by Laura Wright
“Tell me you want this, Mackenzie,” he said, his eyes blisteringly hot as he spread her legs and settled himself between them. “Tell me you want my hands on you. My mouth on you. My tongue working you over. Please.” His nostrils flared and he groaned. “Christ, tell me now, baby. Or I’m going to die from wanting you.”
She stared at him, watched his gaze travel down her neck and settle on her breasts. She knew her rapid breathing was making them move. She knew that his hungry gaze was making her nipples hard and tight. His nostrils flared and he licked his lips, which made the muscles inside her sex clench painfully.
If he didn’t touch her soon, put her out of her misery, she was going to start weeping. Like a little fucking girl. And she couldn’t have that. She was a ranch foreman, for heaven’s sake.
“I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you, Deacon.” When his hot, possessive gaze returned to hers, she reached out and grabbed a handful of his black T-shirt. “Nothing’s changed. Hell, if anything, I want you even more now.”
It was all he needed to hear. He was over her in seconds, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, mouth against mouth. He groaned, taking her mouth so deeply she groaned along with him. Damn, the way he kissed her, it could’ve been illegal, it was so breath stealing. His hands raked up her arms, gripping her shoulders and massaging the muscles.
“Oh, Deacon,” she rasped, wrapping her legs around his waist and jacking her hips up. She wanted to feel him. She wanted to feel him naked, his skin against hers, rough against soft, muscle and bone, his cock against her smooth, wet sex. She wanted to feel the skin of his shaft in her hand, revel in how hard he was, delight in the heat of him, feel the precome leak from the tip as she stroked him before guiding him to her entrance.
But first she needed to get his clothes off.
Her hand tunneled between them, eager to get to his zipper, get his jeans down around his ankles. But Deacon had other plans. Dragging his mouth from hers, he buried his head in her throat, nipping at her skin before moving his big, heavily muscled body away from her touch. When she whimpered, he laughed softly, kissing his way down her collarbone.
When his mouth closed around her nipple, she jerked with the instant and shocking pleasure of it. She’d always had sensitive breasts, but the combination of Deacon’s hot, purposeful strokes and his hand slowly raking down her rib cage made Mac breathless with want.
“God, I love the way your body responds to me,” he said, his breath fanning over her breast. “How tight your nipple gets in my mouth, against my tongue.”
As she thrust her hips up and down slowly, showing him what she wanted—where she wanted him—he dropped his hand to her lower belly. As he flicked her tight nipple, causing shards of electric heat to erupt inside her sex, he massaged the top of her mound. Kneading the wet skin and muscle beneath. It was the strangest sensation. Almost as though he were trying to fuck her from the outside. But whatever it was, it made her breath catch, made her clit swell and hum, made her almost desperate to come.
“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 th
at, 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.
Ten
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.
