Page 54 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

His hand slid into her hair, fingers curling at the base of her skull, and he kissed her.

It was hot and deep, nothing tentative about it. His mouth took hers like he’d been holding back for far too long, like the day had stripped away every excuse to pretend they could stay careful. She made a low sound she didn’t recognize and kissed him back just as fiercely, her hands fisting in his jacket.

The world narrowed to heat and breath and the familiar, dangerous way he fit against her.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing hard. “Damn,” he murmured.

Her lips tingled, her pulse racing. She should have stopped it. Should have said something smart and cautious.

Instead, she kissed him again.

The kiss deepened, slower now but no less intense. Deacon’s hands slid down her sides, strong and familiar, before one curved over her breast. Heat flared, sharp and reckless. He pulled her flush against him, his mouth claiming hers with a hunger that made her dizzy.

Then he hissed softly.

His body stiffened for a split second before he masked it, but she felt it. The tension. The pain.

She broke the kiss just enough to look at him. “Even lust can’t overrule pain.”

His mouth tilted into a crooked smile, eyes dark and intent. “I kinda want to put that theory to the test.”

Her pulse jumped, desire roaring hot and foolish.

And then his phone sounded.

The sharp buzz cut through the moment like a blade. Deacon stilled, forehead dropping briefly to hers before he stepped back with a muttered curse. He pulled the phone from his pocket and scanned the message.

The color drained from his face.

“Deacon,” she said quietly. “What is it?”

He dragged a hand through his hair, anger and disbelief colliding in his expression.

“Someone just firebombed Lauren’s grave,” he said, cursing under his breath. “There won’t be an exhumation.”

Chapter Thirteen

Deacon stood at the kitchen counter with a mug of black coffee warming his hands while he stared out the wide window at the pasture beyond the house. Morning light spread soft and pale over the ranch, catching the slow movement of his horses as they grazed. It should have been peaceful. Most mornings, it was.

Ranger lay stretched out at his feet, dead to the world, legs twitching slightly like he was chasing something in his sleep.

The house was quiet.

Mostly.

Water rushed behind the closed door of the guest bathroom down the hall. The steady sound of the shower running told him Jessa was awake. That single fact stirred something low and restless in him, heat tightening in his gut before he could shut it down.

After the kisses they had shared, the kind that burned and promised far more than either of them should have touched, it had taken every ounce of discipline he owned not to go to her in the night. Not to pull her close, not to take her to bed and forget the world for a few hours.

But the timing had been totally wrong.

The firebombing of Lauren’s grave had crushed whatever fragile momentum they had built. Like a fresh wound ripped open, raw and unforgiving. Jessa had gone pale, shock hollowing her out, grief carving itself deep beneath the surface.

She had needed space. Rest. Time to breathe without someone else’s need pressing in on her.

So Deacon had kept his distance, even when every instinct in him said to do the opposite. He had made sure the house stayed quiet. He had let her sleep while she tried to recover from a loss that refused to stay buried.

He took a slow sip of coffee and watched one of the horses lift its head, ears pricked toward the house. Soon enough, everything would jump to full throttle mode again. Answers would be chased. Anger would surface. Violence might possibly follow.