Page 39 of Deceive Me
The heavy feeling below her belly button called her a liar, but whatever.
Saint wasn’t doing the dishes, Fionn and King were, but that didn’t mean she was duty-less. Before the hot water ran hot, she turned it off, dried, and smoothed lotion on, then dressed in her usual pajamas. When her hair was mostly dry and the bathroom was neater than when she’d come inside, she opened the door to her room and stepped out.
Into darkness.
The ghostly green light of the monitor barely illuminated its own corner, much less the room, the closed door to the hall guaranteeing no further light would assist. After a few moments to adjust to the dark, she noticed the faintest gleam of something pale near the window.
Skin.
“Deacon?”
He turned. The greenish glow caressed a few dips and hills—his shoulder, his bare chest. She’d seen dozens of male bodies in her line of work, but not his, and definitely not when she was alone in a private space with the body in question. Still she couldn’t stop looking; she needed to trace every last inch with her gaze. Her fingers.
Her tongue.
She cleared her suddenly constricted throat. “Where’s Sydney?”
Deacon faced the window again, staring out into the night. “Asleep.”
The word was more growl than speech, rumbling with frustration and tension and an anger she understood all too well. She’d lived futility, waded in it—ultimately drowned in it. She’d choked on the dregs until she wondered why she bothered fighting to take another breath. And in the end she’d decided it was because the only other alternative was to let the fucker who’d killed her mother win, and no way in hell would she do that. So she breathed. And fought her way forward.
And now she had her chance. And so would Deacon, if he could keep his head on straight.
A glance at the screen showed Sydney curled beneath her fluffy pink comforter, Katie Kitty tucked into the crook of her elbow, eyes closed.
“I… Uh, I have the monitor on. You can take a shower if you want,” she told him.
“No.”
He didn’t turn, didn’t explain. A hint of uncertainty flickered in her belly. “Okay.” A tilt of her head toward her bed, as if he could see it. “I’ll just turn in then.”
Nothing.
Okay.
She crossed toward him, eyes narrowed on his powerful shoulders silhouetted against the night. At five feet away she began to feel his heat, his tension. At three, she could see the rock-hard state of his muscles. At two, she could hear the heavy tone of his breathing, echoing with anger. He’d never sleep like this. He was a soldier; he knew better—
And sometimes all the head knowledge in the world wouldn’t make the emotions go away.
She sighed, watching his skin pebble with goose bumps as her breath caressed it. “You need to relax, Deacon. You know it, I know it—”
“Of course I know, damn it. I’ve been on more ops than you’ll probably see in your lifetime. That doesn’t mean I can snap my fingers and feel better about this. My daughter’s life is at stake.”
I know it is. And he knew she knew, so pointing it out would only make him angrier. Still, “You can’t help her if you’re dead.”
The roar that left his lips shook the floor beneath her feet, the curtains hanging in front of him. Even the little monitor, when she glanced at it, shook with tremors, but the child in the greenish-gray picture didn’t stir. Elliot didn’t want her to stir. She didn’t want Deacon raging either, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. And then she found herself lifting her arm, placing her palm on his rigid back—stilling when he went still. Motionless, like he’d stopped breathing. Was he afraid of scaring her off? Because she was doing a damn good job of that without his help, thank you very much.
Deacon swung around without warning, bringing them chest to chest, so close a shallow breath rubbed her nipples along his ribs. Could he feel how hard they were? Did it disgust him or excite him?
For that matter, what did it do to her?
He stepped closer. The friction sent a shaft of tingles from her breasts to someplace low and heavy and hot in her pelvis. Elliot tried to stifle the moan that rose in her throat—because God, how embarrassing—but the tiniest bit escaped anyway.
It didn’t stop Deacon; he slanted his chest across hers, chafing her nipples a second time. Confirming their hardness. “Is this what you’re offering me, Elliot? Your body for my anger? Sex to calm me down?”
She couldn’t answer. She didn’t know for certain what words would come out of her mouth. For the second time in a week, her courage was lacking—and not because she was afraid of offering herself.
No, she was terrified he’d refuse her.
