Page 33 of Deacon

Without thinking, I cross the room and pull the latch down. In the hall, I go as fast as I can without tripping. Feeling my way along the wall, I make it down the stairs. My heart thuds in time with my feet as I dash along the hall and tear the door open.

He turns, but I run right past him and come to a halt.

The sky is astounding. Everything is bathed in a pink glow, tinged with the suggestion of green and deep blue, so vast it takes my breath away.

I turn. He’s a shadow against the house.

The world feels upside down, like the sky is on fire. I don’t feel like Freya Hatfield. There’s no Aiden to remind me I’m a whore like my mother. My first time feels light years away. It’s all because he’s looking at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

I am alive. Fire roars in my bones.

Right now, I know desire without shame. It’s an animal hunger that doesn’t care about my past or future. All it knows is right now. All it wants is his hard, hot body against mine. He’s no Braxton Whitaker. He won’t leave me used. No, I think this man will eat me whole with nothing left to feel when he’s done.

My chest heaves as I creep closer. He towers over me, not moving.

“Why are you looking at me like…that?” I breathe.

He swallows, sweat etching down his neck. “I want you,” he says.

It’s so straightforward. There’s no trying to trick me, no lying about what he wants.

My hands ball. I’m fighting between the desire to protect myself and this need. It’s a losing battle. This is all new. I’ve never felt lust for another person before tonight.

It’s shocking. I don’t know how to control this.

“Why?” My voice cracks.

He doesn’t speak. His boots crunch on the driveway. His body comes so close, I feel his heat at my front. Around us, the northern lights swirl. He takes off his hat and runs a hand over his hair.

I see him in profile for a second. Harsh, broken nose. Face like it was carved from stone. Eyes that flip from predator to something I’ve never seen in a man’s face—softness.

“Deacon,” I whisper.

His name hangs between us. Intimate. His rough palm cradles my face. He smells good, feels good. Tonight, I’m desperate for pleasure. The thought of touching him, of letting him touch me, is spine tingling.

His body curves over mine, my skin tingling with his warmth. His presence is coal on fire, black as night and hot as the sun.

“Freya,” he says, his voice cracking.

Boldly, I lift my hand and lay my fingers over his lips. “I don’t want to think,” I whisper. “I just…want.”

His mouth is firm and warm. Distracted, I trace it with my middle finger, from one end to the other. My heart flutters so fast, it reminds me of a butterfly encased in my prison of ribs.

I skim my touch down his chin, over the rough hair of his short beard. Down his throat where his pulse thrums. Between the collar of his shirt.

Down to where it’s bare skin and dark hair.

His hand encircles my wrist. A shock moves along my arm. With his other hand, he pulls me close. His mouth comes down on mine. A moan bursts from me at the same moment a groan rumbles in his chest.

His kiss is so brilliant, it makes the northern lights go quiet. He’s rough and hungry, consuming me with his mouth. It isn’t the first time I’ve been kissed, but it feels like it.

I’m reeling, just letting him have his way. Dimly, I feel his hand on the back of my neck.

My fingers grip the front of his shirt. The world spins. I’m a limp mess in his arms. There’s no need for me to shift my thighs together—I can tell how shamefully wet I am.

He forces my lips apart, swiping his tongue over them. I let him in, and his tongue touches mine for a second before he withdraws.

Our eyes meet. He’s tousled, the front of his shirt halfway open. At some point, I ripped those top buttons. My palms are pressed to the messy ink beneath his bare skin.

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