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KENDALL
I couldn’t tell him. Yes, Deacon deserved a full explanation—he deserved apologies and possibly me bowing on the floor for how my family had wronged him. But I couldn’t. I simply could not imagine telling Deacon who I was, and my connection to Stephan Langston.
I had tried to give him space, but it wasn’t working. So, when he demanded an explanation, I panicked, and I kissed him.
Not that it was a bad kiss. I was already painfully turned on. Deacon’s lips were hard against mine, his tongue hot and claiming. It was an angry kiss, with teeth.
And it set my blood on fire.
I gave him everything that he gave me. I sucked on his tongue and growled when his hands slipped under my shirt to clutch claws against my hips. His other hand came around to hold the back of my head, as if keeping me in place.
But there was nowhere else that I wanted to be.
I ripped at his shirt, wanting skin against skin—needing to just forget for a while. To have this beautiful man inside me so I could get out of my own head.
He pulled away and looked at me.
“Don’t say it,” I said because I could see the questions in his gaze, the demands for explanations.
His eyes softened just a touch and he kissed me again, this time more possessive without that desperate hint of anger.
Then his hand fell over my clothed erection and squeezed hard enough to get my attention—that level between pleasure and pain. I gasped and rolled my hips into him, grinding myself into the heel of his hand.
He released my lips and mouthed a wet line down my neck. The hot line of his cock ground against my hip.
His voice came as a dark caress. “You want me to fuck you?”
It was a straightforward, to the point question.
I groaned my response, melting against him.
“Yes.” His hand squeezed me again, and I rocked into him, helpless. “Yes, please Deacon. I want you. I need you”
He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. I could practically see him shoving away the demands for explanations. Not that he didn’t deserve them.
He must have known that if he were to push right now, I would break and this—whatever it was between us—would be sundered forever. His eyes flicked up and down, fixing on my tented erection. His breath came out in a punch of air.
Deacon nodded, once.
We stumbled into the bedroom, and he pushed me down on the bed, climbing over and ravishing me. His mouth was everywhere: my lips, my neck, pulling the neck of my shirt down and sucking a purple bruise at my collarbone. A secret mark only the two of us would know about.
There was no light and fun foreplay this time around. We were both wild with need. I all but clawed my own shirt over my head, and he yanked my pants down so hard that I slid a few inches along the mattress with the force of it.
I kicked away my shoes and socks like an animal escaping a trap.
We were finally, finally, gloriously naked together. He fell on me again, between my open welcoming legs, his erection sliding over my flat belly.
I thought about closing my legs, letting him fuck in between my oiled thighs, but dismissed it at once. No. I wanted this man inside me. I wanted him to make me howl.
“Where is the lube?” I demanded.
He reached over to the nightstand behind the clock. Then, kneeling, he dragged me into his lap.
I went gleefully, kissing him as I wrapped my legs around his waist.
Gone was the gentle and playful preparation he had used before. Deacon was a man on a mission. He spread the lube up and in me with thorough but quick haste.
I bit my lip against the intrusion. It didn’t hurt—he wasn’t rough or in any way cruel, but he wasn’t being his normal, gentle self, either.
