Unfinished Hero 04 Deacon (14 page)

I would have preferred to just lie there,
held close, letting Deacon thrill me with barely a touch, but I
drew in a big breath and decided to get the ground rules out of the
way.

“You’re John Priest when you’re here but not
in this house.” It was a statement that was also a guess.

His fingers stopped playing and wrapped
around the side of my neck, his thumb stroking my jaw, and he
confirmed, “I’m John Priest when I’m with you and not in this
house.”

“Okay,” I whispered and he gave my neck a
squeeze.

“You gonna be able to remember that?” he
asked.

“Yeah.”

His thumb stopped stroking and pressed in at
the hinge of my jaw. “It’s important, Cassie.”

“I’ll remember,” I whispered, feeling the
stone settle in my belly, but doing it being me.

That was, hoping one day he’d help me work it
out so it didn’t weigh there, dragging me down, starving me.

I decided to move on.

“You didn’t use a condom last night,
Deacon.”

“I know, baby. Things got outta hand. You on
the Pill?”

“Yeah. And I’ve been careful. But you’ve had
experience so we’ll have to be better about that.”

“Don’t worry about me ungloved. Haven’t
fucked anyone for seven years.”

I felt my lips part and my eyes blink.

Twice.

Rapidly.

Then I whispered, “Seriously?”

“Yep,” he said bluntly, like badasses
confessed to the new women in their lives every day that they’d
been celibate for years when I was stunned badasses could actually
go
for years without having sex.

I lifted my head to look at him and when I
did, he tipped his chin down to catch my gaze.

“You haven’t had sex in seven years?” That
was uttered incredulously, as, of course, it would be.

“Fuckin’ you on the table was hot but I came
fast. Man gets it regular, he does not come that fast, even as hot
as that was.”

I didn’t have that much experience but I
figured this was true.

“Might not go to the doctor regularly,” he
continued. “But back then I knew I was clean and you can’t catch
that shit airborne.”

That I knew was true.

“I…well, it would seem you got a lot of
experience in in a short period of time,” I noted.

He said nothing mostly because, with the
number of partners he’d had, there was nothing to say but
confirm.

“Then nothing for seven years?” I
pressed.

“I think you get I fucked around a lot,” he
replied.

I nodded because I definitely got that.

“Searchin’ for something,” he went on. “Doin’
that, found, if it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean anything.
Meaningless fucks are just that and I don’t do a lot that’s
meaningless, definitely not something important like connecting
with a woman’s body. Also found it’s not hard to go without when
going with doesn’t work for me.”

“But…you’re a badass,” I pointed out.

“And?” he prompted, brows drawing together,
apparently well aware he was a badass.

“Badasses need to get them some,” I
explained.

“Badasses know what they want, definitely
know what they need, and don’t settle for anything less.”

That was probably very true.

It was also a really good answer.

I slid my fingers back to play with the ends
of his hair and my voice was soft when I asked, “It really doesn’t
work for you if it has no meaning?”

“Biologically, anything would work. Pussy is
pussy,” he stated baldly. “You drive your dick into it, close your
eyes, you’ll get off. But sex isn’t about that. It shouldn’t be
about that for anybody. It doesn’t have to be about emotion, but it
has to be about something. If I don’t respect the woman attached to
the pussy I’m fucking, can’t look in her eyes and be all about that
with her, not just all about the moment I get off, it’s pointless.
And there’s no point to doing something pointless.”

He was right about that too.

“Agreed,” I said quietly.

“Add emotion,” he went on, his thumb now
stroking my throat. “That’s where it’s at.”

Now he couldn’t be more right.

That was where it was at.

“Yes,” I agreed.

His gaze locked to mine and I saw the
intensity in his before he gave it to me.

“And that’s where it’s at with you.”

The weight of that hit me, seven years,
nobody, and then there was me, six years fighting it and now we
were here.

And he was happy.

He wasn’t roaring with laughter, teasing,
playful, devil-may-care happy.

But I felt his contentment. I’d seen how he
was with my hair. I knew what it meant to him to be there with
me.

Now I knew it even more.

And knowing it, again, a weight hit me, and I
dropped my head like I couldn’t hold it up and this time did a face
plant in his throat.

I felt him shift then I felt him kiss the top
of my head.

“Right, Cassie, you got what you need out of
me?”

I didn’t answer the question because I
couldn’t believe he’d asked it considering the answer was no. Not
by a long shot.

“For tonight, woman,” he went on softly. “Got
about three hours of shuteye last night. I’m wiped. Need
sleep.”

“Then if that’s what you need, I’ve got what
I need out of you,” I replied but finished, “for tonight.”

His fingers still at my neck gave me a
squeeze then he rolled us, him rolling over me so he was on the
other side of the bed where the light was lit, the side of the bed
he’d claimed last night.

He reached out and turned out the light while
I reached down and yanked up the covers. When I got them up and was
preparing to settle in, he did it for me, tucking me into his side
where I had no choice but to rest my cheek on his chest, just like
last night.

I relaxed into his warm solidness, like I did
the night before. Like I hadn’t done it two nights in a row but
like I did it every night for decades. Feeling safe and snug and
content, my body pressed to his, his arm wrapped around me.

Being Deacon, he didn’t say goodnight. I was
learning when he had something to say he said it but he had a
variety of ways of communicating and they didn’t just come from his
mouth. They included his eyes, his expressions, and his
actions.

I was also learning that worked for me.

Thus, Deacon feeling his goodnight was shared
by turning out the light and curling me into him, through my cheek
over his heart, my hand resting on his chest, I felt his breath
evening out and I knew, just like last night, he was gliding easily
into sleep.

So I said what I had to say. What he had to
know. What he had to carry with him all the time, when he was here
and when he was away from me.

I said what I needed to give him in order to
take up the challenge of making him even happier.

“I’m glad I didn’t have a man, honey.”

I knew he hadn’t drifted into sleep because
when I whispered those words, his body tensed against mine, his
hand resting on my waist curled in, fingers digging into my flesh
just short of painfully.

He held this several beats before he relaxed,
his arm gave me a slight but short squeeze, and within moments, his
breaths steadied.

And there it was again.

I was right.

Deacon could communicate everything without
saying a word.

And that worked for me.

That’s Why

My eyes opened and I saw skin. Sleek olive
skin covering defined muscle.

Deacon.

More precisely, Deacon’s back.

I was on my side, Deacon was on his, and I
was tucked tight to his back.

Seeing what I saw, smelling nothing but the
scent that was pure Deacon, having him there, morning two, after
denying that I wanted him for what felt like eternity, I
immediately got wet with wanting more of him.

Unfortunately, at the same time I remembered
that he’d said the night before that he was wiped.

I was an early riser and didn’t even have to
look at the clock, just note that dawn was barely touching the sky,
and even though we went to bed way early, it was also now way
early.

So, as much as I wanted to put my hands on
him, wake him up, coax him into making love to me, I needed to let
him sleep.

Therefore, carefully, I rolled away from him,
cautiously moving the covers so I wouldn’t disturb him too much or
give him a shot of cold as I got out of bed.

I didn’t make it.

Deacon rolled too, and his arm came out,
hooking me around my belly and hauling me back into his frame.

“Where you goin’?” he growled sleepily into
the back of my hair.

“Letting you sleep, old man,” I replied,
hoping he’d get that with the last part, I was teasing.

He got it.

I knew with his unoffended response of,
“Don’t need sleep.”

He also communicated what he did need, doing
it by pressing his hips into my ass and I felt that at least one
part of him was
very
awake.

“You got shit to do?” he asked, shoving his
other hand under me as the arm already around me shifted, his hand
trailing up my belly.

I always had shit to do, but truthfully, once
I got the cabins the way I wanted them, outside of check out
cleaning, since I didn’t provide daily maid service, managing
eleven rental cabins wasn’t that taxing.

“Not really,” I answered.

“Good,” he muttered as his hands made it to
their destinations, one curling around my breast, the other one
cupping me between my legs.

I liked that. I liked the smell of him. I
liked his heat. I liked that he was there with me. I liked all that
so much, I pressed my hips back into his.

His hand between my legs pushed deeper, his
fingers slipping through the wet folds, and my lips parted on a
soft breath as my hips jerked slightly.

“Fuck. Ready,” he growled and kept doing it.
“You good with ungloved?”

I was good with anything he wanted to do to
me.

I didn’t say that.

I said, “Yes, baby.”

His finger and thumb at my breast rolled my
nipple as I felt his body shift, position. I knew what he was
doing, I liked what he was doing, all of it, so I tilted my hips to
give him what he needed.

His cock slid through my wet, the tip caught,
and he thrust in, fast, hard, deep, filling me.

My head went back and I moaned.

He pulled hard at my nipple then his hand
slid up to my throat.

“Gonna take me hard, Cassie,” he warned.

I’d take him hard.

I’d take anything he wanted to give to
me.

“Okay,” I breathed.

“Okay,” he whispered, then he buried his face
in the back of my hair and did what he said he was going to do.

Fingering my clit, his other hand curled
light at my throat, he fucked me hard, pounding deep, holding me
steady to take him as I pushed my hips into his to get more,
panted, whimpered, and finally tensed. My hands flying to his
wrists to wrap around, I moaned long and brokenly as the heady
release burned through me.

It was only then he lifted his head and
buried his face in my neck, his hand between my legs becoming an
arm wrapped tight around my belly. His hand at my throat shifting
to become an arm across my chest, fingers curled into my shoulder.
And he held me snug as I took him even harder. Coming down but
still glorying in the velvet brutality, thrilling at every grunt
that exploded against my skin

And I did this until he sunk his teeth in my
neck before he drove his cock deep inside me and groaned his climax
into my flesh.

He couldn’t have come down, not even begun to
recover before his voice came at me, rough and thick.

“Here,” he said, pulling his face out of my
neck.

I didn’t know what that meant since I was
already seriously
here
.

I turned my head to ask and unintentionally
gave him what he wanted.

He took my mouth, the kiss long, languid,
wet, and sweet.

He ended it by letting go of my mouth at the
same time he pushed his hips into mine one last time, reminding me
of our connection, which meant it ended on a whimper from me.

As my eyes opened slowly, I noticed he didn’t
move very far away.

And the instant he got my gaze, he said
quietly, “Mornin’, Cassie.”

Mornin’, indeed.

“Good morning, Deacon.”

He grinned at me.

And yes.

It was a good morning.

Indeed.

* * * * *

“The Mexican Jumping Bean?”

I turned my head to the left at Deacon’s
question.

We were up, showered, had toast, and got
dressed and out to load up in his truck and hit the road to put
money down on a puppy.

It took me a while to process being in
Deacon’s mud-caked Suburban, a vehicle I’d seen for six years
(well, not this particular one, but still) and there I was…in
it.

With Deacon.

This awesomeness took its time to move
through me and only subsided when we were nearly through town and
the sign for my favorite coffee shop caught my eye. Therefore, I
asked Deacon to swing in (okay, I didn’t ask, I bounced in my seat
excitedly, and considering I figured he was not a man who did fancy
coffee, I begged).

I didn’t have to beg. He didn’t hesitate to
swing in. He parked in front and was now looking through the
windshield, reading the sign while I undid my seatbelt.

“It’s owned and run by a family of
third-generation Mexican Americans,” I shared and his head turned
to me. “Obviously,” I went on, since that was in the name, kind of,
without the third generation part and adding the jumping bean.
“They have normal coffee. And fancy coffee. And
Mexican
coffee, which has cinnamon in it and,” I leaned into him, “it’s
divine
.”

He looked into my eyes, then to my lips, his
lips quirked and he moved to undo his seatbelt.