by Kit Rocha
Ana tightened her grip in his shirt until her nails dug into his chest. “Then he’ll be real surprised when I put a bullet between his eyes.”
He covered her hand with his. “I’m not the one you’d have to convince. Gideon isn’t real fond of using people as bait.”
It was the truth and a lie, because Gideon loved his Riders, but he never hesitated to accept their sacrifices when it served the greater good. But the lie wasn’t why the warmth of Deacon’s hands over hers provoked delicious heat. It wasn’t why the air between them crackled with the sort of electricity that heralded a wild storm.
Ana went up on her toes, until her lips were so close to his that his gaze dropped to her mouth. Until they were so close a kiss was inevitable.
“I don’t have to convince you,” she whispered. “You’re not my boss anymore, Deacon. And you can’t stop me.”
“I’m not ordering you not to do it, Ana.” He closed the distance between them until his next words moved his lips against hers, a whisper and a kiss. “I’m asking you not to. Please.”
Please.
It might be the first time she’d ever heard him utter the word. Deacon didn’t ask. He didn’t plead. When it came to work, Deacon issued commands. And when they were off duty...
God. Had Deacon ever been off duty?
Her lips parted on the start of his name, but at the slight brush of friction, her body staged an unanticipated mutiny. She couldn’t remember tearing free of his hands, but she must have, because her fingers were suddenly at the back of his neck as she tilted her head and licked his lower lip.
She slid her hands higher, shivering at the tickle of short hair against her palm--and froze when she remembered his wounds. “Shit,” she gasped, pulling back. “Deacon, your head. Is it--?”
He stilled her words with his tongue gliding over her lips. Ana shuddered, a reaction totally out of proportion to the teasing caress, and finally understood the allure of chasing something you weren’t supposed to have.
Fucking Deacon was a terrible idea, and knowing that turned every forbidden touch into something explosive.
She gripped his shirt again, tugging at it, trying to haul it up his chest. He caught both of her hands this time, but instead of pulling them away, he began to move. He stepped closer, driving her back toward the wall. When her back hit it, he urged her hands up, over her head, and stared down at her, his face shadowed.
Then he reached for her shirt, drawing the wash-worn cotton up her body. The slow drag of fabric was torturous, the caress too light, too glancing. Too teasing. She wanted more--fast, rough, hard.
But Deacon had always been implacable, and now he was implacably bent on slowly dismantling her sanity.
He discarded her shirt and pressed her to the wall. The rough stucco gently scraped her skin, contrasting dizzily with the soft brush of his shirt against her breasts. She sucked in a breath and reached for him again--
But he was already stripping his shirt over his head. By the time it fell, his hands were on his belt, and she was free to slide her fingers up the chest she’d spent so many hours watching during sparring matches. She scratched her nails over his shoulders and down his arms, one thumb tracing over the ravens that spiraled down toward his wrist.
Who gave a fuck if this was a terrible idea? They were both damned anyway.
Her hand reached his, and she dragged her nails across his abdomen as the click of his belt giving way filled the room. His muscles jumped under her touch, his breath hissing out, and the power of it made her giddy. After all these years, being the one inside his head felt like the sweetest revenge.
So she inched her fingers into his pants and curled them around his cock.
Deacon bit off a curse and smacked his forehead against the wall.
It put his face next to hers. She turned into him, shivering as his beard abraded her cheek, and let her words drift over his ear as she stroked him with her thumb. “How do you wanna do this? Naked in the bed? Half-naked against the wall?” Her thumb reached the tip of his cock and circled the crown. “Or we could just jerk my pants out of the way and do it over my desk.”
“Too fast.” His voice had dropped to something silkier than a growl, but harsher than a purr. Something uniquely Deacon, and it melted her bones. He waited--breathing hard, one eyebrow arched--until she gave in to the silent demand and eased her hand from his pants.
He stepped back, not quite out of reach. The muscles in his chest and arms--even his abs--flexed as he looked at her, a slow perusal that started and then also stopped at her face.
His hand drifted over her hip, his thumb barely nudging the waistband of her pants. “Take them off.”
She was wearing loose cotton, comfortable for lounging. As soon as she edged the waistband past the curve of her hips, her pants slid down her legs to pool on the floor. She stepped out of them, only to find Deacon in her space again, his body angled so that her instinctive step back took her closer to the bed.
He pressed the advantage, stalking towards her, his eyes glinting. “How long has it been, Ana?”
Too long. Way too long, judging by the erratic pounding of her heart. It had been difficult to summon to memory the details of her last tryst while lying in bed by herself, but it was fucking impossible with Deacon prowling toward her like he was ready to ruin her world.
The backs of her thighs bumped against the edge of the mattress, but she held her ground, turning the question back around on him. “How long has it been for you?”
“I can’t remember.” The corner of his mouth kicked up in a wicked smile. “Looking at you does that to me.”
“Good.” His jeans were still hanging open. She grabbed them and hauled him closer, until his cock ground against her stomach and his chest was right there, irresistibly tempting. She brushed a kiss to his collarbone and traced it to his shoulder, where she closed her teeth in a challenging nip.
“You won’t distract me.” His hands closed on her hips, tight enough for his fingers to dig into her flesh. “Not this time.”
“Distract you from what?”
“My plans.” His fingers skated up her sides, a light-as-air touch that she might well have imagined. Then his nails scraped her shoulder blades, raising goose bumps on her flesh.
It went on like that, careful caresses alternating with hard, deliberate grasps that felt almost like reminders--he wasn’t a gentle man, he was Deacon. Rough. Dangerous.
Delicious.
When his fingertips circled her nipples, she sucked in a breath. When they grazed the tops of her thighs, she shuddered. And when they slipped beneath the cotton fabric of her panties to grip her ass, lifting her off the floor and drawing her toward the solid heat of his body, she wrapped her legs around his hips and caught his mouth in a desperate kiss.
His tongue danced over her lips as his chest vibrated with a rumbling groan. “If you want it quick and hard, I’ll give it to you. Or...”
Quick and hard sounded just about right. She was hot enough for it, already so turned on he’d have no trouble driving into her. But as his fingers dug into her ass, grinding her against his cock, a tiny voice rose from the deepest, most carefully guarded place inside her.
This might be your only chance to have him.
If she was going to be bad, she might as well get the full experience. Maybe if they fucked slow and long and deep enough, she could fuck all this dangerous curiosity out of her system.
“Or,” she moaned against his mouth. “I choose or.”
The world tilted as he laid her back on the bed. “Good girl.”
Smug bastard. He felt too good for her to push him away, so she dug her nails into his back instead, raking them down in sharp warning. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” The hair on his chest chafed her nipples as he settled over her, one strong, denim-clad leg slipping between her thighs. The pressure was exquisite, sparking just enough friction against her clit for a shudder to tear through
her on a bolt of pleasure.
Ana released his back and reached above her to grip her quilt, arching her body up to his. It tilted her head back against the covers, and he took advantage of the opening as swiftly as he ever had during a sparring match. Those soft, incredible lips coasted up her throat, gentle and warm, as he traced the line of her jaw with kisses and dragged his tongue over her pulse.
She’d always known Deacon was patient, but now he was relentless. She melted into the mattress as he explored her, ranging down to the upper curve of her breast and then back up to her ear. His beard scratched, his lips glided, his tongue licked with a suggestive rhythm that had her rocking mindlessly against his thigh.
And when she was strung out on the sweetness of it, he returned to her throat and bit her so hard she arched off the bed, her hands digging into his shoulders as the startling pain liquefied into hot, needy aftershocks. “Fucking hell, Deacon.”
“Not sorry,” he rasped. He moved again, sliding lower to settle on his knees between her thighs. “These are nice.”
His finger brushed her underwear, where the thinnest ribbon of lace lined the waistband. Not the hand-tatted stuff that decorated Maricela’s more elaborate gowns, but even machine-manufactured lace from Sector Eight was a frivolity for anyone who hadn’t grown up noble. “I got them the first day I went into the market as a Rider.”
“They suit you.” He peeled the lace down. “But they have to go.”
She lifted her hips to help him, but as the cotton dragged past her toes and vanished over the side of the bed, she felt the first stab of vulnerability. There was naked, and then there was exposed--and sprawled back on her bed with Deacon kneeling between her thighs, his gaze hot as it drifted over her body...
Arousal and nervous anticipation tangled together until she couldn’t find the line that separated them, and she turned that nervous energy into action by cupping her breasts as she locked gazes with Deacon.
“Impatient.” A low groan rolled out of him as he stretched out on the bed beside her. His skin blazed hot against hers, and his cock pressed into her hip. She started to reach for him, but as soon as her hand left her breast, Deacon’s mouth replaced it, redefining blazing and hot as his tongue lingered on her nipple.
Then he tightened his lips and sucked, and Ana’s priorities narrowed to getting his hands or her hands or something between her legs before the empty pulsing ache shredded what was left of her sanity.
As if he’d anticipated the need, his fingers were already sliding down her body. He hummed around her nipple, the sound anything but soothing. It vibrated through her, deepening the ache. And when his hand finally, finally reached her pussy, he touched her lightly, the rough pads of his fingertips barely grazing her outer lips, forcing her to chase the caress.
He was maddening. He was a goddamn tease.
And she was going to be damned if his control outlasted hers.
She tried to still her hips, not to whimper as his touch returned, so soft, so careful. She knew his strategy now--recognized it, even, from the countless times she’d faced off against him in the ring. Endless patience erupting into decisive action, a shock that left his opponent staggering.
The spot where he’d bitten her still throbbed hotly. Knowing the next sneak attack was coming should have made it easier. Instead, anticipation twisted, her body trembled, and every flex of his arm had her tensed for a rough, direct touch right where she needed it most.
Instead, his teeth closed on the painfully tight peak of her nipple.
A startled moan escaped her, and her senses reeled. Pleasure brightened into pain, then subsided into pleasure once more. She dug her fingers into his arm just to have something to cling to. But when the shock faded, she followed his arm down to where his fingers cupped her--still so gentle--and pushed hopelessly at his hand.
As if anyone could move Deacon before he damn well wanted to move.
A moment later, his hand flexed, and he drank in her gasp with his lips on hers. “Show me.”
The heel of his hand pressed down against her clit, finally. She moaned and gave him what he wanted, guiding his touch until he was rocking in the quick, rough rhythm she needed when she was already this turned on. Pleasure roared over her, driving her toward a dizzying orgasm, and she flung her arm aside and wallowed in the confidence of his touch and the intentness of his focus.
Being the recipient of Deacon’s undivided attention was like drinking the finest O’Kane liquor straight from the bottle--hot, intoxicating, and likely to leave her hung over in the morning.
And worth it. As the first orgasm broke over her, she turned her face to his cheek to muffle her helpless moan. It burned through her like wildfire, fierce and unrelenting, and she found herself clutching his arm again, unsure if she wanted to still his touch or beg for more.
“So wet.” His low whisper tickled her ear. “So ready.” He opened her, delving deeper in another teasing quest that ended with the heady thrust of two fingers entering her. They were strong and thick and it had been a while, long enough for her to feel the stretch as she arched her hips into his hand.
Her body rallied, as if she hadn’t just ground her way to release against his damn hand. Maybe she could blame the illicit thrill of the forbidden, the way every touch felt like something she’d stolen, something she was never supposed to have.
It had to be that. Because if this was just what Deacon did to her...
Shuddering, she sank her nails into his arm until she knew he’d have little marks tomorrow and bit the lobe of his ear. “Do you want me to come around your fingers?”
His hand jerked, driving his fingers into her deeper. Harder. “I want you to come all over me, princess.”
“Then stop holding back.” She pulled away so she could meet his eyes--his dark, dangerous eyes--and dragged them all the way down into debauchery. “Show me why you’re the fucking boss.”
His eyes flashed, but all he did was lick his lower lip. “It’s not that easy to push me, Ana.” Then his fingers moved deliberately inside her, just as slowly as before, but with a determined purpose that curled her toes.
She knew what he was trying to do, but she wasn’t prepared for him to get there so fast. Her hips jolted off the bed as his fingers brushed her G-spot, and her whole body spasmed when he returned, centering his touch on the place that built tense pressure so quickly she tried to squirm away.
But his leg rested heavily over one of hers, and wiggling just opened her to him even more. She panted, her fingers clenching helplessly on the rumpled quilt, and told herself not to whimper. Not to plead.
Not to beg.
“That’s right.” His free hand slid into her hair, anchoring her. “It’s there, all you have to do is take it.”
It was too much. Too much, especially when he shifted his thumb to nudge her sensitized clit with every strong thrust. This wouldn’t be a swift orgasm that burned through her fast and clean. The cliff he was driving her toward ended with a swift drop into an endless chasm. It would be messy and raw and vulnerable, three things she usually hated.
Three things that were turning her the fuck on right now.
So she closed her eyes and took it--every rock of his fingers, his low, filthy murmurs, the clever, knowing touch of his thumb as it sparked bright lights behind her eyes with each rough caress. She took the heat of his skin on hers and the tickle of his breath and the way he groaned as her body began to tense and clench around his fingers.
She took the sharp tug against her scalp as his fist tightened in her hair, as well as the tingles that started deep inside her, a warning that she was close, so close, so yearningly, desperately close--
And when frustrated heat finally bloomed into fierce, overwhelming relief, she took the pleasure. She took it greedily, riding his fingers, so blissed out on the feeling that she wasn’t even self-conscious about the depth of her orgasm and the slick sound of his fingers fucking into her.
Deacon’s open mouth traveled ov
er her--her shoulders, throat, cheeks, breasts--trailing groans across sensitized skin. But as his fingers stilled, he pulled away to tower over her, his weight braced on one rigid arm.
Her brain was still buzzing on the high, but her body knew what to do. Muscle memory kicked in, and she surged up and rolled him onto his back, coming over him with her knees sinking into the bed on either side of his hips and the unyielding length of his cock snug against her still-fluttering pussy.
Ana braced both hands against his chest and struggled to catch her breath. “You are a filthy fucker, you know that?”
He didn’t answer, just lifted her hips in an iron grip and drove into her.
The shock of it knocked the air back out of her lungs. Her pleasure-drunk senses reeled, unable to reason past big and hard and full. Her fingers curled, nails pricking his chest, and she had to lock her elbows to stay upright when he dragged her back down, sinking even deeper.
“Fuck--” It was all she could get out. God, the stretch of him inside her was exquisite. It didn’t matter that she was slick from two orgasms. The friction of the slightest shift of her hips scraped across sensitive nerves, and she was starting to wonder if going for the full Deacon experience had been smart.
“Take it,” he murmured again, soft words full of explicit, undeniable command. “Ride me.”
Take it. Funny how such simple words could sound so filthy--and how they could contain shades of meaning. She’d taken his fingers passively, wallowing in all the pleasure he had to offer. But for all his steely-fingered grip and domineering gaze, there was nothing passive in the way she rolled her hips to glide up his cock and slam back down.
She took him. Claimed him. Dug her fingers deeper into his chest, not caring if she left behind marks, and used the strength she’d cultivated for violence toward a much more enjoyable pursuit--finding the perfect angle so that his cock dragged over every place inside her that was hungry for touch.
She took every damn inch of his cock, and took her pleasure with it. And with her eyes, she dared him to meet her thrusts, dared him to take back the power she seized every time she clenched her pussy around him and drove a groan from his throat.
