26. Chapter 26

"So, tell me, have you murdered Deacon yet?"

I smile out the window at my best friend's voice on the other end of the line and at her words. She knows me so well. Things with Deacon have become … complicated, and while my gut instinct would be to tell her every little detail, some things feel too personal to share, even with Amelia. Secrets that aren't mine to tell. Things were more manageable when it was just sex. Maybe even better because it was no-strings-attached hate-sex. The kind that starts as an argument and ends in an orgasm. But being in such close proximity, I can't help but learn things about him that make me see him as an actual human being instead of simply a vibrator with legs. The more I learn, the more I empathize. The more I empathize, the less hate I feel, which has turned the hate-sex to real sex, and I'm bordering dangerously on like him. Like, liking him, liking him. Ugh, how inconvenient.

When I remember I'm on the phone and my friend has asked me a question, I say, "Not yet, but that could change at any time. The man opens his mouth and my blood pressure goes up." So do my hormones, but I don't tell her that part.

Amelia's bubbly laughter filters through the burner phone I'm using, and I'm struck again by just how happy she sounds. Most women would be a crabby mess at nearly eight months pregnant, but in true Amelia fashion, she's taken everything in stride and is determined to make the most of every minute of pregnancy. Of course, it helps when you have a husband who's made devotion to you his entire personality.

"You say that but I notice a distinct lack of bite in your tone," she says.

Sighing heavily, I say, "The man is confusing. Wait, what am I saying? Of course, he's confusing. He's a man !"

"Usually it's the other way around though, isn't it? You're used to being the one doing the confusing on the poor intellectually challenged male species. Oh, how the tables have turned!"

"Don't gloat. It's very unattractive," I say, but I know she can hear the smile in my voice. Dropping my face into my free hand, I add, "Amelia, I don't think I can do this."

"Do what?" she asks.

"You know … feelings, " I spit out the last word like it's an Atomic Fireball someone offered me disguised as bubble gum.

That laughter comes again before she says, "Wait, there are feelings ? Like actual feelings? I thought it was just great sex?"

My words come out slightly muffled around the palm still partially covering my mouth. "It was … I mean … it is … fuck, I don't know. Being stuck here with him, I've been forced to get to know him, and you'd think that would've made me wanna light him on fire, but instead, it … hasn't." I pause while silence reigns on the other end of the line. "Sure, there are times that my hand itches to reach for the matches, but just when I think I've figured him out, he does something that puts me off balance. To be honest, I'm kinda terrified," I add.

Voice growing serious, she asks, "Why?" After a pause of her own, she adds in a low tone, "You know they're nothing alike."

I know she's referring to Dante, and I know the two men couldn't be further apart in every department. For once, that's not actually what scares me. "I know, and it's not that I'm afraid of him. I'm afraid of me . He doesn't know the details of my past; hell, no one does, really. Not even my best friend and I'm sorry for that. I have a lot of shame surrounding those years with Dante and I just wanted to forget everything that happened and try to move on with my life."

"First of all, don't apologize. You never asked for anything that happened to you with your words or actions. I believe that wholeheartedly because I know you. Secondly, I know you don't need me to tell you this because you already know, but if you really wanna pursue something with Deacon, you're gonna have to tell him everything. He needs to understand why you are the way you are. Because you have been and will probably continue to carry parts of that with you, maybe forever."

"What if he doesn't want anything to do with me afterward?" I whisper.

"If he runs, he's not worthy of you. If he stays, he'll be getting the better end of the deal. You still have so much beauty to offer the world. He should feel lucky to capture some of it in a bottle for himself."

I bite the end of my thumbnail before saying, "I wouldn't even know where to start. What would I even say to him? "

"I can't answer that for you, babe. I can't tell you what to say and what not to say when I, myself, don't know the ins and outs of everything that happened," she says with what I'm sure is a sad smile.

The rational part of my brain tells me I know what I have to do, it's just the execution of it that's making me feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin. Taking a deep breath, I open my mouth, allowing the nerves to exit along with my next sentence. "Can you talk to Merrick? See if you guys can come here?" I say before tacking on, "Alexi too. If I'm gonna tell this story, I'd like to only have to do it once, and you all deserve to know, considering we're all waist-high in my shit right now."

"Are you sure?" she asks, the concern evident in her tone.

"Not at all. But I'm gonna do it anyway. I'll work it out with Deacon if you can talk to the others?"

"I will, and I'll be with you every step of the way," she says.

"Okay. I'll give you a call later. And, Amelia? Thank you. I love you," I say past the lump that's formed in my throat.

"I love you too. Everything's gonna be fine, you'll see."

I nod even though she can't see me. Saying our goodbyes, we hang up. I drop the phone in my lap in favor of using both hands to cover my face now. Shit, am I really gonna do this?

A loud noise from the kitchen has my head jerking up. A clatter that sounds like pots and pans falling from an open cabinet echoes around the small house, and suddenly, I hear, "Woman, are we making spaghetti or what?"

I can't help smiling despite my anxiety. Yeah, I guess I am gonna do this.

"Go fish," I say over the top of the fan of playing cards in my hand.

Deacon narrows his eyes at me from across the coffee table. From our current positions sitting on the floor on opposite sides of the living room's rustic centerpiece, the difference in height between us isn't quite as prominent. So the look of intimidation he's pointing in my direction right now isn't working nearly as well as he'd like. I arch an eyebrow at him, putting on the most serious face I can muster, considering I do have the seven he just asked for. Usually, my poker face can't be matched, but for some reason, the intensity with which he's playing a card game normally enjoyed by small children has my lips twitching with the urge to laugh.

"Are you sure you don't have any seven's?" He asks again, suspicion lacing his tone. After finishing a hearty dinner of spaghetti and slightly burnt garlic bread, made mostly by me because the man was a walking fire hazard in the kitchen, I expected him to retreat back into his man cave, leaving me to fend for myself again. So, I was surprised when he started loading the dishwasher without me saying anything. He further surprised me when he asked if I wanted to play cards afterward. We'd squabbled over what game to play but after a best two out of three rounds of rock, paper, scissors, I'd won and chosen a game based on the typical level of maturity for a man. Go Fish.

I pretend to check my hand again, eyes skating right over the seven staring me in the face. Meeting his gaze again, I say, "Positive. "

His eyes narrow further, and at this point, he might as well close them because I'm convinced he can't even see me. He proves me wrong when he says, "You're lying. It's written all over your face."

My lips twitch again, betraying me. Even so, I say, "You don't know shit. Go. Fish," I draw out the last two words dangerously.

He watches me carefully, and I do my best not to break out into a sweat. The urge to laugh is clawing its way up my throat, and if he doesn't break soon and pull a card, I'm gonna lose this battle spectacularly. Seconds tick by until his posture finally relaxes and he reaches for a card from the deck between us. What a sucker. A wide grin breaks out onto my face in my purported victory at having won the battle of wills. His head jerks up, his face morphing from resignation at his impending loss to vindication. He points a finger in my direction. "You're cheating!" He yells a millisecond before lunging over the table at me. A shriek of laughter bursts from me, cards flying everywhere as I attempt to dodge him. I manage to wriggle away as he rummages through the cards I dropped until he finds the traitorous seven of clubs. Holding it up like a war prize, he points in my direction again. "You filthy little cheater."

"That's not mine. You planted that there. You're the criminal here, remember?" I reply as I scoot my butt across the floor, trying to get out of arm's reach.

He advances towards me on his knees, which if I'm honest, isn't a bad look for him. I'm momentarily distracted by inappropriate thoughts of other things he could do while on his knees when he makes his move. Throwing himself in my direction, I barely have time to scramble to my feet before he's wrapped an arm around my waist, hauling us both up, until I'm dangling a foot off the ground, legs kicking wildly back at him. The entire time, I'm laughing maniacally. As he flops back onto the sofa, taking me with him, I bounce on his lap, eliciting a groan from him. My laughter cuts off abruptly, assuming I've hurt him with my weight. I silently pray for his man bits as I grimace, turning my face back to issue an apology. The words dry up on my tongue when he takes hold of my hips, rocking himself into me. Well, clearly, his man bits are just fine. I feel the caress of warm breath as he gently blows my hair, which I pulled up in a high ponytail to the side. I lean back into him as he runs the tip of his nose up the back of my neck, inhaling deeply. Is he … smelling me? The idea should make me wonder if he has serial killer tendencies, but instead, all I can do is shiver against him, wiggling my ass against the hard ridge now pressing into me.

Mouth close to my ear now, he says, "Stand up and turn around."

I do as he asks, turning to face him. The way he lounges back against the couch, legs spread wide, and hair disheveled from our earlier tussle, reminds me of a rake on the cover of those old bodice ripper novels. I stand awkwardly between his knees, unsure what he wants me to do.

He looks at me through hooded eyes that have darkened to an almost navy blue before using his hands to pat the cushions next to each of his hips. "I want your feet here."

Confused, I ask, "You … want me to stand on the couch?"

He nods, gripping my hips again to steady and guide me as I step gingerly onto the sofa, placing my feet on either side of his hips. The position is awkward, and I feel off balance until he says, "Put your hands flat against the wall. "

It's on the tip of my tongue to call him "officer" and make a joke about whether he's about to give me a strip search but when I glance down to see him slowly lick his lips like a half-starved animal, I think better of it and instead place my palms flat against the wall behind the couch without a word. The move causes me to lean slightly closer to him, and as he grips the waistband of my loose-fitting shorts, his intentions finally become clear. My breath hitches and I close my eyes, unsure if I even wanna watch what he's about to do. This position leaves zero to the imagination and virtually no room for modesty, meaning there's no way to hide anything from him. With my eyes pinched tightly shut, I can only feel my shorts as they're dragged down my legs. I hear a low growl come from him as he realizes that there is no underwear beneath. My eyes spring open at the sound. As the shorts stretch around my calves with the tension of my spread feet, he circles his hand around one ankle, urging me to lift a foot off the couch. I lift one leg, expecting him to simply remove the shorts. He does, but before I can put my foot back down beside his hip, he releases my ankle to reach into that pants pocket, pulling out his phone. Only then does he allow me to place my foot back on the couch. Maybe he thought I was gonna accidentally step on his phone?

I feel open and vulnerable, unsure of what he plans to do next. He leaves me in that state, mind running a marathon of thoughts, as he runs his hands up my bare calves, then the backs of my thighs, making a detour to palm the globes of my ass before coming to rest on my hips again. All the while, diamond blue eyes that have gone sharp enough to slice track the movements of his hands. The position he has me in isn't uncomfortable, but the unease I feel at my bare pussy being inches from his face, combined with the way he's looking at it, is enough to have my thighs trembling. He looks his fill, absently rubbing one thumb in small circles only centimeters above the very center of me.

Releasing one hip, he reaches down and picks up his phone again, unlocking it and opening the camera app. Wariness and insecurities battle the newly discovered instinct to trust him. To trust that he knows what he's doing, and that he won't hurt me. With his phone in his hand, I wait, expecting the clicking sound that would indicate he's taken some lewd photo of me. I don't know what it says about me that, at no point do I open my mouth to tell him to stop. Instead of taking a picture, he swipes the app over to video mode, turns it around and extends the phone to me.

"Take one hand off the wall and hold the phone," he commands. My hand shakes slightly as I take the phone from him. "When you're ready, press the record button. I want you to be able to relive this again later."

His words are like a zap of electricity running up my spine. I feel my body flush with heat, finally centering on the spot he's currently staring at like it's the last meal he's ever gonna get to eat. I aim the camera until it captures his face, then hit the little red button to begin recording. As I do, he returns his other hand to my hip, his fingertips digging into my skin, and he uses them to pull me forward. I try to keep the camera trained on his face, but anticipation and terror make for a poor director. He doesn't seem to mind. The phone seemingly all but forgotten, he leans in, running the tip of his nose up my slit, much like he did when sniffing the back of my neck. The move nearly has my knees threatening to buckle. Thankfully, his grip on my hips is firm, holding me in place for what's to come. I suck in a breath at the first touch of his tongue as he pushes through my wet heat and drags the pad of his tongue from my opening to my clit. Afterward, he licks his lips before curling that wicked tongue back into his mouth, making a show of swallowing my taste. Before I know it, he's jerking my hips forward and burying his face between my thighs. I have a split second where I can't help but think, is this really my life? Here I stand, naked from the waist down, spread-eagled over the lap of a god of a man, filming him as he eats me out. Then, I can't think at all as a loud moan escapes me, my head falling back before I remember that I'm supposed to be keeping aim with the camera. I look back at the phone screen just in time to catch his eyes as they flash up to meet mine through the lens. He runs his tongue up the length of me again, spreading the wetness that's practically leaking down my thighs before circling my clit. Over and over, he drags his tongue across the sensitive flesh until I'm trembling all over. One hand still braced against the wall above his head, I tilt my hips, aching for more. More friction, more pressure, just … more. I struggle to maintain the camera's focus on the image of his face lapping at my pussy as my moans become higher in pitch and my breathing becomes more and more erratic. The need to come is like the need for air. At this moment, if I don't get it, I have no doubt that I'll die. Running the risk of losing my footing, I remove my hand from the wall, burying it in the hair at the back of Deacon's head. Gripping the sandy blonde locks in a tight fist, I apply pressure and urge him to give me what I need. With an animalistic growl, he latches onto my clit, sucking hard. A scream rips from my throat, and I drop the phone from my hand, adding it to the other that's holding onto Deacon's head for dear life as fire races through my blood and ignites. My legs finally give out from beneath me, and before the spasms have even subsided, Deacon is dragging me down onto his lap. I lean back as he rips the front of his pants down, freeing himself.

He fists his swollen cock, and runs the head along my slit, dragging it through the moisture that the combined orgasm and his mouth have created. In a guttural voice, lips still coated in my wetness, he says, "Ride me, brat. I wanna feel your pussy flutter around my cock with the aftershocks of your orgasm before I give you another."

I rise on my knees as he positions himself at my entrance. Hands braced on his shoulders, the head of his cock slowly pushes inside me. Riding the rush of euphoria, I grip his hips with my knees and slam myself down, taking all of him in one quick thrust.

"Fuck, woman!" he shouts, throwing his head back. He grips my hips hard, fingers biting into my flesh to hold me in place. Unlike any bruise given to me in the past, I relish the idea of waking up with Deacon's marks on me. Because, this time, I'm in control, and I want them. I watch the cords of his throat flex as he stares at the ceiling, breathing hard through clenched teeth. Playful Deacon is gone. This version is feral and slightly scary, but it's the type of fear you feel when playing with an animal you know is capable of biting you at any moment. Right now, I relish the idea of being eaten alive. When he finally tips his chin and his eyes come back to meet mine, that healthy dose of fear mixes with the excitement of knowing I'm about to get fucked, hard. Between one blink and the next, he's whipped my shirt over my head, tossing it to land God knows where. The next thing to go is my bra and I have a moment of unease at the idea. I've never been very comfortable in this position. Gravity and I haven't been on speaking terms for quite a long time. Why? Because she's a bitch. I don't have time to dwell on the insecurities of it, though, because Deacon has my bra off before I can even utter a single protest and already has his mouth on one breast while kneading the other. Sucking my nipple into the heat of his mouth, I let out a little yelp as his teeth bite down on the stiff peak. The pull of his mouth on my breast sends an echoing tug between my legs and the need to move on him is overwhelming. With a devious grin, because payback is a motherfucker, I tighten my inner muscles around him, eliciting the sexiest gasp I've ever heard a man make. High off the power he's giving me, I rise on my knees, gliding myself up the length of him until I'm poised with only the head of his cock inside me.

He releases my nipple with an audible pop , gaze meeting mine as he says, "You're playing a dangerous game, brat." His breathing is uneven and there's something in his eyes that borders on madness. I should be afraid, but I've never felt so alive.

I release his right shoulder to grip the front of his throat, leaning down to nip his bottom lip between my teeth before saying, "One I intend to win." With that, I drop back down onto him. He releases a curse that only intensifies the high that comes from being the one setting the pace here.

An incredulous laugh escapes him and he says, "Why is it that whenever you open your mouth, I either hear the Devil calling my name or angels singing? There is no in between." He presses forward, against the hand still clutching onto his throat, and rests his forehead against my collar bone. I can feel the sweat on his skin as it touches mine. In a strained voice, he says, "Siren, baby, I need you to move . Or I'm gonna do it for you."

He sounds close to cracking, and the pleading in his tone lights me up from the inside out. Taking pity on him, I begin to glide up and down, slowly at first, but it doesn't take long before I'm whipping my hips at a frantic pace. I'm chasing my own orgasm but I also feel the undeniable urge to reward him for all his hard work, no pun intended. Within the span of moments, the scene before me morphs. We're no longer combatants fighting for dominance. I wrap my arms around his neck, clutching him to me as he grips my hips, helping me rock back and forth. He leans in, capturing my lips with his, thrusting his tongue into my mouth, mimicking the movements of his cock inside me.

Against my lips, he murmurs, "Do you wanna come, brat?"

His words provoke an answering whimper quickly swallowed up by his mouth. As tension builds to a fever pitch, he reaches between us, running his thumb through my slick heat until he finds my clit. He circles the little bundle of nerves while simultaneously lifting his hips, thrusting upward. I tear my mouth from his as my body goes rigid, back bowing until it's only his grip on my hips that's keeping me from tumbling to the floor. There are no thoughts of how my body is on full display for him as my orgasm tears through me. He wraps his arms around my waist, further anchoring me to him and watches as I come apart. As his hips piston beneath me, he fucks me through my orgasm while chasing his own. His eyes remain on me for as long as possible, as if he can't stand the thought of looking away.

With shuddering breaths, he praises me and tells me how perfect I feel against him, how my body was made to take him, and how he wants to be the only man to ever see me like this. How he could watch me all day, and it would never be enough. Every breathless attestation prolongs my orgasm until I finally collapse against him, my lower body still jerking with every movement of his hips. Eventually, he tears his gaze from mine, scraping his teeth down the side of my neck as he clutches me to him, letting out a groan that ends with a broken breath. I feel the pulse of his cock as it releases deep inside me. As the last bit of air leaves his lungs, he whispers, "Mine," against my skin.