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  The Preacher's Son #3 Unbroken

  (c) 2012 Jasinda Wilder


  October 26, 2012

  This story you're ogling on your hot little digital device is 12,6000 words, or 50 book pages long.

  WARNING: This story contains super-hot sex, M/F. For adults, 18+ only


  My heart stopped, and my mouth went dry. Tre tensed, but held his position.

  "She's a woman, Dan," Tre said, "not a possession. Go away."

  Tre stumbled backward with Dan following, the barrel of a pistol pressed against Tre's forehead.

  "Don't tell me what to do, you little shit," Dan said, shoving the gun to send Tre stumbling backward. "I'll fucking kill you and no one will give a fuck."

  Dan's pale blue eyes found me, a greedy, lecherous smile curved his mouth. "I see you got the whore all ready for me." He gestured with the barrel of the gun. "Get over here, bitch."

  Tre's eyes were blazing with anger and fear. He glanced at me, and I shook my head. I didn't want him to get hurt because of me. I slid off the bed, keeping the sheet wrapped around my chest.

  "Lose the sheet, Shea." Dan tilted the gun toward his crotch, and then pointed it at Tre. "Get on your knees and blow me, or I'll blast the punk's head off."

  I swallowed hard, my hands shaking. I didn't want to do this, but I couldn't let Tre get hurt.

  "No, Shea, don't," Tre said, his voice strained. I didn't dare look at him. "Don't do it."

  Dan glanced at Tre, contemptuous. Dan was shorter than Tre by several inches, thinner and had nowhere near the same bulk. He was dressed in an expensive suit, wore a Rolex and snakeskin shoes, gaudy gold rings on his fingers. His fine blond hair was coming loose at the sides, slicked back on the top. Dan was tense, nervous, fidgety, angry.

  Tre, on the other hand, was naked except for the towel cinched around his waist. Fear and anger showed in Tre's dark brown eyes, but he was leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, seemingly relaxed. He was ready to pounce, I could tell. He had no intention of letting this happen.

  I was frozen. I didn't know what to do. There was no way I could touch Dan. I'd rather die first. The problem was, Dan would kill Tre instead of me.

  Dan pulled back the hammer of the pistol. "Now, bitch."

  I forced my feet forward, one step at a time, still clutching the sheet to my chest. A few, far-too-short steps took me within hand's grasp of Dan. He snatched the sheet from my stiffened fingers, and I was naked, vulnerable. Dan reached for me again, with the hand gripping the pistol, pushed my head down. His other hand moved for his zipper, lowered it. He rooted in his boxers and pulled out his penis, still trying to force my unwilling head down.

  For that split second, Tre was forgotten, all of Dan's attention focused on bending me to his will.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of movement, tan skin rippling through space. I threw myself to the side as Tre collided with Dan in a bone-crunching tackle. The gun went flying, landed under a chair. Tre and Dan rolled and came to a stop with Tre on top, fists flying, bashing, smashing. Dan's face crumpled under Tre's fist, and once again I had to pull him away. Tre scrambled away from the prone, limp, and bleeding form of my husband. My ex-husband. He may not have signed the papers, but he wasn't my husband.

  Tre scooped up his jeans and shoved his legs into them, then stripped the bed of its sheets. He rummaged through Dan's pockets, emptying them, then manhandled his body into a chair, using the bed sheets to tie him up.

  I was still frozen, shocked.

  "Get dressed, Shea," Tre ordered. I stared at him, uncomprehending. "Shea? Are you with me? I ain't stayin' here. We gotta go. Come on, baby. Get dressed."

  "Go? Where are we going?"

  "Anywhere. Away from here, away from him." He grabbed my bra from the handle of the bathroom door where I'd left it, handed it to me, then pulled a clean pair of panties from my suitcase, along with a pair of boy-shorts and a T-shirt.

  I put them on, numb. Seeing Dan had thrown my brain out of gear and I couldn't seem to get it to click back into place. Having clothes on got me running a bit better. I packed the rest of our stuff, and then Tre grabbed our bags as well as the set of keys from Dan's pockets. The key was for an Aston Martin.

  Tre vanished out the door with our things, leaving me alone with Dan, who was beginning to stir. Blood drooled from his jaw, congealed at his nose and covered his neck and shirt front. His bruised, purpling eyes fluttered, and then he jerked awake, struggled against the sheets binding him. They held tight. I scooped the gun up from beneath the chair.

  Blind hate flooded through me, now, with Dan bound helpless in front of me. I could get revenge. I pressed the pistol to his head, remembering all the insults, the times he'd slapped me, the hookers, the drugs...

  "Do it," Dan slurred. "Shoot me. You know you want to."

  I did want to. It would be so easy. I pulled the hammer back with both thumbs, shoved the barrel into his mouth.

  Then I felt firm hands pull the gun away from me, felt Tre's hands twist me aside.

  "No, Shea. Let's just go. Leave him." Tre guided me to the door and pushed me through it. I heard him do something behind me, then a thump of the gun hitting the floor and Tre's hand touched me on the back.

  "What did you do?" I asked.

  "Wiped prints off it. I saw an episode of CSI, once, while my folks were out."

  He helped me into a car, tan leather seats. Tre slipped in beside me in the driver's seat, started the car with a smooth purr. It wasn't my car, it was Dan's. The Aston Martin. His baby. His pride and joy. I grinned. Having this car stolen would really chap his ass.

  Tre drove fast, enjoying the power of the car.

  "Slow down, Tre," I said, shock finally wearing off. "This is a stolen car, after all."

  "True." He brought the car down to a safe, legal speed.

  We drove south in silence for a few miles. After a while, Tre finally glanced at me. He was antsy in the driver's seat, tapping his fingers, eyes flicking. I wasn't sure if he was nervous from having stolen a three hundred thousand dollar car, or if he was flushed with adrenaline from the fight. Both, most likely

  "Are you okay?" He asked.

  "It was scary. Seeing him...it threw me for a loop. I don't know why he finally showed up after all this time." I tried a smile, didn't quite succeed. "You were amazing, yet again."

  Tre grinned at me, but I could see the residual fear still bubbling behind his eyes. "I just, I couldn't let nothin' happen to you, Shea. Not at the hands of that--that--bastard."

  "You protected me," I said, feeling the adrenaline kick in now, after the fact, as boiling heat in my belly, a trembling anticipation in my thighs.

  I don't know if Tre saw something in my eyes, or if he felt it himself, but his eyes darkened with desire, his nostrils flaring. His hand snaked across the space between us to touch the bare skin of my leg, just below the hem of my shorts. The boy's boxer's he'd thrown at me were loose, riding low on my hips and loose around my legs. They were something I usually slept in, rather than wore out in public, but now I was suddenly glad for their looseness.

  His fingers slipped higher, moving from the solid muscle of my quad inward to the soft silk of my inner thigh. I slid down in the leather seat until the lap belt creased the light padding over my ribs beneath my breasts. My knees spread apart to give him access. He didn't rush, though, and I knew I'd taught him well. He drew out the moment of contact, brushing close and drawing away, keeping his eyes on the road and letting his fingers explore by touch.

  One finger brushed the line between my nether lips, releasing a spurt of wetness from within me. The same finger slid across my opening, searching upward for the hard button of my clit. I gasped when he found it,