Page 68 of Deceive Me
Sydney slept deep, unaware, in the small second bedroom attached to his. Standing in the doorway, he lingered on the sight of her, the sweet face so like her mother’s, the easy breathing, the small hands wrapped around Katie Kitty. Did Elliot see the same things, catalog Sydney’s features the same way as she stopped at his side? She wasn’t Sydney’s mother—maybe Elliot didn’t know how to be a mother—but the look in her eyes when they rested on his child… She cared about Sydney, and she cared about him. There was no other way to interpret that look.
He felt her ease close to him. Elliot didn’t speak, even when Deacon reached for her without looking, wrapped his arm around her waist, and pulled her against him. If he could freeze this moment, stay here forever, his family safe and sound, he would. But life didn’t work that way.
That’s what he needed right now: life. He needed to soak in it, drown in it. He needed to drown himself in Elliot.
A glance assured him the second door in Sydney’s room was bolted securely. No windows, no closet, nowhere for anyone to gain entry except the door connecting to his bedroom. The door he quietly closed. A flick of the lock guaranteed Sydney wouldn’t walk in unexpectedly, though she’d been so exhausted he didn’t think she’d stir if a bomb…
He clenched his eyes shut. Damn.
She wouldn’t stir.
Elliot watched him turn toward her, blue eyes unreadable in the dark.
“I need you.”
His words were gruff, raw, but Elliot didn’t flinch, didn’t question. She simply walked backward toward the bed, step by quiet step, as she grasped the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it over her head.
Thank fuck.
“I need you too.”
There was something in her voice, something he couldn’t quite name, but he brushed it aside. This room had a window, the shades angled downward, allowing in the faintest bit of light from the street. It painted stripes across the defined muscles of her arms, her flat stomach, the graceful curve of her shoulders. Where he really wanted to see it was on her breasts. He hadn’t spent near enough time with her beautiful breasts. His mouth watered at the thought, and he moved closer, ducked his head, and drew one cloth-covered tip between his lips.
The faintest cry escaped Elliot. She arched into him, her arms crossing over the back of his head, her fingers digging deep into his hair to force him closer, force him to take more. He opened wide, laving and sucking and moaning around her flesh, but it wasn’t enough. He needed skin. He needed nothing between them but air, and that only long enough for him to erase it.
Elliot seemed to need the same thing, because she reached behind her and unsnapped her bra. Deacon jerked the offending material away, but he didn’t go back to feasting. Instead he knelt at her feet, bringing his face in line with her nipples, and looked his fill. Breathed her in. Imprinted this moment in his brain to carry with him forever.
When his breath washed over a hardened tip, Elliot moaned his name.
“Strip for me, Ell.”
He caught the hint of uncertainty as she hesitated, but her nipples peaked even harder. She began to undress—belt, boots, pants, socks. The slide of her silky underwear down her slender legs had him swallowing hard. He stood.
“On the bed.”
“Deacon.”
Her voice was no more than a breath, but she was climbing onto the bed, gracing him with an up-close view of her perfect ass and the pretty pink slit beneath. The ache of need in his body coalesced in his groin, lengthening his cock, tingling in his balls. God, he needed her.
Elliot turned to lie on her back, her shaggy hair almost as white as the pillowcase it rested on. He cupped his erection, squeezing down. “You have no idea how beautiful you are.”
He swore he caught sight of a flush creeping over her pale cheeks. “I want to look at you too.”
He reached for the bottom of his T-shirt. “Open your legs for me, Ell. Let me see all of you.”
The uncertainty was clear this time. Elliot had so little experience, and what he was asking her to do took a measure of confidence she probably didn’t feel in the bedroom. But he let the heat and hunger of his gaze reassure her. Slowly her legs eased outward, matching the rise of his shirt inch for inch, but Elliot was no coward; she didn’t stop there. Her hands framed her breasts, presenting them, flicking her nipples to keep them hard. For him. The sight took his breath away, but it was the pinch of a jutting nub that broke his control. He shucked the rest of his clothes and joined her on the bed in seconds.
He lay on his side and pulled Elliot to him, his chest against her smooth belly, his stomach against her mound, his mouth at the perfect height to draw the breast he hadn’t tasted yet inside. He licked across the pebbly areole, loving the texture of her need, feeling the hard nipple reach for him. Elliot begged him with her body, arching into his mouth, and clamped down, sucked hard, savoring his treat, refusing to give it up. He devoured her; there was no other way to describe it. Every pull, every rough abrading of his tongue on the tip of her nipple was delicious, satisfying something inside him he couldn’t put a name to but had no desire to deny. He only wanted more.
As he sucked, Elliot parted her legs, one moving to rest at his hip. Opening herself to him. Giving herself. The strong scent of her call filled his nose, and suddenly he needed her climax more than he needed his next breath. With two sure fingers he parted her shyly closed lips and slipped through the wetness to fill her to the hilt.
“Deacon.” His name was strangled, a mix of agonizing pleasure and the need to stay quiet—perfect. He pulled his fingers back and shoved them in again, grinding his palm against the hard nub of her clit. This time she choked on the first syllable of his name. The third time there was no sound, only the hard clasp of her body on his invading fingers as she tripped over that last hurdle and tumbled into pleasure.
Deacon sucked and nibbled and gloried in her spasms—and knew his world to be as perfect as it could be in this moment.
Elliot didn’t stir for long minutes, nor did she protest his attentions. He switched breasts, leading her from softened satisfaction to the firming of renewed need, and she clutched his head closer. When he withdrew his fingers and began to trace that most feminine part of her—the creamy lips, the now shyly hidden nub, the open slit waiting to be filled—she tipped her knee out, giving him all the access he wanted. And oh, did he want.
He used his weight to push her onto her back.
