eyes drink me in as if I’m an oasis and he’s the desert. That’s exactly how it should be with a sugar daddy; he wants me, not the other way around. And yet…

I swallow audibly, heart beating hard against my ribs. This is the kind of situation I stay away from with my dates but I’m reminded we’re not alone when a woman down the hall asks for her dress in another size.

Morgan takes a single step towards before and wraps his arm around my waist. My hands press against his chest as he pulls me close, his other hand going to the back of my neck. He leans down and presses his lips to mine, and when his tongue darts across my bottom lip I don’t hesitate to open. The pressure stays hard on the back of my neck as he starts to push forward, getting his right knee between my legs. It stays there as my back touches the mirror, the cool glass freezing against my burning skin. When Morgan shifts his thigh against my core I whine against his lips.

Morgan stops our kiss, leaving me breathless. I pant for air while his fingers slide from the back of my neck and into my hair, entangling there. “You can say no anytime you like, kitten, and I’ll stop.”

Excerpt from Dealing in Dominance

I’m the one the Ora Investigations comes to when they want a job done well. Little did I know it’s earned me a reputation of being a little too…vicious, according to the newbie I’m supposed to be training on a stakeout. It’s a boring chop shop case, one normally filled with silence but tonight it’s filled with his constant questions.

At first he’s very nondescript, hiding beneath baggy clothes and a mop of hair until the clock strikes midnight and suddenly he’s a muscular, tattooed Russian handcuffing me in the stakeout van. At this point I’m normally kicking and punching my way out of a bad situation but the way he takes control makes me consider other options. I’m submitting to his dominance, and I love it just as much as I hate it.

So when he goes into the chop shop with his own intentions, all I can do is follow. When he makes me a deal I have to question if putting my morals aside is worth it. There’s so much about him I don’t know, but what I do know is he makes my skin feel a fire I didn’t know could burn so hot. But is that really enough to keep me from bringing him in?

Contains mature content, for readers 18+ only! Features themes of violence and BDSM.

I’ve never been one to swoon or get caught up in a moment, ever.  There’s never been a man around that could hold my attention for very long yet I can’t look away from Hunter.  I’m stuck beneath him, unable to move.  Or not wanting to move, I’m not sure.  I can feel my bud beat with my heart as the chair slides across the floor and bumps into the front of the van.  Hunter’s hands move up, only pausing a moment to squeeze at my hips before drifting over my stomach and then cupping my breasts.  I inhale sharply, puffing my chest out when suddenly his hands snap my wrists up and pin them over my head, locking them in a pair of cuffs.  Instinctively I tug at them but they can’t move; the cuffs are hooked through the metal bar we keep bolted to the van in case we need to take anyone to the police station.  When my face falls to ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing he locks my lips in a kiss.  

It’s rough and powerful, and I actually moan into it.  I can feel him smiling as his tongue finds mine, his hands holding my face.  When he pulls away I’m still gasping for air.  He chuckles.  “Sorry, princess, but I really need you to stay here while I go finish my job.”

“What?” I ask, unable to find any other words.  As if to answer me Hunter takes off his sweater, revealing a plain white tee that fits over his lean muscles well.  I gawk at him, which he clearly enjoys as he flexes an arm at me.  They’re coated with tattoos, various forms of crosses and stars, and letters I can’t read.  The only thing I know about them is that they’re Cyrillic.

“How about we play a game,” he suggests.  “If you can get out of those cuffs and get inside, I’ll give you a prize, yeah?”  He winks, making my heart skip a beat.

“Who the hell are you?” I manage.  I pull on the cuffs again, the metal digging into the soft flesh on my wrists but they don’t budge.  

Hunter points a finger at me.  “Not part of the game.  But I’ll give you a hint.  I’m not here to just observe and report--and my name is definitely not Hunter Jones.”  He rolls his eyes.

“I’m guessing it’s something Russian, based on those tats.”

Hunter—or whoever he is—raises his eyebrows.  “So you do know how to investigate.”

“Bite me.”

“Maybe later, for now, I have a job to finish.”

“What job?” I ask.  Hunter’s eyes go to the man on the screen and mine follow.  I have no idea what the Russian mafia would be doing here, on some chop shop stakeout, but they are.  “What’s really in there?”

The man before me shrugs and backs away.  He opens the back of the van and jumps out.  He suggests, “Guess you’ll have to follow me.”

About the Author

Saylor St. Cloud is a journalism graduate that learned journalism is not for her. After spending much of her time working on projects she didn’t care much about, she decided to start penning her passion; short erotic stories.

Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-14 show above.)