Page 127 of Deacon

Before I can react, he pushes me onto my back. His eyes are open now, dark and sleepy. His stubbly face scrapes up my neck as he kisses the little dip beneath my ear.

“Spread your legs,” he says, voice husky.

I pulse twice, checking my soreness. The ache is sweet, remote. He doesn’t wait. No, he pushes my legs open and slides inside me. Our bodies sink together. I’m crushed under the heat of his body, the firm curve of his bicep against my cheek.

It doesn’t take long for either of us. He plays with my clit, and I orgasm silently, biting my lip. His body responds with deep, short thrusts. At the last minute, I shove him back, and he comes on my inner thigh.

“No coming inside,” I murmur.

We lay still, letting our breathing even. He brushes a strand of hair from my cheekbone. “Look out the window, sweetheart.”

I turn and my stomach swoops. Outside, the world is covered in a few inches of snow, thick flakes still whirling from the sky. It’s the middle of October, the trees barren now. I can see the hills for miles, dusted in white, hunkered down.

“It’s so pretty,” I whisper.

I glance over. He’s looking at me with a strange expression. Heavy lids, like he’s longing for something, like he’s a million miles away. I roll back over, even though I’m dying to go look out. He rumbles as I snuggle up against his chest.

He brushes a kiss across my forehead. There’s that new feeling again—safety.

Slowly, I become aware of something else—something I thought he just took care of. It’s wide awake again, pressing into the inside of my left thigh.

“You’re still hard,” I whisper. “When does that slow down?”

His head falls back. “Sweetheart, I’ll be eighty and still ready to go the minute I see you naked in my bed.”

He’s laughing, I’m smiling, but inside, all I hear is that he intends to be eighty and still sleeping with me. Trying to square that away is too much.

My fingers trial over his shoulder, where there’s clearly a scar under the ink. “What happened here?”

The smile melts off his face. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just…he’s made me open up, knows all about me, but I don’t know anything about him except for the shocking piece of information he chose to drop the other night.

“Is it about what you did to get the farm?”

“Are you asking to hear the whole story?” he says, voice rough.

I nod, my thumb tracing his scar. “I want to know you. All of you.”

“I ended up in the system because nobody knew who my biological parents were. My mother dropped me at a hospital,” he says, eyes lowered. “There was a ranch that took me on as a foster kid, and the guy…he was a piece of shit. He had a piece of shit son. His wife liked me, always wanted two boys, so it was her idea to foster.”

He pauses. I can tell he doesn’t like recalling his past, so I stay quiet.

“Her husband, Phil, he, uh…could have been worse,” he says. “He was an asshole, but he did adopt me. Anyway…I was grateful to be out of the foster system, and I tried to show Phil and Amie that by working hard, making a shit ton of cash for them.”

He pushes himself up, leaning against the headboard. I lay my cheek on his thigh, gazing up at him.

“Their son, Henderson, didn't like that,” he says. “We butted heads. Fought at school, fought over girls, fought over attention. It escalated when Phil got sick and died. Amie was gone by then too. He left the land to me and Henderson.”

My eyes trail over the scar, remembering the first time we talked about this. “So Henderson stabbed you with the fence stake.”

His jaw is hard, his eyes fixed out the window. “Everything just came to a head one night when we were about nineteen. We fought over this girl he liked. She was sleeping with me. Sorry, I don’t mean to talk about this shit in front of you.”

“I’m not jealous,” I say.

Truthfully, I am, a little. But I know it’s ridiculous to pretend he hasn’t slept with other women before me.

“Are you sure you want to hear all this?” he asks.

I nod. “I think it’s only fair.”

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