by Tracy Wolff
“Say it.” He bends his head, whispers the words in my ear before his tongue licks the sensitive spot behind my lobe. “Say you’re mine and you know I’ll never hurt you.”
Shivers rip through me as his breath adds another layer of sensation to the feelings already bombarding me. “Or what?” My voice is shaky, but I still force the word out. He may be trying to prove something to me, but I’m proving something right back. I won’t roll over for anyone, not even him.
Deacon lowers his head, nips at my shoulder and my neck before settling down to suck on the curve where the two meet. “Or this is all you’ll ever get.”
With that, he slides his hand away from my nipple, down my stomach to my hot and hungry clit. He flicks it once, twice—bringing me right to the edge of orgasm with his thumb and his teeth and the powerful heat of his body between my thighs. And then he refuses to send me over.
Again I try to rock against him and again he holds me still. “Deacon, please.” I’m sobbing now—begging—and I can’t bring myself to care. Tears stream down my face as small explosions occur with every touch of his mouth on my body. With every thrust of his cock between my legs.
And still he doesn’t end it. Still he keeps me teetering on the edge until I’m nearly insane with it. His mouth slips over my bare shoulder, down my breasts to my nipples. I cry out at the first flick of his tongue, pleasure and pain mingling inside me until I’m twisting violently in his arms. Desperate for some freedom of motion. Desperate for the completion only he can give me.
“Hope, darlin’.” His voice is soft and strained against my breasts, his tongue tracing patterns on my nipples. “I love you. I love you so much.” He lifts me in his arms, uses his incredible strength to hold me suspended in midair as he licks my clit just hard enough to drive me crazy without sending me flying over the edge. “If you can’t say that you love me too, at least tell me that you believe me. That you trust me not to hurt you.”
He pulls my clit between his teeth and sucks hard enough to make me see stars. I’m in agony now, so out of it that I can barely breathe, barely think. I’ve never felt anything like this before, never had a clue that it was even possible to feel this much. Pleasure and pain. Lust and fear. Overwhelming need and an incredible vulnerability that I can’t get away from.
I’m on overload—my mind and body craving Deacon and what only he can give me. Only him. Only Deacon. I arch against his hips, desperate for a harder pressure, dying for just a little more.
Would it be so bad to give him just a little of what he needs from me? If I give back to him just a little of what he’s trying so hard to give to me?
When he lowers me back to his lap I want to howl in disappointment. I’d been so close, had actually been falling over the cliff into ecstasy. One more lick, one more nibble—one more anything—and I would have flown.
“Fuck you, Deacon!” The words pour out of me without conscious thought as tears slide down my cheeks. Any other time I would have been embarrassed at my lack of restraint, but he’s pushed me beyond embarrassment. Beyond fear. Beyond anything but brutal, feral need.
“Gladly.” His voice is dark and hoarse and for a moment—just a moment—I pull back from the need ravaging me with fiery claws. And see his clenched jaw, his tense shoulders, his beautiful, scarred hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles are white. And for a second—just a second, before he turns his head away—I see the need, the desperation, shining in his eyes.
It breaks the last hold I have on restraint, buries my fears under the weight of my desire and his love. “I need you,” I tell him as I rock my hips against him.
“I want you.” I press my lips to his.
“I trust you—only you.” I wrap my arms around him and pull him close.
With a hoarse shout, he lifts me away from him and rolls me to my back in one smooth motion. Reaching down, he unzips his jeans. And then he’s over me, around me, inside me so deep I’m afraid I’ll never get him out. Even more afraid that when the times comes, I won’t want to.
He rides me hard and I come with his third thrust inside of me. He continues to slam into me, giving me no time to rest before taking me up again. Then he’s pulling back, draping my legs over his shoulders so he can thrust deeper, harder. I come again and again and again. And still Deacon pounds into me, until all I know is him and the riot of sensations inside me.
And when he finally comes—jetting inside of me in long, powerful pulses—the pleasure overwhelms me until the world turns gray around the edges. I collapse beneath him and don’t even worry because I know I’m safe.
Deacon will take care of me.
Sunday: Deacon
The sun hasn’t come up yet, and there’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to stay tucked up in bed with Hope wrapped around me. It’s the first time she’s spent the whole night and there’s a part of me that never wants to let her go. That wants to roll her underneath me and keep her here—right here in my arms and my bed—for as long as she’ll let me. Maybe forever.
But inspiration was riding me hard all night and I’ve put it off as long as I can.
Rolling her gently to the side, I slip out of bed and grab a pair of sweats from my dresser. Then I head out the front door and across the courtyard to my studio. An idea has been bugging me for a few days and it finally hit me how I could do it late last night, when I was finally drifting off to sleep with Hope.
It’s part of the piece within a piece for the Griffin building, which means it’s Hope. From the moment she told me her name, there’s been an Emily Dickinson poem running through my head at the oddest times. “Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul.”
I don’t know why it hit me so hard, except Hope has managed to perch herself deep in my soul, in a place I don’t normally let anyone. Whether she’ll stay there is still to be seen, but that doesn’t make the feel of her there any less monumental.
As I was lying in bed tonight, I remembered an exhibit I saw a couple of years ago by Kate MccGwire. She does the most amazing things with feathers I’ve ever seen, transforming them into incredible works of art. And suddenly, I knew what I wanted to do—how I wanted to take Hope and that poem and all of my feelings for her and merge them together.
After grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge, I head toward my forge and fire it up. Normally I sketch everything out before I start on it, but right now I have a burning urge to just get in there and get my hands dirty. Besides, the image is so clear in my head right now that I don’t need anything else.
As I wait for the forge to get going, I grab my sketchpad after all. Not to draw, but because there’s a sketch of Hope in there that I want to reference. It’s from our day in the clearing, when she was laid out on the blanket, hands stretched above her head with her hair spread out around her and her back arched in a curve so sexy that it makes my hands sweat just thinking about it.
She’s such a dichotomy—so delicate and yet so strong. Long limbed and graceful, yet with curves that are nearly obscene. Bold and adventurous in ways most people couldn’t even imagine, and yet timid in areas where others don’t think twice. If you take the pieces of Hope individually, nothing seems to fit. Yet when you put them together, they not only fit, they create such strength and beauty that she takes my breath away.
That’s why that poem keeps running through my head and that’s what I’m so desperate to capture.
I pull on gloves and an apron to start, and then I work, my vision burning in my brain.
And work.
And work.
And work.
In one small corner of my brain, I’m aware of time passing. Of it growing light outside. Of Hope bringing me a cup of coffee, dressed in nothing but one of my T-shirts. I know I say something to her, know I even manage to answer a few questions about what I’m doing and how I’m doing it.
But thos
e moments are just that, fleeting moments that are here and then gone. The only thing I can focus on, the only thing I remember, is the work. Hour after hour, I sculpt, ignoring burns and scrapes, hunger and heat, even the scent of Hope as she lingers by the door, watching me. Everything I am, everything I’ve ever been or ever learned, I pour into this sculpture.
When it’s done—or at least as done as I can get it for now—I lay down my tools. Stretch the muscles I suddenly realize are aching. Grab a bottle of water and chug the whole thing. And then I look, really look, at what I’ve created.
Made from metal that glows iridescent red and blue and purple in spots, from one angle it’s two intricately wrought feathers locked in a passionate embrace. But from another angle, it’s a woman—delicate, curvy, free as I want Hope to be.
The level of intricacy involved was insane—making it one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Not necessarily because of the crafting of each unique whorl—though that wasn’t easy—but because of how hard it was to imbue each separate piece of it with the subtle voluptuousness capable of turning feathers into a woman.
It really is Hope, really is everything I feel for her laid bare for the whole fucking world to see. For the first time in my life, I’m not afraid of that.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
I turn, surprised but not unpleased to see Hope once again standing just inside the door, carrying a tray loaded with sandwiches and fruit.
“It’s you,” I tell her as I move forward to take the tray from her.
“I know.”
She waits until I put the tray down and then she throws herself at me, literally jumping at me and wrapping her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist. It’s a surprise, to say the least, but I move quickly to brace my hands under her ass so she won’t fall. This is the first time Hope has initiated touching me so intimately and there’s no way I’m going to reward her for it by dropping her.
“Not that I’m complaining, but what’s this—”
“I love you,” she bursts out so fast that the words all run together.
My heart starts to beat faster, and the hands I’m using to support her suddenly grow shaky. “What did you say?” I whisper, afraid to break whatever spell she’s fallen under.
“I love you.” She presses kisses to my cheeks, my forehead, my lips. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Somehow I manage to pull her even closer, holding her as tight against my body as I can manage. “I love you, too.”
“I know.” She looks over my shoulder at the sculpture I only remember bits and pieces of creating. “And if I didn’t know, all I’d have to do is look at what you’ve created. You really do see me.”
“Of course I do. Isn’t that what I’ve been trying to tell you all along?”
“I know. It’s just that I couldn’t believe it before.”
“Couldn’t?” I ask, pulling back just enough that I can see her face. “Or wouldn’t?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter when I was blind either way?”
I think about it, because when it comes to Hope, I know I need to listen for what she doesn’t say as much as for what she does. “The truth is, it doesn’t matter, because I’ll take you any way I can get you.”
She grins. “After last night, I’m pretty sure that’s an understatement. I’m going to be sore for a week.” The decidedly wicked gleam in her eyes says she doesn’t mind a bit.
“Poor baby. Want me to kiss it and make it better?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” She looks back at the sculpture. “How?” she asks and there are a million different questions in that one word.
Luckily for me, I have the answer to every single one. “Because I love you.”
It’s not fancy and it’s not original, but it is one hundred percent truthful. And for now, that’s more than enough.
* * *
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To purchase and read more books by Tracy Wolff, please visit their website at TracyWolffBooks.com.
Acknowledgments
I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am that this series is finally making its way into the world. I’ve wanted to write a series about artists for a very long time and I am so grateful to Carina Press, and Angela James, for giving me the chance. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Angela James, you are such a wonderful editor and an even more amazing person and I am thrilled to have this chance to work with you. Thank you so much for your invaluable suggestions for this book, as well as your patience with my wild email issues and schedule. Thanks so much for your enthusiasm for my writing. It means the world to me.
Shellee Roberts, Sherry Thomas and Emily McKay—Thanks for being the best friends and brainstormers a girl could ever ask for. I love you guys the most. xoxo
Emily Sylvan Kim—I don’t even know what to say here. I didn’t realize just how lucky I was the day you agreed to be my agent and I thank the universe for you every single day.
My fans—I have so much love and appreciation for you that it is hard to express. I’ve had characters and story ideas running around in my head from the time I understood that words could make stories and I am so grateful that you give me the opportunity to make a living telling stories. Thank you so, so much for reading my books! xoxoxoxo
And finally, my boys, who I love more than I can ever say. We’ve had a rough and rocky few years and I just want to say thank you for hanging in there and being the coolest, most wonderful sons in the whole world. You amaze me every day.
Also available from Tracy Wolff
and Harlequin
Claimed
Pursued
Unwrapped
Conflicted
Unguarded
Embraced
No Apologies
About the Baby
Beginning with Their Baby
From the Beginning
Deserving of Luke
Healing Dr. Alexander
Coming soon from Tracy Wolff
and Carina Press
Make Me
Break Me
Also available from Tracy Wolff
Ruined
Addicted
Exposed
Flawed
Lovegame
Play Me
Shredded
Shattered
Slashed
Down and Dirty
Hot and Heavy
Rough and Ready
Royal Pain
Royal Treatment
Accelerate
Full Exposure
Tie Me Down
Crash into Me
Drive Me Crazy
Fade into You
Lyric and Lingerie
Harmony and High Heels
About the Author
New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Tracy Wolff collects books, English degrees and lipsticks, and has been known to forget where—and sometimes who—she is when immersed in a great novel. At six she wrote her first short story—something with a rainbow and a prince—and at seven she forayed into the wonderful world of girls’ lit with her first Judy Blume novel. By ten she’d read everything in the young adult and classics sections of her local bookstore, so in desperation her mom started her on romance novels. And from the first page of the first book, Tracy knew she’d found her lifelong love. Now an English professor at her local community college, she writes romances that run the gamut from sweet contemporary to erotica, from paranormal to urban fantasy and from young adult to new adult. You can catch up with her and her latest releases on Facebo
ok (Facebook.com/tracy.wolff.39) or Twitter (@TracyWolff).
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