Page 69 of The Promise Of Rain
The back stairs split, one half going up to the bedrooms, the other down to a second family room I could see from the top of the stairs was unfurnished.
It was warm and cozy and everything a house should be.Just right for a small family, fully capable of hosting a larger group, and not nearly too big.
The furniture was sturdy and serviceable rather than elegant, but it was well made, and that held a class all its own.
What was his bedroom like?
“I love your kitchen table,” I murmured.Heavy with simple, smooth lines, it was so sharply pieced together I could barely make out the seams.It was a work of art and currently set for two.
He moved in behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.Dropping his chin to my shoulder, he murmured, “I bought it from the Amish place up past Mistlevale.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I admitted.“I love it.”
Rosemary, sage, and the heady aroma of garlic teased me.“What smells so good?”
“I made you dinner,” he said.
My eyebrows rose as I twisted to look at him over my shoulder.“You can cook?”
He smirked and kissed the tip of my nose.“I can crockpot with the best of them.”
I smiled up at him.“Well, that’s good,” I murmured.“Because I love to eat.”
He grinned, that long dimple in his cheek making a rare appearance, growing deeper still at the bearlike grumblings rising from my belly.
His chuckle lit up his eyes.
He looked younger than he did a month ago.Lighter.
Squeezing me close, he dropped his lips to my neck.“Let’s get you fed.”
He moved easily around the kitchen, his long legs eating up the space, the tendons in his arms flexing as he lifted the heavy crockpot and carried it to the table.
After the first few mouth-watering bites, hungry for something else, I barely tasted the food.
Deacon Raine had made me dinner and was currently sitting across from me with his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, lightly dusted forearms.
What was it about veins that made me want to lick them?
With his shirt open at the neck, I could already tell his chest was hairier than it was at twenty-three when he left.
How would he feel now?
And what would he think about the changes in me?
I helped him clear the dishes, my movements jerky and uneven as my temper flared.Huffing out a sharp laugh, I shook my head as I stood by the sink.
The heat of his body aligned with my back as his hands came forward to bracket me between his body and the counter.“Are you frustrated?”
My body trembled.
Shame dusted my cheeks.
I swallowed and shook my head no.
He dragged his lips down the side of my neck, his stubble lighting me on fire as he breathed, “I am.”
Chills forged a path from his lips to my breasts.I dropped my head back on his shoulder with a low moan.
