Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jeb has to go to a grocery store 45 minutes out of town just to get it. It makes sense why the ones in town don’t have it, but he suddenly feels bad for the Lutheran family on his block. 

The sun does not collapse in the sky when he shuts his car door. When he enters, the white tile floor doesn’t open and swallow him up. He can feel eyes on him, digging into his back under the unnatural fluorescent lighting. But that isn’t because everyone here knows he’s sinning.

 It’s because the coffee cans are all different shapes, colors, and kinds. He’s blocking the aisle, standing there with his basket. Just. Staring at them all. Would you like a dark roast? Medium? Light? Lord above, did the greatest country in the world need this many varieties of coffee? 

He’s in the way, so he grabs a can of Folgers. He remembers their radio ads. It’s the only brand he recognizes. 

He’s been questioning the teachings of the church for quite a while. But he’d never acted on anything that would go against them till now. He had Rebecca. His mother. The girls. He couldn’t break their hearts by asking the questions that were eating him alive. 

He pretended. He endured the nightmares on his own. He swallowed all the questions he wanted to fling at the elders like knives. He went to church, urged his girls to read the teachings, and sat in silence while his wife prayed for the blood of His Only Begotten Son to cover their family. 

He’d stopped doing it, so Rebecca took up the mantle. It was the one thing he couldn’t do anymore. Pray. 

Surely, she’d prayed before she died. Before her baby died with her. Before her husband and his family mutilated her. And all her prayers and all her piety were for not. She’s dead. She’s dead and he nearly drove himself insane trying to solve her murder. 

So why should he pray? 

He never saw a shrink, though he thinks he probably should. The dreams get to him sometimes. Visions of Brenda’s dead eyes looking up at him. And the baby…

He doesn’t tell Becca about the nightmares.  

He does tell you. You understand what he means. 

He’d already met you a few times before that night, in passing. You were one of two Sunday school teachers that the town’s church had. His kids loved you. Honestly, they were a little spoiled by you. You were kind and lenient. You gave them candy after lessons, snacks, and cookies that you’d baked. 

 Becca didn’t like that. Becca didn’t like a lot of things about you. Your modern way of dressing, your air of indifference to the teachings, the way that you seemed to never stop trying to catch his eye. Or the eye of any of the married Mormon men whose children you taught. And wasn’t that shameful, when you were married yourself? Married to a wonderful, godly, man any single woman worth her salt would drool over? 

He never noticed. He wagered her first reason was the logic behind her last one, anyway. She thought you were a jezebel before he’d ever interacted with you. Lots of the congregation did. 

You were young, pretty, and newly wedded with no kids. Men looked at you, women resented you for making the men look. Your husband was close to the elders, though. Good job, nice car, nice house just outside of town. He was a perfect man of God. So no one said a word beyond knowing glances and awful, hushed whispers in pews and during lunches. 

Then it all came down. Your neighbors had been the ones to call. They’d heard yelling, gunshots, and glass breaking. He’d answered the call with the rest of the unit that night. Your husband’s bullet-hole-ridden body greeted them as they entered the bedroom, following your screams. His blood puddled underneath him, his handprint gripping the doorframe. He was already gone and probably had been the minute Jeb had stepped into the house. 

Rigor mortis was already starting to set in. His hand was difficult to move from the frame. A white sheet was laid over him while they waited for the paramedics to arrive from Salt Lake. You’d been sitting in the corner of your bedroom in your nightdress, curlers still in your hair. You were sitting in the glass. Your legs and thighs were bleeding, but you didn’t seem to notice. 

A dead man’s blood was drying over your shoulders and your collarbones. It had splattered onto your chin. Crying, shuttering, inconsolable. Your bedroom window was completely shattered, allowing the chilly night air to fill the room.

Jeb managed to convince you to at least get up out of the shards slicing up your skin. On your shaky, bloody legs, you followed him out of the room and into the kitchen while forensics took pictures. 

“What are they doing?” You’d rasped, “Why is he covered up?”

He swallowed thickly, “I’m so sorry. Your bedroom is now the scene of a homicide.” 

“He isn’t dead!” You’d screamed at him, “He isn’t dead! He’s just hurt! Why aren’t you trying to help him?!” 

You were first approached as a suspect, but you were blubbering so bad there was no way he could get a statement. He didn’t want to. You didn’t kill him. Instead, he offered you tissues and water. By the time the paramedics got there, you had no tears left in you to cry. The flesh around your eyes was red and puffy. The skin on your upper lip was irritated from wiping away your snot. Your nose was red and tender. 

He wanted to reach out and hold you or at least hold your hand. But that was not professional. He could only walk you outside to the awaiting ambulances. They’d parked strategically, so you wouldn’t see them wheel your husband’s dead body out of your home. They wrapped a shock blanket around your shoulders and started to treat your cuts with antibacterial ointment. 

The medics started to congregate around the mortuary van. You seemingly calmed. Or maybe detached was the better word. 

He got your shell-shocked statement about what happened. It was a home invasion gone wrong. Fairly cut and dry. He put his pad away. He moves to sit beside you in the opening of the ambulance. You're staring straight ahead at nothing, completely silent. 

“I’m incredibly sorry for what happened to you tonight,” He puts a hand on your knee, “If there’s anything I can do-”

“Jeb.” Your voice is as far away as your gaze. 

Your eyes move to him, staring straight into his soul. He swallows thickly. 

“I know you didn’t kill him,” He starts, “Spouses are usually the first suspects in homicides. But I know you didn’t kill your husband. Not with your reaction-” 

You shake your head at him, “Do you believe in God? Even after all you seen, doing what you do?” 

“Of course I-”

“Answer me honestly. Do you believe in God?” 

“No,” He whispers to you, “I used to think the faith was my only guiding light. But I can’t believe it anymore. God doesn’t listen, even if he’s real.” 

He’s never said that to another person before. It slipped out of him so easily. He supposed it should, given that it had ruminated in his head for so long. It was almost a relief to let the thought fly from his mouth. 

You move your head to look back into the great black nothing. Your eyes shut. 

“I don’t believe in Him, either,” You let out a sigh, “I don’t think I ever did.” 

Your cold, clammy hand moves to cover his. Your soft skin against his own. The subtle tremors he can feel against him. His nerves were suddenly on fire. Just one touch, one gesture of comfort. You are not alone.  Suddenly, he felt more alive than he had in months. 

He knew after that night something in both your lives had changed. 

He’d helped you clean up your husband’s blood when no one else from the church would. He got your window replaced. Good, neighborly things to do. Nothing to complain about. 

 Suddenly, he was always ‘ checking in’ on you. No man and woman should be alone without an escort but you’d need a man around. Your house had been broken into. You wanted to feel safe, and who else better than him? Who was going to help you around the house? Surely, the recent passing of your husband warranted this exemption to the rule. 

It was an excuse to talk to you. It was an excuse for you two to be alone. To sit too close together and breathe in each other’s air. To talk about everything. To bare each other's souls in front of the other. The veneer was flimsy, but it held. 

You told him everything. 

You’d never loved the man you married. You’d been pushed by your mother to marry after your father had died. Your family had needed money and he had it in spades. He’d wanted a young, god-fearing wife. This is how things were done just a few short centuries before. It had been an even exchange in your eyes at the time. But that was before you saw how truly lifeless a kingdom marriage was. 

You started to hate him. He started to hit you. You don’t remember which came first. 

He wanted you pregnant but you kept using spermicide and hiding it in places he’d never look. Fertility doctors gave you experimental pills you pretended to take. It was your first taste of rebellion, moving against the clutches that keeping sweet locked onto your ankles. You’d long questioned your place in the church but you loved the children you taught. They were the only purpose you had now. 

Your husband dying became your only chance at freedom. But where else were you supposed to go? Much like him, your entire life was wrapped up in The Church. Your mother, your in-laws, what little friends you had were Mormon. You weren’t mourning that wonderful, godly man when that masked intruder shot him. You were mourning the life, the cover, that he had provided. 

Now you are alone. Trapped inside your own head until Jeb could come over and release the valve. 

This affair was the only outlet either of you had. 

An affair is what Jeb called it in his head. He had tried to convince himself that all of this was friendship in the beginning. But he quickly stopped trying to delude himself. It was your face he saw when he closed his eyes at night. He imagined it was you he was inside of when, about once every three months, Becca reluctantly decided to fulfill her wifely duties. When he was alone, he let his mind wander to the depths of Hell with you cradled in his arms. 

An affair. 

You’d never so much as kissed, never touched in a way that any non-LDS member would think is romantic. He may be going insane. But the feeling of your leg pressing against his own was enough for his cock to stir. The feeling of your hand on his shoulder made him want to press you against your front door and-

If you asked for a kiss, he’d give it without a second thought. He’d do anything your soft, pretty little voice asked. 

He’d buy coffee for you. In broad daylight. In a grocery store far from his home. 

A blasphemous devotion. Becca can have her God and he can have his own. 

He’s sure that his voice is too high when he tells the teenage cashier to have a good day. He moves out of the store like he planted a pipe bomb somewhere. No normal person reacts this way about buying coffee. 

He throws the receipt out of the car window when he pulls out of the parking lot. The bag is on the floorboard of the passenger seat. He can’t look at it. He can feel its presence, like an omen. It isn’t the coffee he’s trying to hide. 

Jesus Christ.

He wants to fuck you.  

He lets out a harsh breath. The ulterior motive was so obvious. He’s nearly ashamed. He wants to fuck you, today, after you drink your coffee. He went through with this because he wanted to taste the remnants of the drink on your lips. To finally touch and taste and feel you. Fuck the coffee. It was a pretense of what he wanted. Of what you both wanted.

He’d bought a condom at the sketchy gas station bathroom machine when he’d gone to fuel up, for God’s sake. Had done it without a thought. It was in his glove box now. That part hadn’t frightened him nearly as much as buying the coffee. 

He’d been plotting the physical part of the affair. A seduction. Jesus Christ. 

He should feel guilty, shouldn’t he? It was still daylight, people milling around and living their lives. It should be shameful to want that when the sky was still blue. He should wait till night. 

 The sun is still high in the sky. You’d be coming in from working in your garden by now. And your cheeks would be flushed, little wisps of hair sticking to your sweaty forehead. Your chest moving up and down in little pants from your exertion…

He can’t feel guilty when he’s thinking about the way your chest moves while you're panting. Your tits take up far too much brain space for guilt. 

You’re the only person who understood him. You wanted coffee. You have great tits. He wants to fuck you so bad it feels like his only life mission. 

He should go home. 

Even if he didn’t believe in the lessons of the church, this was wrong. He was in love with a woman that wasn’t his wife. He was going to that woman’s house, he had a condom in his glove box . But he can still make the turn, pull into his driveway, come home early for lunch…

He hadn’t broken his vows with his new form of worship yet. 

But he didn’t want to walk back into the constant reminder that he was a trapped animal. Not without the small halo of hope you provided. 

The Church told him his entire life that if he committed a single sin that it would lead to more and more sinning. When you’d sheepishly confessed that you wanted to try coffee for the first time, this lesson flashed like a billboard in his mind. 

He hoped it was true. 

-

When he pulls into your driveway, another car is parked.

You’re standing on the front porch, talking with another man. 

You were in your favorite house dress. The blue one, with the tiny pansies over it. The one with adorable little white buttons down the front. The one that stopped just at your knees. The one that made such an impression in his mind that it showed up in his wet dreams. He tried to focus on that. Not on your hands. Your fingers fidget with each other. You’re picking at your thumb nail with your index finger. You’re biting at your lower lip. There’s a subtle indention of your teeth. 

He decides to make his presence known. He grabs the bag out of the floorboard and shuts the car door way too hard. The car shakes with the force. 

Brother Carson’s ears perk up. A man from the congregation. Another good, Godly man sniffing around you. Jeb crinkles the bag to keep it closed. It’s the look of solace on your face at seeing him that moves him forward. 

“Brother Pyre!” Your soft, sweet voice. He wants to live in that voice. The palpable relief in it makes him want to get back in his car just to run Carson over. What exactly was this guy doing that was making you so stressed? He swallows, keeps his composure. 

Carson looks at him like shit on his shoe. But what was Carson doing at the Devil’s sacrament if he was going to judge Jeb? Carson was a widower, sure. But he was supposedly going steady with one of the women in the congregation. Unfaithful was unfaithful. And God had allegedly hand picked Wendy to take the mantle of Mrs. Carson. 

Not you. 

But ya know. Maybe God changed his mind. How convenient. 

“Brother Carson, Sister…” He lets himself trail off to show the familiarity. 

He knows you. Carson doesn’t. 

“Good afternoon, Brother Pyre. What a pleasure.” 

You haven’t let this asshole into your house. He can tell because you keep subtly displacing your weight. One foot. Then the other. In front of your door like a bird protecting its nest. You’d kept him at bay. His heart flutters at the knowledge. That was only Jeb’s rule to break. You flush at the tension building. It goes down your collarbones. He wants to follow the path with his tongue. 

“Brother Carson wanted to check on me, isn’t that nice of him?” You start fidgeting again. You look at his nose and not at his eyes. 

“Well, that makes two of us then,” He smiles but it doesn’t reach. Carson smiles back, much in the same tight, embittered way. 

This is what Bill calls a cock fight. Two men metaphorically (“Or sometimes literally. What?! It happens Jeb! Grow up!”) pulling their dicks out to show dominance. Also known as dick measuring contest. Or a pissing contest. Whatever it was, Jeb was winning. If only because he hadn’t taken his gun and shot him at point blank range. 

You start again, “Brother Pyre was just bringing me some sugar! Ya know the church’s bake sale is coming up. And my lemon squares always sell out, so I have to make a large batch.” 

You giggle, too high pitched, too squeaky. You deftly, subtly take the paper bag from his arms, repositioning the bag opposite the hip facing Carson. 

Carson gives a terse nod, “Well, I should be off then. But I do hope you’ll give my offer some thought.” 

You smile, bright and beautiful as ever, “Of course, Brother Carson. Have a blessed day.” 

He and Jeb exchange glances. Jeb doesn’t back down from eye contact. He relishes in it. He’s the one leaving. He’s the one whose cock didn’t measure up. Jeb has nothing to be ashamed of. 

It isn’t until Carson pulls out of the drive that he asks you, “What did he want?” 

“He asked me out,” You shrug, eyes still darting back and forth, “For a soda.” 

“What did you say?” You don’t owe him anything. His tone still reeks of possession. 

“Can we come inside?” You keep your eyes lowered, moving to open the door. 

He wants to insist but goes inside anyway. You sigh once the door is shut. 

“I told him that I was still in mourning and didn’t want to date right now.” You say, leading Jeb by the hand to your kitchen’s breakfast island. “He keeps insisting though. That I’m in need of some ‘guidance’ from a ‘shepard.’” 

It does make his stomach flip. You were getting swarmed by the numerous eligible (and ineligible, honestly) bachelors in the congregation.

If he were in your position, the idea of remarrying just to put the mask back on would be tempting. Becoming ignorant again, brainwashing yourself like he’d tried a time or two before he really got to know you. 

“People will ask questions, I guess. If you don’t…get married again I mean.” The words tumble out of him. They taste bitter. He doesn’t mean them. 

You wince, “Even my mother-in-law is pushing it. Trying to set me up. Her own son is dead and she’s worried about my eternal soul…” 

You smile softly at him. He can’t help but smile back. It’s ironic. You shake your head as though to ward off the thoughts and reach under your kitchen sink. You reemerge with a coffee pot. 

“It came with the house,” You say in a rush, “I didn’t buy it. Or anything like that. But it was still in the box from the previous owners. It came with an instruction manual so I figured we could use it…” 

There’s that delicious flush again. He wills himself not to get hard. God, it wasn’t usually that easy to get him aroused but you seemed to have that effect on him. Every little thing you did, his mind eroticized. The perfect vixen who didn’t even know it. 

You plug in the unfamiliar appliance. You take out the pot and fill it with water from the sink. He swallows. 

“I wouldn’t be upset if you did.” 

You still. The water overflows into the sink drain. 

“Go out with Carson. Or anyone else really,” He tries to keep his tone even, but the words are destroying him. 

“Oh Jeb, don’t…don’t bring up unpleasant things like that right now,” You finally shut off the water and drain the excess out of the pot, “I’m in a good mood. Let’s not spoil it. Will you be a doll and get the manual? It’s on top of the microwave.”

You were a good housewife. You spoke in passive aggression. He drops it for now. You called it ‘unpleasant.’ He tries not to feel slightly encouraged. 

He helps you get the thing set up. It’s actually quite simple. You pour water into the thingamajig and put a filter and grounds into the whosewhatsit. Then boom. Coffee. 

The thing makes a noise like a demon from Hell. Just like one of the church elder’s declared it would. A warning. A stop sign. A long, painful whine. Then little bursts of steam roll out from the crack at the top. Then it growls before spitting coffee into the pot. 

Bestial almost. People outside LDS keep these unruly things on their kitchen counters in plain sight. They crank them up every morning. They listen for the noises it makes. Jeb feels a little silly being so fascinated by it. The childlike wonder on your face tells him he’s not alone. 

“Would you call me delusional to compare that to witchcraft?” You ask, “Because that felt like doing witchcraft.” 

“I kinda feel the same,” He hasn’t taken his eyes off it, “I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

“Like when Jesus made water into wine,” You say, “We made water into something else entirely…” 

It sounds so extreme. But it’s what it feels like. Jeb thinks he can feel the ever seeing eyes of God laser focused into this kitchen. Good. Let him look. Let him see.  

This is madness. Pinging off one another. God can watch this unraveling then. God can watch the sin to come. 

There isn’t any guilt, just righteous indignation. He watches the tip of your pretty pink tongue wet your soft, full lips. 

You're nervous. You step back, let out a harsh exhale. 

“I’ll get us some mugs.” 

-

It’s bitter, even with adding all the sugar and milk he wanted. His skin feels slightly warmer now. It’s not shocking that he feels a little jittery. That isn’t just from the coffee. What does shock him is how dilated your pupils get. Your eyes look more alluring. 

You look at him through your lashes, “How is it?” 

“I don’t know if I like it.” 

You let out a precious little laugh, “I don’t either.” 

You put your mug down on the island. Everything is quiet, save the hum from the refrigerator. Your body is turned toward him. Your lips are slightly parted. He’s getting pulled toward you. You’re beckoning him with your body, wordlessly asking him to come closer. 

He doesn’t realize how close he is until he’s cupping your cheek. Your eyes close. 

Your kiss is better than he imagined.

Sweeter, gentler. Almost shy. Your fingers move through his hair, spurring him. Already, he knows you didn’t give your husband this kindness, this indulgence. His cock stiffens when your hands move to cup his face, bringing him impossibly closer. The soft gasp you let out when his tongue traces the seam of your lips destroys any lingering resistance. 

He takes what you give. You melt under him. His hands roam. He’s greedy. So fucking greedy. And hungry. The relentless starvation that consumed him every day, every hour, every minute, every nanosecond, since you gave him that first touch was finally being satiated. His hand moves to your breast. A delicious tremble moves through you. He can feel the warmth of your skin, your hard nipple gathering in his palm. Your dress bunches under his fingers. 

He wants it off. But he would take tasting and touching if he can’t have everything. His heart beats in his ears. 

He pulls away, just enough to linger, “You’re not wearing your garments.” 

He doesn’t know how getting drunk feels. He’s dealt with people in various states of not sober during his career, but he’s never used any substances himself. For obvious reasons. But he imagined it would feel like this. A buzzing in his brain. Heat starting in his stomach and moving along in his bloodstream through his limbs. A sweetly excruciating pain thrumming along inside his body. 

Your beautiful face mirrors exactly how he feels. Your face is slightly red, hair wonderfully mused, lips shiny and kiss swollen. You look almost shell shocked, eyes glassy and unfocused. His thumb traces your lower lip and you whimper. Your thighs press together tight. 

He did this. He did this to you. God. His headrush starts up again. 

“No,” You say, “No I’m not.” 

He keeps playing with you over your clothes. Jeb already knows the answer before he whispers his question into the heated skin of your neck. 

He kisses you there, experimenting. You gasp, your back arching into him, and pressing your perfect tits further into him. His tongue reaches out to taste. Clean skin. Sharp, nervous sweat. The chemical smell of florals he doesn’t recognize. He would’ve cataloged it to memory if he’d smelled it on you. 

Perfume. You wore perfume for him. 

He groans, letting his mouth move down your flesh. His flesh. Flesh he wants to belong to him. 

He wants to bite. His teeth ache to break skin. 

He never wanted to bite Rebecca. 

Becca was his because the ring on her finger said so. Because three months of courting eight years ago, (approved by both their families, observed carefully by devoted church members) said so.

You didn’t have that. He needed another way to show you were his. 

“You’re not wearing anything under your dress, are you?” His voice is deeper than he intends. 

“N..No,” You writhe, “No, I wasn’t planning…I wasn’t planning for this…Brother Carson came while I was drying my hair and-“ 

“Don’t lie to me,” He plays with the first button on your dress, “Not here. Not now.” 

So you knew, too. You were hoping too. How long were you hoping for? He would’ve given it so much sooner…

Divine timing. All in God’s Divine Timing. 

He undoes the button and tries to hide the smirk into your skin. More of your innocent flesh for him to devour. Your collarbones greet him. His kisses turn to sucking. His teeth graze and you moan so pitifully, your head tilting back to give him more access. 

“You’re gonna leave marks,” You whimper. But your hand moves to cradle his skull anyway. 

You like this. Your stomach tenses. His own hands tease your nipples, running his thumbs over them. He could bottle the broken, shocked noises that pour out of your mouth. 

The only good thing Rebecca could say about him now, when she wasn’t disgusted with him, was that he could touch her right. When she let him touch, he could make her cum. Maybe she hated herself a little for it, maybe that’s why she hasn’t left him yet. 

But Jeb knew he never touched you in a way that made you feel good. Carson never would. The whimpers, whispers, praises, moans-they’re his and his alone. 

He pulls away from the spot he’s necking on. A light trail of his salvia connect him to the purple-green spot. There’s the slightest indentation of his teeth. There’s more he can see. Hickies. He’s left them on you. Painted you in dark reds and purple. 

Mine. Mine. Mine. 

He should be careful, at least leave them under the collar of your shirt. But he can’t stop. It’s almost a compulsion to keep going. 

His neck is bent at a weird angle from where he’s sitting. It’s making his journey to leave his marks more difficult. He moves to capture your lips again. The most logical thing is to pull you into his lap so every single perfect inch of you is pinned against him. 

“J…Jeb…” You whine when he pulls away. 

He undoes the second button. The fabric gives and your cleavage deepens. Suddenly, touching you over your dress isn’t enough. He needs to touch your skin, to taste it all. 

He can feel the heat of your bare, hot pussy through his pants, pressing against his cock. You’re trembling against him. Another button and you’re almost naked. He groans. He kisses your lips again, then your chin, your collarbones, down the plane of your chest-

“S…stop.” 

It’s agony to pull away. Agony to watch you stumble off him, to cover your body from him. His body aches, like stitches had been torn from his skin where you’d been so briefly connected. He’s dazed, head spinning. 

You’re both breathing hard. You’re pressing your knuckles into your lower lip, trying to avoid looking at him. 

“I’m sorry if I…I misunderstood.” He moves off the stool, “I didn’t want to hurt you. I can go-“

Words feel foreign in his mouth now. His brain is screaming to reach out, to touch you. 

“No,” You etch out a mirthless laugh, “No, Jeb. You didn’t hurt me. I’m so stupid…” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“You’re married, Jeb,” You finally look at him, “You’re married and you have a family and-“ 

Guilt. You feel so guilty. It comes out of you in waves. You have a one handed death grip trying to close your open dress. You’re picking at your nails again, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears. 

“Is that it? That’s why you’re upset?” 

“Isn’t that reason enough?” You rub at your eye, “You’re with me almost everyday. Do you know how many times I almost asked for you to kiss me or touch me or bend me over and fuck me? ”

He can’t breathe suddenly.

“But I didn’t. I didn’t because Rebecca would call. Where else would you be? She knows to call my house. That’s where her husband is after work. Not with her, not at the office. He’s with the mistress he hasn’t even touched.” 

“Honey…” 

You wince like he hit you, “I tried to stop wanting you. I did. I didn’t want to lose you. But the way you looked at me when I asked you for the coffee…like you wanted to eat me alive where I was standing…I knew…”

“Things started making sense. I got hopeful you felt the same way. So I wanted you to come here. I wanted you to kiss me and touch me and…” You do a little flourish with your hand, “But then Robert showed up instead of you. He just kept reminding me about Rebecca. About the girls. What a good dad and husband you were. Like he knew what I was trying to do.” 

Jeb tries not to think about how easy it would be to find Robert Carson’s home. He pushes that aside. 

“What we’re doing is so obvious to everyone that Robert Carson wanted to remind me of just how much of a family man you are,” You let out another bitter, little laugh before the tears come, “And I’m stupid. I’m weak. I’m jealous. I’m angry.” 

“Please-“

“She gets you. She gets to sleep beside you and she has your babies and she has your last name but she doesn’t even know you,” Tears stream down your face, “And it isn’t even her fault that I hate her so much. It isn’t mine. It isn’t yours. It’s this fucking cage all of us are trapped in. But no matter what I tell myself, you’re her husband.” 

“I can leave,” There’s no space between you anymore as he gathers your shivering body into his arms, “We can leave. Go wherever you want, honey.” 

“Your girls, Jeb. What about the girls?” 

There’s the cold water. So frigid, it chills him to the core. 

His family or his heart. He has to choose. He can’t have both. There is no universe that Rebecca would let him see his children if he left the church, much less leave her for another woman. 

He’d be leaving them without protection in a wolf den. 

“I can’t ask you to make that choice,” You mummer against him, “I could never ask you to do it.” 

“I love you,” It falls out of his mouth but it’s true.

 He loves you so much at this moment it’s almost too much. He wants to burn everything down in your name. You are trying to protect him.  

“I love you, too,” You murmur, “But what are we going to do about it?” 

“Why not this?” He buries his face into your hair, “For as long as we can, until I can figure it out?” 

You whimper out his name again. His head shakes as he brings you in tighter. 

“Baby, please,” The desperation in his voice scares him, “You’ve given me something that no one else has. I’m starving for you. You take up every single spare inch of space in my brain. I love you. Please, don’t turn me away now.” 

You touch him, you turn his head towards yours, and you kiss him. His answer and his downfall all in one. The sun has set further down the tree line, making crisscross patterns on the floor. It’s almost 3pm. It’s a good thing he said he was working late. 

He backs you into the dining room. He takes a break only to lift you off the ground and lay you on the dining table. Jeb settles between your legs, leaning over you. He finishes unbuttoning the dress, sliding the fabric off your shoulders. 

“Fucking Christ,” He runs his fingers down your torso, “You’re so beautiful, I can’t believe you’re real.” 

Your tits were absolutely worth obsessing over. He finishes his trail of kisses toward them. His lips encircle your dusty pink nipple and his tongue traces spirals around it. Your hips press up against him hard. 

“You’re just full of sins today,” Your whisper is watery and low, “Taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Not in vain,” He presses a little further into you when he pulls away from your breasts, “I’m appreciating the majesty of his creation.” 

He goes back, sucks the skin of your breast like he had your neck. You breathe hard. He tries another experiment. Sucks your nipple in the same way. 

You cry out, moving back against him. Grinding. You’re trying to grind your pussy on him. 

“I don’t…” You swallow, face flushing hot, “I don’t know what’s happening…” 

“Tell me how you feel,” He almost growls. 

His cock is throbbing. He moves his all too eager mouth to your other breast, his free hand moving to caress the one he’d already lovingly tortured. 

“I’m…down there-“

“Your pussy,” He supplies.

“My pussy…” The word sounds so foreign coming out of your mouth, “My pussy is…is…wet. Hot. Hurts a little bit. But I want you to…to touch.” 

He looks up at you, “Do you want me to kiss you there?” 

Your eyes squeeze shut. 

“Yes, please,” In a single breath. 

His tie is thrown somewhere in the ether. His suit jack joins it. Oh his baby. His sweet girl. The most precious thing… 

He gets on his knees. Your dress had ridden up your thighs already. He’s eye level with your cunt. Cunt sounds so vulgar. It doesn’t fit with his image of you. But now, looking at it-

It’s soaked. It’s dripping down your thighs. It’s begging him to call it a cunt. He licks his lips. 

He’s never done this before. He tried with his wife, but she’d screamed and nearly kicked him in the head. How dare he touch his lawfully wedded bride in a way that he wanted, but not in the way God had instructed? 

So he let the matter rest. Until now. When it reared up on its hind legs and howled. 

“Tell me everything,” He commanded, “Everything that comes into your head when my mouth is on you.” 

“ Yes Jeb ,” You whine, “Jeb, please .” 

He starts by kissing. Kissing along the folds of your cunt, before his tongue gets too curious. He groans at your taste. The taste of your arousal hits him harder than any alcohol Bill tried to tease him with. More tempting. A buzz so intense his brain is rewired to crave only this. 

“ Oh my God…”

He smiles to himself. Yeah, God can watch you come on his face. The only goal now is to taste your orgasm. He focuses on your clit, flattening his tongue against it. 

“Do that again!” 

He does. He buries his face into your cunt. Another few hot stripes against your clit before he teases it. Licking around it, moving it side to side gently with his tongue. 

Your fingers grip at his hair, “Like that…fuck…” 

Hearing you curse, tasting you on his tongue. It makes his blood run hot. His wedding ring is still on. He stalls, just a brief moment before he decides if it should stay on. 

He slides his ring finger inside you. 

He sucks, kisses, licks just to make up for the second long loss of sensation. 

If his vows meant nothing, if any other good ole Mormon boy could take his place, then the silly gold band he wore also meant nothing. His wedding ring is getting baptized in your arousal. Its new purpose was to remind him of this exact moment. He kisses your inner thigh, nuzzling the flesh with his cheek. 

“‘ts good, so good.” 

“You’re so wet, honey,” He whispers to you. 

“Is that…okay?” 

“Baby…”

Another finger slides inside you almost on instinct. He can make it better. He can always make it better, you just have to ask. He pumps them in and out of you, trying to find that spot inside you. When he does, your upper body almost jolts off the table. 

“Baby, your pussy is heaven,” He breathes against your clit, “If I’d known this is what you tasted like, what you felt like, I wouldn’t have waited. I would’ve eaten your pussy way sooner.” 

“ I need you inside of me.”

It’s all he needs to hear before he’s back on his feet. He unbuttons his pants, his gun holster and belt hit the ground. He takes himself out of his temple garb just to rub against you. Nothing in the way. He nearly cums right then. 

The condom in his glove box suddenly feels like an enemy. He doesn’t want protection. He wants to sink into your welcoming heat with nothing in the way. Your legs are shaking around him. 

“Can I…?”

“ Please, fuck, please.” 

The tip presses in. You adjust fast. He presses in further and your eyes widen. 

“That wasn’t all of it?” 

“No, honey,” He smiles down at you. 

“Is…is this all of it?” 

“It can be,” He kisses your nose, “If you want, I can stop here.” 

“Oh my God, you’re gonna kill me.” Your wide eyes scan his face and move between your legs, “My ex, he wasn’t as…” 

“Do you want me to keep going?” 

His hand moves back between your legs to put pressure on your clit. Your eyes roll back into your head. 

“Yes.” 

You're dripping onto the dining room floor by the time he’s flush against you. Your pussy grips him tight. He presses his forehead against yours. Your hands grip his shoulders. 

He’s lost in you. His new God. The only thing to him that made any sense. It feels like a dream. If he moves too fast, it’ll ripple and fall away. His thrusts are slow and languid.

He has to savor you. The sound of your voice and the roughness of your breathing. Your kisses. The taste of you. The smell of your sweat mixing with your perfume. He wants to commit every bit to memory. He bitterly regrets not getting you completely bare. The thought of hidden beauty marks or freckles make him nearly pull out to undress you. 

But-

“Fuck you feel so good.” 

“Better than your wife?” 

“So much better. Never want anyone else’s cunt but yours…” 

It isn’t a lie. He brings his lips to yours, brushing them together. He breathes you in. Your legs tighten around him. He rolls his hips faster into you and you cling to him. 

“Stay with me tonight,” You whisper, “Can move your car into the garage or on the back lawn. And nobody will know.” 

He kisses you properly, trying to distract you. He did say he was working late, but Rebecca would be expecting him to at least come home. It was tempting though. Getting to sleep beside you may be the first restful sleep he’d had in months. 

The possibility of feeling this all consuming heat around him again made the offer sweeter. He ruts into you properly, pulls out all the way and slams into you again. 

“I’ll stay, honey,” He whispers, “Go to bed with you.” 

“Jeb-“ 

He fucks into you again, same rough tempo, “But I’ll have to leave early. Might not have time to fuck you again or say bye. I’ll have to leave you something to remember me by.” 

He’s grabbing your hips, lifting you up to slam into you. You hiss. Your nails dig into his flesh. He can’t even begin to care about who might see the scratches on his shoulders, down his back. You made them. You blessed his skin with them. 

Holiness is above reproach, isn’t it? 

He leans down, tracing the hickies he’d left with his tongue. 

Then he bites. 

His teeth sink into a bruise like the flesh of an apple. Your fingers curl into his hair, pulling at his scalp. Lovely pain that makes his bite tighten. 

You scream. 

Your cunt clamps around him like a vice, you press yourself as far against him as you can. No inch of you can be separated. His name comes out of you like a prayer, like a mantra. 

You come apart around his cock so hard, your body trembles in the aftershocks. You soak him, drip down him, and he’s a goner. 

He doesn’t have time to pull out. His body is separate from his mind as he fucks you through the tremors. Fast, uncoordinated. 

The world whites out for a blissful few seconds. The only thing is the feeling of filling your pussy. The only thing keeping him tethered to Earth is you. 

You. You. You. Perfect you. Godly you. Made in His image. 

It takes him a moment to regain his breath. For the world to slowly fade back into sepia color. The sunset is just starting. Orange floods the kitchen while the Sun disappears behind the tree line. Like a voyeur retreating after the event is done. 

God was a pervert. 

Jeb couldn’t blame him. His head lay between your collarbones. Your arms are shaking where they’re wrapped around him. 

He just cheated on his wife. 

He’s sure the guilt will come later. Not now though. Now, he’s too busy carrying you to your bedroom, laying you on the mattress and finally sliding the rest of your dress off.

“The curtain…” You say. 

He gets up from his place on the bed to draw it. He fleetingly remembers that first night, when he helped you out of the glass. 

Fucking a dead man’s wife in the room he died in can be his final sin of the day.