Deacon

“So out there, you’re not happy?” I asked.

“No, Cassie.”

I held his eyes.

“Ever?” I pressed.

He didn’t reply but he didn’t need to. The look in his eyes wasn’t bleak but there was a ghost of that he let me see.

So I asked the big question. “Are you gonna let me make you happy?”

His hand came to the side of my face as his arm pulled me back down his chest in order that he could tuck my cheek to the base of his throat. He left his hand there when he got me there.

But he did all this again not answering me.

I didn’t know if this was to avoid nonverbal communication, to hide.

But it was important so I couldn’t let it slide.

“You didn’t answer me,” I stated, my question aimed at his shoulder.

“Woman, you’re naked on top of me in your bed. I just had you in this bed. This meaning I am not in cabin eleven. A place for six years that was a torture chamber but I kept comin’ back because I couldn’t stay away. Now, tell me, how’re you gonna make me happy when you already accomplished that feat?”

God.

He just gave that to me. Straight up, right out in the open, he gave me that beauty.

I closed my eyes and snuggled deeper, asking, “Okay, are you gonna let me make you more happy?”

“You wanna take on that challenge, not me gonna stop you.”

I opened my eyes and grinned.

He started playing with my hair right behind my ear. That felt nice too, sending a thrill from my ear over my scalp.

I would have preferred to just lie there, held close, letting Deacon thrill me with barely a touch, but I drew in a big breath and decided to get the ground rules out of the way.

“You’re John Priest when you’re here but not in this house.” It was a statement that was also a guess.

His fingers stopped playing and wrapped around the side of my neck, his thumb stroking my jaw, and he confirmed, “I’m John Priest when I’m with you and not in this house.”

“Okay,” I whispered and he gave my neck a squeeze.

“You gonna be able to remember that?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

His thumb stopped stroking and pressed in at the hinge of my jaw. “It’s important, Cassie.”

“I’ll remember,” I whispered, feeling the stone settle in my belly, but doing it being me.

That was, hoping one day he’d help me work it out so it didn’t weigh there, dragging me down, starving me.

I decided to move on.

“You didn’t use a condom last night, Deacon.”

“I know, baby. Things got outta hand. You on the Pill?”

“Yeah. And I’ve been careful. But you’ve had experience so we’ll have to be better about that.”

“Don’t worry about me ungloved. Haven’t fucked anyone for seven years.”

I felt my lips part and my eyes blink.

Twice.

Rapidly.

Then I whispered, “Seriously?”

“Yep,” he said bluntly, like badasses confessed to the new women in their lives every day that they’d been celibate for years when I was stunned badasses could actually go for years without having sex.

I lifted my head to look at him and when I did, he tipped his chin down to catch my gaze.

“You haven’t had sex in seven years?” That was uttered incredulously, as, of course, it would be.

“Fuckin’ you on the table was hot but I came fast. Man gets it regular, he does not come that fast, even as hot as that was.”

I didn’t have that much experience but I figured this was true.

“Might not go to the doctor regularly,” he continued. “But back then I knew I was clean and you can’t catch that shit airborne.”

That I knew was true.

“I…well, it would seem you got a lot of experience in in a short period of time,” I noted.

He said nothing mostly because, with the number of partners he’d had, there was nothing to say but confirm.

“Then nothing for seven years?” I pressed.

“I think you get I fucked around a lot,” he replied.

I nodded because I definitely got that.

“Searchin’ for something,” he went on. “Doin’ that, found, if it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean anything. Meaningless fucks are just that and I don’t do a lot that’s meaningless, definitely not something important like connecting with a woman’s body. Also found it’s not hard to go without when going with doesn’t work for me.”

“But…you’re a badass,” I pointed out.

“And?” he prompted, brows drawing together, apparently well aware he was a badass.

“Badasses need to get them some,” I explained.

“Badasses know what they want, definitely know what they need, and don’t settle for anything less.”

That was probably very true.

It was also a really good answer.

I slid my fingers back to play with the ends of his hair and my voice was soft when I asked, “It really doesn’t work for you if it has no meaning?”

“Biologically, anything would work. Pussy is pussy,” he stated baldly. “You drive your dick into it, close your eyes, you’ll get off. But sex isn’t about that. It shouldn’t be about that for anybody. It doesn’t have to be about emotion, but it has to be about something. If I don’t respect the woman attached to the pussy I’m fucking, can’t look in her eyes and be all about that with her, not just all about the moment I get off, it’s pointless. And there’s no point to doing something pointless.”

He was right about that too.

“Agreed,” I said quietly.

“Add emotion,” he went on, his thumb now stroking my throat. “That’s where it’s at.”

Now he couldn’t be more right.

That was where it was at.

“Yes,” I agreed.

His gaze locked to mine and I saw the intensity in his before he gave it to me.

“And that’s where it’s at with you.”

The weight of that hit me, seven years, nobody, and then there was me, six years fighting it and now we were here.

And he was happy.

He wasn’t roaring with laughter, teasing, playful, devil-may-care happy.

But I felt his contentment. I’d seen how he was with my hair. I knew what it meant to him to be there with me.

Now I knew it even more.

And knowing it, again, a weight hit me, and I dropped my head like I couldn’t hold it up and this time did a face plant in his throat.