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.
Chapter Seven
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.
I watched him do this, thrown, because apparently he felt he had to go with me, then I darted my hand out and curled it around his wrist.
He looked back at me.
“You don’t have to go in,” I told him. “I’ll get the coffees and come out.”
His eyes moved over my face, his expression not giving anything away, until suddenly his wrist twisted, disengaging mine but only so he could catch my hand, lift it, and jerk it. He did this hard enough to bring me closer to him, not hard enough to cause any pain.
When I was leaning across the cab, he leaned in to me.
“I’d never do anything to harm you and I’d never do anything to put you in danger,” he declared.
In the face of going to get coffee before a road trip, that was suddenly and surprisingly heavy.
If welcome.
“Okay,” I agreed.
He continued, “The only lie you live is calling me Priest. That’s already asking too much. I won’t ask more. That means you don’t hide me. You don’t protect me. You want it, we find our way to it, I’m your man. In your life. When I’m here, I’m at your side. Not secret. But that’s your call. You don’t want me walkin’ in there with you, I sit in the truck. You wanna work toward us findin’ a way for me to be a part of your life, I go in with you.”
“I want you to go in with me,” I replied immediately and just as immediately he released my hand.
But he did it so his could flash out, fingertips grazing my jaw as they moved back into my hair. He curled them in, putting pressure on, pulling me to him as he bent to me, and when he got me where he wanted me, he kissed me dizzy.
I started blinking when he released my mouth, expending effort to focus on him as I tried to get over the kiss and more, what he’d said through it.
“Then let’s get my Cassie a coffee,” he muttered, letting me go, and turning to his door.
My Cassie.
Seriously, I was wondering who’d actually taken up the challenge.
Because it might not be big and grand, full of words, flowers, orchestras playing, fairy dust filtering through the air, but he found his quiet but spectacular ways to make me more and more happy. He did it repeatedly. And he did it successfully.
Which meant I had to step up my game.
* * * * *
I was halfway through my huge-ass, awesome, Mexican cinnamon coffee and we were a quarter of the (silent, so far) way to our destination when it hit me.
Last night, I’d prodded gently.
And if Deacon didn’t want to answer, he didn’t. He didn’t do it mean. He didn’t shut me down (well, not in an overt way). He didn’t get angry.
He just didn’t answer.
So I turned to him and stated, “Right, Deacon Deacon, tell me something.”
At my Deacon Deacon, I saw the grooves form at the side of his mouth, his eyes crinkling, and this heartened me.
When I was done speaking, he invited, “Shoot.”
“I’m taking it the license you gave me was fake.”
“Yup,” he answered easily.
“Is it your only one?” I asked.
“Nope. Got eight.”
I stared but I did it with my lips moving.
“Eight?”
“Yup.”
Interesting.
I took a sip of coffee, experienced its goodness, and went on.
“Where’s home?”
“Home?”
“Home. Your house. Where you go when you’re not working.”
“Where I went when I wasn’t working was cabin eleven, Glacier Lily.”
I felt my body go still.
Whoa.
That couldn’t be.
“Really?” I asked.
He glanced at me and back at the road. “Yup.”
“I…you…” I shook my head. “You come to the cabin pretty infrequently.”
“That would be ’cause I work a lot, Cassidy.”
I faced forward but sat back in my seat, trying to process this information.
It was impossible to process that information so I changed topics.
“Can you tell me the difference
between Deacon and John Priest?”
There was a moment’s pause before he replied, “Handful of people know me as Deacon.”
He said no more so I looked to him and used the word, “Okay,” as a prompt.
He again glanced at me then back to the road before he went on.
“Every one of them I trust with my life. Every one of them I’d trust with your life.” He paused before he asked, “Do you get that, Cassidy?”
I got it. I liked it. Even if it was slightly scary, it was also kind of sweet.
“Yes,” I answered.
He said nothing further but I decided it was time to get down to it.
That said, I didn’t particularly want to get down to it, but it was time.
So I asked (though I did it cautiously), “Are you a criminal?”
He didn’t hesitate with his answer.
“I don’t pay taxes.”
I felt my head give a slight jerk at this informatively uninformative (but still scary) response.
“Sorry?”
“I have work. I make money. I get paid in cash. And the government does not know I exist.”
Yep. I didn’t want to get down to it.
Still, we were here and he was answering so I kept at it.
“And is what you do for cash illegal?”
He kept his eyes to the road even as he reached for his coffee. I watched him take a sip, return it to the cup holder, and then he again spoke.
This time his tone was gentle even if the words were not.
“I’ll tell you this, if you knew from start to now about what I do, how it began, why I do it, and you had a problem with it, I’d think straight up you’re a judgmental bitch. Then I’d walk out the door and you’d never see me again.”
At that, I did a slow blink.
But he wasn’t finished.
“I’m good at what I do. There’s a reason I do it. I believe in that reason. But that doesn’t mean I’m not a part of a world that will never—if I become a part of your life in a way that’s lasting, it’s important you hear this, woman—it will not ever touch you.”
“I’m not sure any of that makes sense,” I said softly, saying that instead of saying that he was speaking but he wasn’t really giving me anything.
“It does to me and that’s all you need to know.”
Deacon (Unfinished Heroes #4) Page 11
