Page 53 of Deacon

He sets my boots aside, but he doesn’t get up. One hand, blue from ink, touches the inside of my knee. Our eyes lock in the dim hall.

“You hungry?” he says, voice husky.

I shake my head. My mouth is dry as dust. “I ate,” I manage.

He’s probably hoping to take me up to his bedroom, but right then, the puppy cries in the living room. I dart around him to look in. He has a wire pen by the hearth, and the puppy is rolling on newspaper, kicking a toy in its back legs. It sees me from the corner of its eye and flips, lifting its fuzzy head.

I get blinders, forgetting all about Deacon, and go right for the puppy.

“Oh, he’s so sweet,” I whisper, picking him up.

He nuzzles my neck, chirruping in his throat. Deacon appears at my elbow, hands on his hips. He gives the puppy a stern look, as if he’s jealous.

“I better not hear any bullshit tonight,” he says.

The puppy ignores him, writhing in my arms. I look up at Deacon, all the tension gone from my body. Maybe it’s the puppy, or maybe it’s being out of my house and back at Ryder Ranch, but here, I feel like I can let my body relax.

“What’s his name?” I ask.

Deacon shrugs. “Doesn’t have one yet.”

“Can I name him?”

My voice is higher than usual. Am I being…bubbly? I haven’t been bubbly since I was a little girl, and it feels…so good. Deacon looks at me, and his brows lift.

“Yeah, whatever you like,” he says. “You want a drink? I got wine.”

I nod. “I don’t drink wine, but I’ll do moonshine if you have it.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Yeah, I think I do.”

He disappears into the kitchen. I kiss the puppy on the head and set it back down, letting him go back to attacking his toy. I follow Deacon around the corner and find the closet door behind the fridge open. There’s a soft crash, some cursing, and then he appears with a jug of moonshine in his hand.

He shuts the door and sets it on the counter.

“No getting drunk,” he says.

I lean on the counter next to him.

“Why’s that?” I say.

He fills a shot glass and sets it down. “Because I brought you here to talk,” he says. “Get to know each other.”

“And?” I press.

He pours a second shot and hands it over. “I’m gonna fuck you good and hard, sweetheart, so keep your head on straight for it.”

Heat explodes. The way he says it, all intense, takes my breath away. I shoot the moonshine to cover up my blush. A smirk flashes over his face as he bolts his shot.

He looks at me, I look up at him. All I have in my head is the memory of him flipping me onto my hands and knees and telling me to hold the headboard.

“It tastes like apples,” I say.

“Supposed to be apple pie,” he says. “Ginny made it.”

“It’s good. I’ll have another shot.”

There’s a little sass to my voice, and my accent is coming through harder than usual. Maybe it’s because I’m nervous. He pours me a splash more. I bolt it, flipping my glass and pushing it next to his. He leans in, and I shudder as his mouth brushes the side of my neck. His body shifts against mine, pinning me into the counter.

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