Page 42 of Deacon

He shakes his head, almost like he’s relieved.

“No,” he says. “I believe you.”

There’s an awkward silence. In the light of day, I don’t know what to do with myself. The northern lights are gone. The sun is up, and last night feels like a distant memory.

And he’s looking at me like I mean something to him.

“I’ll get breakfast going,” he says in that rough voice that makes my toes curl. “Clean you up first.”

Breakfast? He wants to fuck me like that, ask me about my period, and then feed me breakfast. My stomach swoops. Why is he acting like this is something more than a night where he gets to use me, no strings attached?

“It’s Sunday,” I whisper. “Church day.”

He goes into the bathroom. I hear the water running, and he returns with a wet washcloth. “The storm is back. I’ll drive you wherever you want to go after it breaks. Church can wait.”

I glance over and find he’s right. There’s gray rain whipping over the hills. Warmth slips between my legs, jerking my attention back. He wipes me off, uses the same rag to clean himself, and tosses it into the laundry basket. Blushing, I look away as he pulls on a pair of sweats.

He has a powerful, raw sexuality. It doesn’t turn off. It’s not intentional. It’s just there, potent in every move he makes.

He goes to the dresser, rummaging in the top drawer and coming back with a flannel. I can smell his scent on it as I pull it shyly over my body. Getting dressed in front of each other feels more intimate than what we did last night.

He leads me downstairs, hand engulfing mine. In the kitchen, the rain thunders against the windows. There’s bacon crackling and grits bubbling on the stove. He sets a cup of coffee before me. I wrap my hands around the warm mug and lean back in my chair to watch him cook.

My eyes linger on his shoulders. He wears a charcoal gray Henley, a clean one today. It fits his body well, hugging his shoulders and biceps. The collar is a little frayed, the top button open. The tattoos go up his neck to his jaw. His hair is buzzed short, but it’s thick enough to cover most of the ink that extends under it.

He’s trouble. I know his type. He’s got those dark puppy eyes that’ll have me forgiving him for everything he does—bar fights, rap sheets, and everything in between. I thought I’d learned my lesson about men like him. And Lord, do I know better than letting him do what he did last night.

At least, I thought I knew better.

“Coffee alright?”

I offer a small smile. “It’s good. Thank you,” I say.

He gives me a look that reminds me of all the filthy things he said to me in his bedroom. It’s followed by a slow drag of his eyes, a little flick at the end so he can look at my breasts. He’s not trying to be subtle.

“I want to ask you something,” he says, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter.

“Okay,” I say, guard rising.

“When I went to clean up last night, there was blood on my dick,” he says.

I stare, mortified beyond words.

“I’m not a virgin,” I whisper.

His brow creases. There’s a faint tattoo, barely visible on his upper cheekbone. I didn’t notice it until now.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Maybe a little, but not enough to worry about.” I shrug, squirming. “The other man…he was…wasn’t you.”

A muscle ripples in his jaw. Those eyes are like coal, black and simmering hot. “Did he hurt you?”

I don’t want to get into my one and only sexual experience before I’ve even had breakfast. It was disappointing enough when it happened. I don’t need to recount it in front of this six-five slab of muscle who’s far more sexually experienced.

“He wasn’t small. It just wasn’t an extra limb,” I say curtly.

The corner of his mouth twitches but not in a smile. It takes me a second of staring at his hard face to realize what’s going on.

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