I was the Pope of the Liberation Church, after all. And from the frantic, desperate thoughts leaking from her mind—the years-long drought, the lonely nights, the way she'd touch herself thinking of men she'd never have—I knew Mrs. Henderson hadn't had a proper orgasm in a very, very long time.
What a shame. What a solvable, solvable problem.
"Mr. Carter. Miss Torres." Her voice was a valiant attempt at control, a professional tenor that couldn't quite hide the slight tremor underneath. She swallowed before she spoke, a nervous tell. "How wonderful of you to grace us with your presence."
"Mrs. Henderson," I said, smiling. Not my usual smile, but something warmer, knowing. The kind of smile that said I could see right through her.
She let out a breath, a helpless, almost inaudible sigh. Her lips parted, her tongue darting out to wet them before she caught herself. This hungry cougar. She couldn't help herself.
