Page 133 of Deacon

I shake my head. He sets a plate on the table loaded with meat, potatoes, bread, and gravy. He’s not a bad cook, but his food is different than what I’m used to—it’s hearty, made for winters like this. He sinks down and spreads his knees, leaning back.

I look at him, unsure what’s happening. He pats his leg once.

“Come here and sit,” he says.

Momentarily, I think about refusing. Then, I remember our talk. This might be an odd arrangement, one I don’t fully understand, but my word is my bond, and he’s never asked me to do anything I haven’t liked yet.

And I like the pleasure he gives me. After a lifetime of being ignored, it feels good to be desired.

I sit on his knee, and his firm arm wraps around my waist. My eyes follow his hands as he breaks the bread into smaller pieces and soaks them in gravy.

“Open,” he says.

I do as he says, and he puts the food into my mouth. It’s good, strong and thick. My brain buzzes, watching him lick the fingers that just touched my tongue. He eats some, then he feeds me some. It feels like some kind of ancient ritual. Like when he’s done, we’ll be bound forever.

The thought is a little frightening.

I look around while we eat, noticing there’s only water and coffee on the table. That’s different than what I’m used to. Aiden, Ryland, and Bittern drink in the morning, noon, and night. Occasionally, if his day at the factory was rough, Aiden would do a line off the kitchen counter. I’d clean up after him, always worried he’d somehow get in trouble, even though it was just me who saw it.

My childhood was littered with casual pain and the casual vices that patched it up.

I don’t want that anymore.

I glance at him sideways. He’s using the last bit of bread to mop up the scraps of gravy. The plate is empty, and I’m satisfied. He wipes his hands and shifts me to face him.

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

He reaches up and tucks a curl behind my ear. “You can just ask. No need to clear it with me first, sweetheart.”

My cheeks go warm. “I see you drink and smoke, but not all the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Like, you just have one here and there. You can go all day without anything. Do you not get addicted?”

He shrugs. “I’ve never been addicted. I smoke in the summer, not much in the winter. I like whiskey, but not enough to try to get drunk off it. I’m too big for it to have much effect on me anyway.”

I consider this, unsure if I believe it. All I’ve known is men with problems on problems, men who were kicked down by life too manytimes to keep from turning somewhere for comfort. I can’t say I blame them. The only thing that kept me from drinking to handle it was the thought it could make me like Aiden.

“So you just cope with life?” I ask.

He considers it. “I think sex is my outlet.”

My stomach sinks, and it takes me a second to identify why.

“Can I ask—”

“Just ask, sweetheart,” he says, dark eyes soft.

“Okay,” I say, taking a breath. “How long had it been since you had sex when we slept together for the first time?”

He tilts his head like he’s thinking hard again. “I saw you in the winter. I’d gotten laid a few months prior, so it’s been almost a year from now.”

Warmth settles in my lower belly. “You didn’t sleep with anyone after you saw me in the winter?”

He shakes his head. “Why do that when I wanted you?”

He’s very focused. I wonder if that’s how he was able to keep this ranch running so well. It’s beautifully kept, everything deliberate. From the things I heard while working at the café, he’s known for having the best barrel racers in Montana. That takes dedication.

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