Branded (12 page)

“Please, Deacon,” she begged, writhing on the couch, slamming her hips upward, circling them, silently pleading with him to touch her, put her out of her misery. But he continued mercilessly, getting closer and closer to her pussy lips and the hidden bud beneath.

She felt owned, possessed. She felt wild and contained and on the verge—shit, on the edge—and she just needed release or she was going to lose it.

Deacon dragged his mouth to her other breast and suckled her nipple deep into his mouth. Mac groaned and fisted his hair. She was close, so close to flying, to breaking free. It had been so long
.
Too long. Or never. Because that's the way it felt to be with him.

She palmed her breast, still wet from Deacon's
mouth, and pulled and pinched her nipple as he suckled the other while kneading the flesh of her drenched sex below.

“Oh, honey,” Deacon rasped, blowing his warm breath on her sensitive nipple. “Squeeze it tight. You're about to come.”

Mac's breath caught. Every inch of her skin was on fire and electric. Her eyes shut tight and she tried to hold on. But it was no use. Deacon's palm covered the outside of her pussy, and as he suckled her tit deeply into his mouth, he pressed down over the sensitive wet skin that housed her clit and rubbed her fast and rhythmically.

In an instant, Mac broke apart, moaning and pumping her hips and saying his name over and over as heat surged through her blood. It was too much. No, it wasn't enough. She gulped for breath as the waves of pleasure grabbed hold and took her along for the ride. So caught up in the incredible sensation, she hardly noticed when Deacon left her breast and started trailing kisses down her ribs, her stomach, her hip bones. But when his fingers dipped into the wet crease of her pussy lips and moved down her trembling flesh, over her clit to the opening of her sex, she cried out and spread her legs wider.

“You're so pretty, Mackenzie,” he said, his breath fanning over her sex.

She looked down, blinked to rid her vision of
the blur and haze of climax, and saw him between her legs, his dark, tousled head wickedly close to her pussy.

He glanced up and met her with a look so fierce, so hungry her skin tingled and hummed.

“So pink, so wet,” he said as he eased two fingers inside of her.

Mac gasped at the feeling of sudden fullness.

“And so tight,” he murmured.

She could barely breathe, couldn't think. Her entire being was lost to the sensations running through her at a mile a minute. And when he started slowly pumping inside of her, so gentle, yet so deliciously deep, she let her head fall back, let her eyes close, and let her thighs fall brazenly to the sides.

“God, I can't wait to eat you,” he said on a growl, his thrusts gaining intensity and speed. “You're creaming all over my fingers, darlin'. Sweet . . .” His thumb found her clit, and as he fucked her with his fingers, he stroked her tight bud.

Mac couldn't believe her body, how it had already forgotten its recent orgasm and was desperately and hedonistically begging for another.

“That's right,” he crooned, thrusting fiercely within her now as she gripped the back of the couch and moved against his hand. “Your walls are squeezing me, Mackenzie. Crying against my fingers. Come, darlin'.”

As her breathing went rapid and heat built up within her blood, Deacon thrust a third finger inside of her. But he didn't continue to pump. Instead, he held himself there, all three fingers deep inside of her. And while he flicked her G-spot with the pads of those long, talented fingers, his thumb slowly circled her clit.

Crying out his name, Mackenzie came again, sweat breaking out on her skin, her hands trembling, her feet flexing. The waves crashed harder inside her now, shocking her system. She wanted to reach out and grab him, pull him over her, get him—his cock—inside her where it belonged. But once again, Deacon had other plans. Once again, he took her all the way to the edge, the near cooling of her body, of her orgasm, then started all over again.

His fingers eased out of her sex and she felt his hands wrap around her ankles, felt him press her knees back to her chest, exposing her completely.

Forcing her eyes open, her breath coming in stolen gasps now, she stared at him. He looked diabolical. He looked starving. He looked desperate. And he looked gorgeous—like a sex god in the shafts of moonlight coming in through the blinds.

His eyes lifted to connect with hers. Dark emerald green and dilated.

“I want you,” she said, her tone as close to begging as she'd ever come in her life. “I want you
inside me. I want you to let me rip off those jeans and fist you in my hand. I want to lick you, make you lose your breath, make you come.”

His nostrils flared and his jaw went tight. He shook his head slowly. “Just like I told you, darlin'. The only one who's going to come is you. Again . . . and again . . . and again.” His gaze dropped to her core. “Your clit is callin' out to me, sweetheart, pulsing with the need to be stroked by my tongue and suckled deep into my mouth.”

His words, his gaze, made her tired flesh pulse and cry out for more. She didn't know how this was possible, how she could take any more—and, God, how he could give so much without allowing her to give to him in return. She wanted him so badly. Wanted to feel him, touch him. It wasn't fair . . . It wasn't right. Her mind spun. Did he not want her to touch him? Make him moan and sigh and lose control?

“I'm so hungry, Mackenzie,” he said, opening her with his thumbs. “Just lookin' at you, how wet you are, how sweet you smell. I've got to taste you.” He dropped his head and licked her.

The instant his tongue made contact with her flesh, her mind shut down and blood rushed to her lower half again. Feeling as though she might pull his hair out if she grabbed his head at this point, Mac reached down and took hold of the couch cushions. As Deacon lost himself between
her thighs, ravaged her lips and sensitive clit, she mewled. Like an animal. She mewled.

“Fuck, I could eat you all night, darlin',” he said as he kissed and licked her inner thigh, his hands driving underneath her to hold her ass. “You taste so sweet.”

The heat was building inside her once again, and she was afraid—actually afraid—of what would happen to her both physically and emotionally if she came again. Would she lose herself? Would she break down in tears? Would she pass out? Why wasn't he letting her touch him?

“I don't know . . .” she uttered, exhausted. “I don't know if I can do it again.”

“Your body was made for this, Mackenzie,” he said, his voice tense with desire. “Let me show you.”

He eased her legs even farther apart, then slipped a broad finger back inside of her. Mac gasped and lifted her hips. Giving Deacon the perfect opportunity to slash his tongue over and over and over her clit.

Her fingers digging into the cushions, her head rolling from side to side, Mac felt her inner muscles clench, felt a new wave of cream wash over Deacon's finger.

“Aw, Mackenzie honey,” he said between flicks of his rough, hot tongue, “There's nothing I want more than to be inside of you, fucking you like this . . .”

“Yes,” she rasped, not caring anymore if she fell apart or cried or lost consciousness. She wanted him. “God, yes. Please, Deacon.”

“But not tonight,” he whispered. “Tonight I want you to know what it feels like to be worshipped. I want you to know that every breath, every sound, every drop of sweet cream from your hot pussy makes me the happiest fucking man in the world. I need you to know.”

“I do . . . But why? Oh, God, I can't—”

“Come again, honey. Let go and come. Scream. No one can hear you but me, and fuck, baby, I need to hear it. I need to know that you need me, too.”

He flattened his tongue on her clit and let her ride him, let her take herself there as he thrust another finger inside of her and fucked her in a steady rhythm.

“Oh, God! Deacon! Oh, God!” She jackknifed up, grabbed his hair and fisted it, pressed him hard against her and fiercely pumped her hips.

The tornado of unimagined, never-before-experienced pleasure slammed into her body. She was nothing but air one moment and fire the next. She stiffened, then spasmed, and tried to gulp air. And then Deacon wrapped his lips around her clit and suckled her gently.

The scream that tore from her throat echoed throughout the cottage. Mackenzie knew in that
moment that her body didn't belong to her anymore. It was Deacon's. For good or for evil. And that no matter what happened between them, what damage they did to each other emotionally with their opposing goals—or what other partners they had in the future—in her heart, she was his.

•   •   •

Deacon sat on the bed in the cottage's very tiny bedroom and stared down at her. Worn-out, tears running down her cheeks, Mackenzie had fallen asleep thirty seconds after coming. Coming so hard Deacon had thought he might go insane from wanting her so badly.

Never in his life had he done something like that. Wanted to prove not only to her that he meant what he'd said about her being special and extraordinary, but to himself as well. That he wasn't the selfish bastard he had come to believe he was. That his reasons for being here weren't just about the Triple C anymore. They should have been. But they weren't.

She stirred, and he reached for the covers and pulled them up to her chin. Then leaned over and kissed her softly on the mouth. Tenderness pulsed through him, mingled with the desire that refused to even dim. She was so beautiful, but his attraction to her was so much more than that. She had the courage he lacked. She'd lost her
best friend, the sister of her heart, and yet she'd been able to move on, move past it without wanting to take down or wipe out anything that brought back those memories.

Her eyes fluttered and she rolled to one side, gripping the blanket. “Deacon?” she said in a soft, sleepy voice.

“I'm here, darlin'.”

Her eyes opened this time, and she blinked a few times before looking up at him groggily. “I fell asleep?”

“Just for a few minutes.”

“You carried me in here?”

He nodded.

She smiled, looking all too luscious in that bed. “That was sweet of you.”

“I do have my moments.”

“More than you think, I imagine.”

The way she was looking at him, like she could see straight through him, unnerved Deacon something fierce. Her effect on him was the one thing he didn't seem able to control. Which both excited and intrigued him, but also concerned him. Nothing could get in the way of his plans for the Triple C. Not even the woman before him.

He leaned in, kissed her again, and stood up.

Mackenzie's brows drew together in a frown. “What are you doing?”

“Going back to the house.”

“What?” She sat up, didn't bother with the sheet that kept her breasts from his view.

His cock raged to be freed. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait.” She reached out and grabbed his arm. “Don't go.”

He stared at her hand around his forearm. Her touch burned him, made his insides flare with lust and aggression. “If I stay, I'm going to fuck you.”

“Then for God's sake, stay.”

His eyes cut to her, pinned her. “Nothing I want more.” Nothing, he thought, his chest tight, his cock straining behind his zipper. But he needed to get himself together. He felt like he could break down at any moment, tell her the truth of what had happened to him and to Cole and James. And goddammit, he didn't want her to know. Didn't want her to see him weak. Just kissing her made him question his plan, his need for retribution. That was just unacceptable.

He placed his free hand over hers and slowly, gently disentangled himself from her grasp. With a look of supreme confusion, she dropped back against the pillows, but in her movement, her arm knocked against the brown paper bag he'd placed beside her. He'd put it there, thinking she would probably sleep all night, hoping it would make
her think of him when she woke up in the morning.

She picked up the bag. “What's this?” she asked him.

“Just a little something for you.”

Her brow lifted, she opened the bag. “Brownies?” She looked up at him, her midnight-blue eyes now a gorgeous combination of curiosity, confusion, and pleasure. “What are you doing, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

He sighed. “I don't know. But I hear there's nothing a woman likes more than chocolate.”

She smiled. “Funny, I think I heard that, too.”

“You get some sleep, darlin',” he said. “And I'll come by around six tomorrow night.”

“Six tomorrow? For what?”

“We have a date.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“I think we'd better.”

“And where are we going?”

“Here. I like the new digs. And I like being alone with you.”

Grinning, she reached in the bag and took out a brownie. “I like that, too.”

“In fact, I'll cook.”

She dragged her gaze away from the brownie long enough to give him a look of mystification. “You know how to cook on a woodstove?”

“I'm pretty sure I can remember how it's done.”
He headed for the door. “Night, darlin'. Enjoy your brownies.”

“You sure you don't want a bite before you go?” she called after him, her voice smoothly sexual.

He turned and glanced over his shoulder. “Nothing could be sweeter or taste better than you.” His eyes ran over her and he shook his head. “Forget chocolate, I want you on my tongue for the rest of the night.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Damn you, Deacon Cavanaugh.”

He chuckled, then turned and left the bedroom.

James felt his phone buzz against his ass as he moved down the aisle at Bacon's Hardware. Pulling it from the back pocket of his jeans, he checked the number, then turned it off. Los Angeles, California, had somehow gotten ahold of his cell number, and even at seven a.m. West Coast time, refused to take no for an answer. Well, more specifically, a woman from Walking Nights Production Company refused to take no for an answer. They wanted to do a reality show all about James and his work. According to the producer, June Dupree, “the Dog Whisperer is totally out, and the Horse Whisperer is totally in.”

“Damn,” he muttered, dropping his phone back in his pocket. He knew he shouldn't have done that spread for
People
magazine. But they were giving two million to his charity, and though he didn't need the money himself, when it came to his horses, he rarely said no.

He'd said no to the producer, however, told her he wasn't into the spotlight, made him damn uncomfortable.

A friend of his had told him, “They're turned on by you being turned off. They love how in the shadows you are. Hard to get.”

Now, Cole was someone who loved the spotlight. The brighter the better. Between the screaming fans and the punches, body checks and knees to the lower back, he was able to shut out the past. James made it a point to push back, push away his memories, too. But he liked to keep them hidden in the darkness, along with the rest of his secrets.

At the end of the aisle, he turned to head toward the back of the store. He got about three feet when a little boy nearly crashed into him. He was running hard, looking behind himself. Instead of letting him fall backward, James caught him.

“Walker!” a woman called. She sounded like she was one aisle over. “Walker Days! Where are you?” She came rushing around the corner, a baby in her arms. When she saw James holding on to her boy, some of her panic receded. She ran over to him. “Don't do that again.” Then she looked up at James. “Sorry about that,” she said. “He just takes off these days.”

Fingers of tension curled up James's back, and he fought for control. “S'okay.” He came down to
one knee and turned the boy to look at him. “You stay with your mama, y'hear?”

The little boy, who probably was no more than five, gave James a big nod, his brown eyes wide with dread.

“She loves you,” James continued, “and she doesn't want to lose you. It would make her very sad. Understand me, little man?”

Again the boy nodded.

James stood up, gave the mother a smile and a nod.

Looking at him a little strangely, as if she thought she recognized him, the boy's mother offered him a quick thank-you, then took her boy's hand and led him away.

As James continued down the aisle, every inch of him from muscle to skin to blood was on edge. He felt like a rubber band that had been pulled back too far and never released. When he reached the wall where ropes of different sizes hung, he stopped and fingered the nonbraided nylon.

“Why'd you want to meet here?”

He turned to face the woman. She was dressed simply, in a sweatshirt and jeans, her glossy black hair back in a ponytail. “My brother saw us together yesterday at the diner. I'm not ready to discuss this with him yet.”
And he's not ready to hear it.

“You could've come by my veterinary clinic,” she said quietly, glancing around the store.

“I think this is better, and easier to explain. A chance meeting.” He raised a brow at her and lowered his voice. “Do you have something for me, Dr. Hunter?”

The woman's pale green eyes filled with sadness. “I called my dad last night, after I ran into you and your brothers at the bar. I wanted to see if he'd talk to me.”

“And did he?”

She nodded.

James's chest tightened. “What did the ex-sheriff here in River Black have to say?”

Once again, she looked around them for anyone lurking near. When she turned back, she whispered, “You've got to understand. He's very ill. I don't know if what he's saying is true or . . . not.”

“What did he say, Dr. Hunter?” James repeated, his voice so low and dark it sounded almost otherworldly.

“That the man they said didn't exist . . .”

“The suspect?” he interrupted. The one Cass had called “Sweet.” At least, that's the name his sister had mentioned to Mackenzie a few weeks before she was taken.

The woman nodded. “He may have been real after all.”

Tiny electric shocks pelted James's insides. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. It wasn't
possible. The police had assured them that they'd exhausted every avenue, swore there was no Sweet and that Cass had probably made him up in that diary of hers. The diary that was never found.

He stared at the woman who'd contacted him a few days after Everett's death. The woman who'd told him that her father was none other than Sheriff Hunter, the man who'd headed up the investigation in River Black twelve years ago. The man who had knocked on their door twice: once with the news that their sister's body had been found and a second time to tell them that the case had gone cold, that unless any new leads came in, there was nothing they could do.

“Did your father say where this man is, Dr. Hunter?” he asked through nearly gritted teeth. “Did he say why this man got away? How he got away?”

Her eyes filled with grief and confusion. “No. He wouldn't tell me anything more.” She shook her head. “When I pressed him on it, he got really upset. His health is bad, as I told you, and I'm not entirely sure if what he's saying is true or just the ramblings of . . .”

“I understand,” James said calmly, though inside him a bomb was going off. “But I need you to find out.” He leaned in. “Because if you don't, I'll have to go see your father myself.”

Her eyes went wide, fearful. “No. That wouldn't be good. I'll talk to him.”

A customer was being led over to where they were. They needed to call this, and James needed some air in his compressed lungs.

He gave the woman a tight nod. “I'll be in touch, Dr. Hunter.”

Then he headed past the customer and out the door of the hardware store.

•   •   •

“We're all here, Mac. What's this about?”

Standing on about a half dozen bales of hay, Mac took in the sight she'd managed to put together in barely three hours. Gathered inside Ben Shiver's barn just outside of town, the crowd of fifty or so townsfolk stared up at her expectantly while they ate the sandwiches and cake she'd brought in.

“As some of you are aware,” she began, “well, those who were at the funeral anyway, Deacon Cavanaugh wants to destroy the Triple C.”

There was a quick and loud response, everybody talking at once, discussing what they knew and what they'd heard. She hated to do it this way, go behind Deacon's back, but she told him she'd be fighting. And when he'd gone up to that pulpit and declared his intentions, well, he was asking for a grand push back.

Stepping to the front of the crowd, Ben Shiver
put up his hands and called for quiet, then turned back to Mac. “We do know. What we don't know is why.”

“It's about Cass, I reckon,” Mrs. Remus piped up from over by the food table before picking up another sandwich.

“Who's Cass?” someone near the barn doors asked.

“His sister,” Mrs. Remus said through a bite of sandwich.

“Poor girl,” Jody Pickens said with wide eyes and a grave expression. “Stolen from the movie theater when she was just thirteen years old. Those boys were supposed to be minding her.”

“I heard they were too caught up in some action movie and didn't want to go with her when she asked to go to the bathroom,” Mrs. Remus said.

“Stop!” Mac interrupted sharply, wanting to yell at them that Deac and James and Cole had been just kids themselves. But she needed to keep herself calm, and she needed their help. “Please. This isn't about what was; it's about what is.” With a deep breath, she forced the conversation back to its true path. “Listen, y'all, the reasons why Deacon wants to destroy the Triple C don't matter. The fact is, he's hell-bent on doing it, and we need to stop him.”

“But how can he?” Ben asked. “As I hear it, there are four owners of the Triple C now.”

“Four?” someone called out. “Who's the fourth?”

“Blue Perez,” Ben said in a wary tone. “Supposedly, he's Everett's son.”

Several people gasped at this news, and Mac wondered just who the hell had let that cat out of the bag already. Damn small town.

“Gossip all you want about this later,” she said sternly. “The truth is Blue might sell to Deacon, and if he does, he'll have controlling interest.”

Ben shook his head. “If he really is hell-bent on taking it down, Mac, what can someone like me do about it?”

Mac bit her lip. This was it. The call to action. After last night, all she'd wanted was for Deacon to crawl back into bed with her, eat brownies with her, spoon with her, wake up and make love to her. Maybe afterward tell her what was really motivating him, what was consuming him, what the hell had happened after Cass's death. And that he wasn't going to try to destroy the one thing in her life that gave her joy. But she knew that the very thing that gave her joy was obviously the thing that tormented him. And he wasn't giving up.

“That's why I've called this meeting,” she told Ben and everyone else who was listening. “To talk about ways to stop Deacon, fight him. Not alone, mind you. Alone, none of us stands a chance, but together . . .”

“The man's worth billions, Mac,” Ben said.

“This fight isn't going to be about money,” she told them, seeing that for the first time each person was quiet and listening. “It's going to be about heart. Introducing him to this town all over again, reminding him of what used to be before everything went to hell. Getting Cole and James on our side. And most of all, showing him who we are and how much the Triple C means to us.”

For a few seconds, no one spoke. The barn was eerily quiet, folks thinking things over, wondering if it was all worth it. Then, from the refreshment table, Mrs. Remus cleared her throat.

“All right, gal,” she said, putting down her plate and eyeing Mac. “What did you have in mind?”

Mac smiled with relief, then addressed the crowd once again. “First, does anyone have a connection with the Bureau of Land Management?”

•   •   •

It was six o'clock on the nose when Deacon pulled up to the cottage. He'd spent most of the day on Skype working on changes to his proposal for Breyer with three of his staff and trying like hell to keep Mackenzie out of his mind. Business at the Cavanaugh Group stopped for nothing, and after years of trying and failing to get the head of Breyer Builders to sell, Deacon felt it was time to make another move. Especially now that the company's shares had dropped substantially.

The dinner Friday night would be the perfect
opportunity to see where the man's head was at. The idea that he was bringing Pamela Monroe to the dinner irritated him. Truly, the last thing in the world he wanted right now was to have that woman at his side. But he couldn't go alone. Breyer was a stickler for dinner companions.

A bag of groceries in one arm and some prepared food in case he failed miserably in his attempt to cook in the other, he headed toward the cottage. The one he wanted by his side was in there, waiting on him.
Mackenzie
. Damn, he couldn't wait to see her. Touch her. Hold her hand and feel her mouth under his. Shit, after he'd left last night, he'd been so goddamn worked up he'd slept maybe all of an hour.

“Hey, cowboy.”

Her voice, that sexy, husky, tough-as-nails voice called out to him. It brought his head up and his eyes searched the porch for her whereabouts. He found her on the swing, and instantly, a wave of desire washed over him.

Mine
, he mused dangerously, his gaze traveling over her. She was sitting there, swinging gently, in a pretty pale blue sundress and cowboy boots. Her smooth, tanned skin made his fingers itch to touch, and her thick, dark hair, which was pulled back in a ponytail, gave him all sorts of wicked ideas.

She looked like the cover of
Western Living
magazine, and when she stood up and walked over to the top of the stairs, grinned down at him with that heart-stealer smile of hers, he forgot all about dinner, business, Breyer, and shit, even the Triple C.

Bounding up the steps, he dropped his bags at her feet and wrapped his arms around her. “You look beautiful,” he said, pulling her close, breathing her in.

“Thank you,” she said, sinking in to him, her head dropping back. “So do you.”

He laughed and she grinned. Damn, she made him feel . . . good. Happy? He leaned in and kissed her. Nothing too hungry, though he felt that inside him. Nothing too possessive either—though he felt that, too. Just soft and sensual, maybe letting her know where his heart was at.

“I missed you today,” he whispered against her lips.

Her eyes were closed, but she smiled. “Did you, now?”

Too damn much
, he wanted to say, but instead he kissed her again and wrapped his hands around her ponytail. When he came up for air, he grinned. “Honey, I think you should wear your hair like this more often.” He gave her hair a gentle tug, then took the opportunity to ravage her neck. “Oh yeah, this is good.”

When he released her, she brought her head up
and laughed. “You are such a bad boy, Deacon Cavanaugh.”

You have no idea, Mackenzie Byrd.
He lifted one dark brow and eyed her intensely. “Let me put this stuff inside, and then I'll show you just how bad I can be.”

Her eyes instantly lost their heat and playfulness, and she disentangled herself from his grasp and reached down to pick up a bag. “I'll help you,” she said, tucking it into her arm and heading toward the door. “But then we need to go.”