…In the church, Anthony took her arm and pushed her against a stone column, hiding them from the entrance and partially obscuring them in ancient shadows.
He blocked her protest with his mouth, tasting chocolate, cherries, and heat. He pinned her against the stone with his body, devouring her mouth, attacking her ruthlessly with his tongue and teeth. Christine didn’t hesitate to respond. She never did.
But she didn’t want to kiss him. She wanted to fight him. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to take her shot, and she didn’t want to pull any punches. Her lips were rough, harsh, and unyielding. Anthony grabbed her shoulders, pulled her forward, and then pushed her into the column, hard enough to get her attention. Christine responded by digging her nails into the back of his neck, but she softened beneath him, allowing him to kiss her with a bit of tenderness, even if he didn’t mean it. He plundered her mouth until his chest tightened and he needed to step away from the way she smelled, and felt, and tasted.
Christine rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand, wiping away the smeared lipstick. He gently touched his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue—it felt sore, even bruised.
“Going to fuck me on the altar?” she spat out. “What would your dear old mama say?”
Anthony’s fists curled at his side. He knew he would never do it, but he thought he could fuck her on the altar. Could do it easily, right that second…