1. Jaxcen

Chapter one

Jaxcen

T he sky lights up overhead as I leap from the curb, the reflection of the lightning bouncing off the hundreds of windows lining the tall buildings surrounding me. I count in my head, trying to prepare myself for the pending clap of thunder, quickening my pace as much as my pencil skirt will allow.

I ignore the chill of the water splashing up from the road as I run, knowing my Tony Biancos are going to need some TLC when I get home later. As much as I love these pumps, my need to get this over and done with is my top priority right now.

It wouldn’t matter if you had gone straight home, Jaxcen.

Shoosh, I silently snap at my internal thoughts while I run, being careful as I hurry over the tram tracks so I don’t get my heel caught and fall.

Thankful that the Melbourne city streets aren’t busy this late on a Tuesday night, I don’t have to continuously check for oncoming cars, instead keeping my focus on the church up ahead, and the large metal doors that hint to mediaeval times Australia never saw.

St Catherine’s Church is never open this late, but I clearly saw a couple of men slip inside from where I was across the street, and since Father Peters is obviously working right now, I’m sure he can spare me some time.

Darting around the two blacked out Land Rovers parked on the street in front of the church, I hurry through the gate and up the path, holding my breath just as the sky lights up everything around me again.

Reaching the door, it creaks a little as I heave it open and quickly dash inside to get out of the rain just in time for a loud clap of thunder to rattle the very foundation I stand on.

Damn. The sky is angry tonight.

Taking a moment, I shake my feet and arms to dislodge as much water as I can in the small foyer, annoyed that I didn’t think to grab my raincoat when I left work earlier.

Of course I didn’t think about a coat when all I could think of was….

No.

This has to stop, Jaxcen.

Shame burrows deep in my gut, reminding me why I made a detour here instead of heading straight home.

Father Peters will help.

Glancing down at my ivory blouse clinging to my white lacy bra, I tug my thin black blazer tighter, trying to cover myself up as much as possible, before heading inside the main building.

As I step in, another flash of lightning illuminates the whole interior of the church in a rainbow of colours from the stained glass windows.

“Wow,” I whisper to myself, taking a moment to appreciate the beauty of it, something that’s not typically seen on my regular visits during the day.

The towering height of the cathedral-like ceiling looks haunting as it’s plunged into darkness before the dull glow coming from the dimmed wall lights shows hints of its beauty. I take a moment to appreciate just how impressive St Catherine’s is, and the history held within the walls.

So many secrets.

Especially the confessionals.

That thought draws my eyes in that direction, and my gaze catches on Father Peters standing at the other end of the aisle talking to a man who’s sitting in the front pew .

From here, it looks like Father Peters is offering the man comfort, the sight tugging my lips into a smile.

He’s such a kind and generous man, his greying hair always styled into the same respectable short back and sides with a subtle side part, reminding me of what a grandad would look like if I had one.

Ignoring the puddle I’ve just left behind on the slate tiled floor from my rain drenched clothes, I move forward towards the man I came here to see, my heels clicking loudly echoing through the celestial structure, making my presence known.

My steps slow as Father Peters and the man he’s talking to in hushed tones both dart their heads in my direction, and for a moment I feel like I shouldn’t be here.

But that can't be right, can it?

This is my church.

It’s not until Father Peters’ frown turns into a smile, that the niggling feeling that I’ve walked into something I’m not supposed to see diminishes and I hurry forward again.

I don’t get a chance to really see the other man, his head turning to face the altar at the front, giving me his back, but for some reason as I near, I get the awkward feeling again that I’ve just interrupted something.

“Miss Summers. What a lovely surprise.” Father Peters beams, giving me his full attention as he steps forward to meet me. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, Father. I apologise for coming in so late. I saw that you were open and I needed to…” I trail off, my gaze shifting to the man sitting in the front pew who can most definitely hear me.

My cheeks flush, my inner humiliation taunting me.

What would he think if he knew why you’re here, Jaxcen? He’d be disgusted.

“You needed to?” Father Peters urges, gaining my attention again to finish my sentence.

“I-ah.” Again my eyes snap to the other man before I lean in closer to Father Peters. “I would like to use the confessional,” I whisper, and Father Peters nods, his smile warm, his gaze understanding.

“Of course.” He gestures to the confessional booths built into the left wall. “Head over. I’ll be right there.”

“Thank you.” I sigh, shooting him a grateful smile as relief washes over me.

This is good. I’ll confess and do my penance and everything will be okay.

Father Peters steps aside for me to pass, and as I do, I get the first look at the man in the front pew, his gaze shifting in my direction as if he’s tracking my movements in his peripheral.

His dark hair is damp, probably from the same rain storm I ran in from moments ago, and his white shirt is soaked, especially along his broad shoulders and back. The fabric clings to his skin, clearly showing dark inky patterns underneath, that run up to appear on the side of his neck, finishing just below his ear.

His jawline is dusted in dark facial hair. Not enough that you can’t see how chiselled it is, but enough to make me wonder what it would be like to touch it.

Really, Jaxcen? You’re in a church!

I’m walking too quickly to take in much more than that, and I’m a little disappointed to be frank because there’s something about his presence that has me intrigued.

Does he always come to church this late?

The one thing I definitely notice is the air of danger that swirls around him, and a shiver runs up my spine.

Maybe coming here was a bad idea.

Turning my focus on the confessional before me, I hurry forward, my heels clacking once again as I hear the deep rumble of Father Peters and the man talking quietly behind me.

Opening the heavy door of the booth, I step inside and turn back, my eyes landing on the man in the front pew as Father Peters heads my way .

My breath hitches as the man’s dark gaze catches mine, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he leans his forearms on top of his knees, the long sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to reveal intricate tattoos snaking down both forearms and onto his hands.

Damn. Is it hot in here?

He doesn’t really look like the type of guy that would deliberately come to church. The creep of my blush heats my cheeks, giving my ogling away, so I quickly close the door blocking the man’s view from me, and mine from his, and then, with a sigh, I kneel.

I hear the moment Father Peters steps into the other side, the door clicking closed before the small slot in the wall dividing us opens, revealing a decorative vent.

“Join me,” Father Peters says, and together we recite, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” and I sign the cross.

“May the Lord be in your heart and help you acknowledge your sins, and trust in his mercy.” He precedes and I respond.

“Amen.”

Then, I let my mind shift back to why I’m here.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.”

“What ails you this evening?” he asks, and I clear my throat before I begin.

“I went back, Father.”

“When did this happen?” he asks, his calm tone not scolding, yet I know if I could see his face, he’d surely look disappointed.

“Tonight,” I admit. “And Sunday night.”

“Two nights since last week?” he asks, and this time I can hear the surprise in his tone.

“And Friday night,” I rush out, feeling the shame heat my entire body.

“I see. What is it that you think keeps drawing you back?”

“My thoughts,” I admit quietly. “They are so impure, Father. They are getting worse and I’m afraid. ”

“Afraid of what?”

“Indulging,” I admit.

Father Peters clears his throat, and not for the first time do I wonder if he’s at a loss with me and my disturbing desires.

“Temptation is acknowledged by God, because resisting it can bring about strong personal growth, however, just as we discussed last week, the Lord does not wish us to face temptations that are beyond our ability to resist. I’m concerned that place may be beyond your ability, and that if you keep giving in to your temptation to go there, especially given your upcoming nuptials, that you will eventually give in to the temptation to indulge.”

“Yes, Father. I cannot explain why I returned,” I say, but the truth is, I know why I returned.

I’m curious.

Intrigued.

Wanting.

“What feelings were evoked when you went there?” he asks, and my thoughts return to the club, the dark atmosphere, the masks, and the acts committed.

Although humiliating, I’m about to explain about my need and arousal when shouting out in the church forces my confession to end abruptly.

“What on earth?” Father Peters mutters right as I hear him open his door, so I quickly stand and do the same.

“Get down!”

The deep command comes a second before I realise there are two men standing across the other side of the church, pointing large guns in my direction as the man that was sitting in the front pew runs towards me.

A gasp lodges in my throat and my eyes widen, Father Peters in my peripheral holding his hands out in front of him right before the man from the pew slams into me, sending us back into the booth.

A scream escapes me as loud gunfire echoes out in the church, bullets slamming into the booth door as the man shuts us into the tiny space .

Oh my Lord. We are going to die.

“Fuck,” he hisses, pressing me against the back wall with his tall, firm body, his hands still gripping my shoulders in the tight space. “Do me a favour, love. Reach around to my back pocket and pull out my phone.”

What? Why would he be asking me that right now?

“We’re going to die,” I whimper against his chest, my fingers gripping the front of his shirt like he’s my lifeline.

“The doors are bulletproof. We’re safe in here.” His breath fans over the top of my head, and I risk a glance up to see a smirk pulling at his lips.

Why the hell is he smiling?

We are about to die.

And why would the doors in a church confessional be bulletproof? Surely he’s just saying that to make me feel better.

“My pocket,” he snaps as another round of bullets pelt the door, jolting me out of my chaotic thoughts.

With a trembling hand, I peel my grip from his shirt and graze my hand over his side, feeling the strong ripple of muscle underneath that speaks of hours in the gym.

“So Miss Summers, what’s your first name?”

Is he really making small talk right now? Although to be honest, I’m kind of glad for it since the deep gravel of his voice seems to seep into my veins like the heat of a strong drink does, somehow calming me.

“Jaxcen.” The quiver in my tone gives away my fear as my fingers brush over his backside, finding a hard object under the fabric.

“Jaxcen Summers. What a stunning name.”

I scoff at his compliment, before focusing on finding the opening of his pocket.

“You don’t think it’s stunning?” he asks and I give my head a small shake.

“It’s nothing special, but thanks for the compliment,” I rush out, still trying to find the pocket opening.

“You’re copping a good feel there, Miss Summers.” He chuckles, this time his breath brushing over the side of my head as he gives his arse a little shake.

“Stop moving,” I snap, my fear controlling me as I try to get into his back pocket until finally I find the opening and slide my fingers in.

A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest, and as I grip what I assume is his phone, he tilts his hips forward right against my pelvis, making me very aware of all of him.

The gunfire out in the church has died down, but the explosions of my thundering heart rush past my ears with the heat of my cheeks just the beginning of the burn that ignites my entire body.

This isn’t right Jaxcen. You’re going to die at any moment and you’re getting turned on?

This has to be adrenalin, right? I can’t honestly be more focused on how it feels to have a man, this man , pressed against me, rather than the fact there are men with guns out in the church.

Think about Eddie. Not this man.

“Got it,” I mutter as I start tugging the phone from his back pocket, my voice raspy from fear and something else I refuse to analyse while I’m in the middle of a shoot out.

“Atta girl.” His words do something entirely inappropriate to me, and I nearly drop his damn phone as I try to bring it between us in the tight space.

Taking it from me quickly, he dials a number before pressing his phone to his ear.

“Be a love and get the gun I have tucked in my back waistband,” he orders quietly while he waits for whoever he called to answer.

My eyes widen, my gaze darting up to his as he winks and then turns his attention to whoever just answered his call.

A gun?

No. Surely he said something else .

“Where the fuck are you?” he snaps into his phone, his tone no longer playful but then he gives his hips a little wiggle against me in the playful manner he had only moments ago, reminding me that he asked me to do something.

Glancing up again, I hadn’t realised I’d looked away when I find his dark gaze pinning me.

“Gun, Jaxcen. Now.”

The demand in his tone is unmistakable.

Dark.

Menacing.

Terrifying.

Not an ounce of playfulness there.

Something shifts in the air between us, and I’m no longer sure if I’m safer in here, or out in the church where the gunmen have fallen quiet.

“Figure it out. I’m under fire. Two shooters.” The man barks into his phone, and I don’t delay any further, quickly reaching around his back again, this time up higher until my fingers brush cold metal.

A quiet gasp escapes me. I don’t know why. Maybe I didn’t believe him when he said he had a gun. Or maybe because it is a gun, and I’ve never actually touched one before. People don’t just have guns here in Australia.

A little scared that by touching it, it’ll somehow shoot me, I grip the hilt of the metal, my palm sweaty as I tug it free. It’s heavier than I thought it would be. Bigger too as I try to quickly slide it between the back of his body and the door.

“Get it fucking done.” The man snaps into the phone before ending the call, and with a trembling hand, I produce his weapon, hoping that’ll make him less angry.

“Thanks, love.” He winks again.

What the hell… he’s playful again. Is he flirting with me?

“Open the booth!” a voice yells from out in the church and a whimper escapes me as I duck my head into his chest.

“Shhh.” The man whispers against my ear, “You’re safe with me. ”

“Maybe we got him,” another voice says.

“Man, look at the door. The bullets didn’t go through. He’s in there.”

Was he telling the truth before? Are the confessional doors really bulletproof?

“Looks like it’s time for me to go out there,” the man says quietly shifting in the small space, before pressing his phone to my chest. “Look after this for me, love.”

“What?” I whisper-yell. “You can’t go out there. You’ll die.”

“Probably,” he agrees, still bloody smirking. “Give us a kiss then.”

“What!” I squeak and he chuckles.

“If I’m going to die, I’d like a last kiss.” He leans in closer, his lips hovering near mine.

“You can’t be serious,” I say breathlessly as his nose brushes mine, his warm breath fanning over my lips.

“I’m deadly serious, Miss Summers. You’re not going to deny a dying man his last wish, are you?”

Even though the men out in the church are still yelling for him to come out, all I can focus on is the way he presses into me, the way his spicy scent envelops me, the way his lips hover so closely near mine that I can feel their heat.

Is it cheating if I do this? It’s his dying wish and he's absolutely about to die. Surely Eddie would find this acceptable.

“No.” I breathe, giving in so easily, and the next second, his lips claim mine.

Everything I have been fighting against, my urges, my sinful desires, my past, fall away as I finally give in to temptation and indulge.

This man might be having his last kiss, but I’m having my first.

Well, it feels like that anyway, because I’ve never in my life been kissed like this before.

He parts my lips with his tongue, diving in and brushing against mine, and oh, a familiar ache shoots between my legs as I moan into his mouth.

His fingers delve into my blonde hair, tugging the strands at my nape, causing my head to tip back in a way that has him deepening the kiss.

I’m hot. From head to toe a fire licks underneath my flesh, my tense muscles melting away like butter as I take everything he’s giving.

The moment he shifts to nudge his knee between my legs, the ache in my core rejoices, and I find myself grinding against his thigh, sending a wave of pleasure through me, all thoughts of my fiancé vanishing.

A loud rattling makes us both stiffen, and I realise someone is trying to open the door.

“Fuck.” He breathes against my lips, slowly pulling back. “Lucky the lock is working, hey love.” His grin is mischievous, his straight white teeth flashing at me as he wags his brows. “It’s time for me to die now. With a hardon I might add.” He chuckles to himself, holding his gun up next to his head and bringing his other hand up to check it, for whatever one does to check a gun in a small space.

“I don’t think you should go out there,” I whisper, dread settling in my gut as reality sets back in.

“Don’t worry love, this will all be over in a flash.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he has already reached behind him and flicked open the latch, and before I can beg him one more time to stay, he spins with his gun raised and shoves the door open.