Page 134 of Deacon

I drag my attention back. He’s watching me, head tilted.

“The man you lost your virginity to,” he says. “Tell me about him.”

The warmth in my stomach disappears. “Do you really want to hear about it?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because it meant something to you,” he says.

Truthfully, now that I’ve slept with Deacon, the memory of what Braxton did is faded, like a copy of a copy.

“I want you to tell me,” he says, sitting up. “Run upstairs and sit in the chair by the fireplace.”

I hesitate. He gives me a look that lets me know he’s not fucking around. Ever since I agreed to be submissive to him, he’s different. His energy is darker, more dominating. It’s…secure.

I can turn my brain off.

Upstairs, I wait for him, pacing the room. I catch my own reflection in the mirrors by the fireplace. My feet go still; I look different.

All my life, I’ve had hungry eyes. Lean, like an animal.

But tonight, I’m soft.

The door opens, I turn. He comes in and locks the door. The click triggers an involuntary rush of arousal—my body knows his hands will be on it soon. He crosses the room, not looking at me, and drops the cushion on the ground before sinking into the chair on the hearth.

“Sit,” he says, pointing to the pillow.

Cowed, I obey. He spreads his knees so I can fit between them. Then, he shifts my body so my feet are tucked beside me and my body is laid against his leg. Gently, palm on my chin, he rests my cheek against his thigh.

“Tell me,” he says.

“He was one of Ryland’s friends from Pike County on the border,” I whisper. “I had just turned eighteen. I’d heard a lot of things from listening to my stepbrothers talk. I had it in my head that sex was this…amazing thing. All they did in their spare time was try to get laid, so of course I thought that.”

He starts stroking my hair, up over my temple, behind my ear.

“Go on,” he says.

“He came to get something while they were all at work. I was naïve. I thought I was so grown up. I was doing laundry in the tobacco barn out back. He came in… We had sex.”

“That was it?”

I nod. His brows crease.

“That’s not it. Tell me the truth.”

I frown, staring into the fireplace. “He told me he wanted it. I asked him if it would feel good and he said yes. The ground was dirt. I remember I wore a pair of jeans that were so tight, he had trouble getting them off. But they looked good on me.”

I falter, remembering that pair of jeans and how I never wore them again.

I sniff. “It hurt. A lot. Not the good kind. It was like sandpaper. I think I was too nervous to get wet. I remember telling him it hurt. He said it was supposed to because I’d never done it before. I figured I could just stick it out until he was done, but it took him forever. I didn’t tell him to stop… I felt this pressure to let him finish.”

I drag my eyes up to his, but they’re unreadable.

“I don’t feel that with you,” I whisper.

He touches my cheek. “You can always tell me to stop.”

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