Page 51 of Deacon

“Come here,” he says, unlatching his seat and pushing it back.

I stare, heart pounding. “What are you doing?”

Unceremoniously, he picks me up and hauls me into his lap, wrapping my knees around his waist. His hand slides up my spine, and he pulls the band from the end of my braid and shakes my curls free.

“What are you doing?” I repeat.

“Just touching you, looking at you,” he says, voice dropping. I notice it gets husky when he’s turned on.

He digs his fingers in my hair, gathering it in his fist. Then, he leans in, curving my spine back, and kisses me. Arousal bursts out like water from a dam. We both moan, and my fingers dig into him.

He tastes so good, and he knows what he’s doing. The few kisses I’ve had before him weren’t very pleasant or skilled. Deacon takes his time with it, starting slow before kissing me with passion. One hand grips my hair while the other slides up under my skirt and digs into my ass. I kiss him back, unable to keep from grinding my pussy on the ridge of his cock under his pants.

The truck windows steam over. His hands are all over me. I’m dry humping, gasping against his lips every time his belt buckle hits my clit.

I know better.

I really do.

But I can’t fucking stop. I don’t know why, after all those years of promising myself I wouldn’t end up with a man like him, I fell right into his lap.

Time blurs. I forget where we are and that I need to get home. We make out, bodies grinding frantically, for what feels like a few minutes. But when we break apart, I glance at the clock on the dashboard; it’s been almost thirty minutes.

“You have to take me home,” I gasp.

“I want to see you overnight,” he says. “Had you in my bed once. I need it again.”

I open my mouth and words I didn’t approve come out.

“This weekend,” I say. “Pick me up on Friday. All the men are going into the city overnight, so you can come after seven.”

The corner of his mouth jerks up. “Good girl.”

I’m so turned around, I can’t respond. He lifts me out of his lap, adjusting himself before putting the truck in drive. I sit there, trying to get my curls under control, as he drives back out to the main road.

We pull up at the bottom of my driveway, out of sight of the front porch.

“I’ll see you at seven-thirty, Friday night,” he says.

I nod, pushing open the door and jumping out before he can confuse me again. I feel his eyes on me as I run up the driveway until I’m out of sight.

That night, I toss and turn. It’s hot, so I crack the window. Then, my feet get cold even though my pussy is so hot and restless, I can’t close my eyes. It doesn’t do any good to touch myself. My fingers don’t feel like his.

So, I sit at my desk, surrounded by all the remnants of my childhood, aware for the first time I’ve stepped out of the final threshold of it. I gaze down at the butterflies, the rare insects, the books, the flowers I painted on my bed frame. Part of me wants to go back to them, to sit in my usual state of disassociation and wish for the stars.

But for the first time in my life, something real makes me feel alive.

Maybe it’s not forever.

But it could be for now.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

FREYA

The trucks pull away after dinner on Friday night. I go to my room at the back of the house and shut the door.

The sun is setting, and a single golden ray cuts through the window. My collection is neatly stacked on the desk and above it, my butterfly specimens glittering in an array of colors. My bed is neatly made, the red flannel quilt tucked beneath the mattress. My clothes hang in the open closet. The rug I braided from rags lays like a coat of many colors over the floor.

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