Page 89 of Without You

Not wasting a single second, I tear myself away from him and hop out of the truck.

Collecting my bag from the back seat, I impatiently wait for Deacon to lead the way.

After grabbing his own duffel, he slips his hand in mine and leads us to the entrance. It’s ridiculous how my heart exerts itself over the action.

We walk into a waiting elevator in silence, the sexual tension buzzing, the anticipation increasing. In less than two minutes, it stops on the fifth floor, and he ushers me to a chocolate colored, walnut door with the number 502 stuck in the middle.

“This is me.”

Deacon makes quick work of the lock. Walking in first, he flicks some switches on a panel beside the door jamb and then holds the door open, gesturing for me to come inside.

The second the entryway is closed, Deacon takes my bag and unceremoniously drops it on the floor with his. His arms wrap around my waist, his hands slipping under my clothes, and his lips press to my neck.

Tingles work their way up my spine at his touch, but the space in front of me demands my attention.

It’s Deacon’s space.

“This is your place?” I ask incredulously.

The tone in my voice distracts him enough to stop kissing my shoulder. “Yeah. Why?”

My eyes dart around the open plan living space. It’s tidy and masculine and so much more suited to Deacon than any place I’ve ever seen him.

The whole apartment is lined with charcoal hardwood floors. The living room area has an off-white rug covering the space and a light gray sectional around the edges. It’s both cozy and spacious and the perfect contrast to the plethora of steel and wood that decorates his kitchen.

A large bookshelf sits in the corner of the room, reminding me of the one I touched at his parents’ place.

“It’s perfect,” I manage to say.

I can feel him shrug behind me. “It’s just an apartment.”

I turn in his arms, unsure if I’m going to say the right words, but knowing, deep in my bones, he needs to hear it anyway.

“You should be proud of yourself, Deacon.”

Blue eyes shine at me with gratitude, and I respond with a gentle kiss.

“Can you show me your bedroom?” I ask playfully.

“You want the grand tour?” he teases.

“Definitely.”

Instead of small, evenly paced steps, he tugs at my arm, dragging me down a hallway.

“This is the guest bathroom,” he says flippantly. “And this is the guest bedroom.”

We arrive at the last door in the narrow hallway and Deacon releases my hand and rushes through it. “And this,” he waves his arm across the span of the room, “is the only place that matters.”

His bedroom is as minimalist as the rest of the place, the gray color scheme continuing on the comforter and pillows.

A king-size bed sits in the middle, and there’s a night stand on each side. A walk-in closet and an en suite complete the setup, giving it a warm yet sophisticated feel.

My eyes take in every surface in the room, lingering on the bed and then looking back at Deacon.

The air crackles between us. Between the time we’ve spent missing one another and the difficult hours we’ve endured to get right here, the lure of a bed is the only thing we need to set each other on fire.

Deacon’s now a few feet away from me. He looks tired from the drive, but the need in his eyes burns as bright as the sun.

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