Chapter 19 #2
Jenna fell back against the passenger seat, and as they drove through town she couldn’t believe she was doing this.
Then she looked next to her at the hottest man she’d ever seen, a man who made her feel things no man ever had, a man who brought out a side to her she never even knew existed… okay maybe she could believe it.
Deacon followed Jenna up the narrow steps of her stairs and hesitated outside her bedroom door for the briefest of moments wrestling with the knowledge that entering Jenna Thomas’ inner sanctum meant something seismic.
This wasn’t just another woman or another room, whatever threshold he was about to cross, it wasn’t just physical.
With Jenna, every small gesture seemed to ripple outward, consequences multiplying.
He had to force himself to unclench his fists, to enter with a casual, confident stride that didn’t betray his nerves.
Any move he made could be the wrong one, and the last thing he wanted was to bulldoze his way into the softest, most private corner of her world.
He’d been impressed with her house as a whole.
The entryway was tiny, shoehorned between the outer wall and a staircase that looked like it had been imported from a Victorian dollhouse, but it radiated a warmth that made his chest ache.
The air smelled like cinnamon and lavender dryer sheets.
Every corner seemed to overflow with books, plants, mismatched artwork, photos of Blake at every age on the living room wall.
The kitchen separated the living space by a half-wall crowded with succulents.
There was a battered farmhouse table, a fridge covered in magnets, and a coffee maker so enormous it looked like a chemistry experiment.
As he’d walked through, he’d had a weird urge to run his finger along the countertop, to touch something, to make sure it was real.
That she’d actually allowed him into her space.
Jenna sensed his hesitation, looking over her shoulder. “You coming, or are you casing the joint for valuables?”
“Just making sure I don’t get a head injury.” He ducked under the casing of her doorway, which he would have beamed his forehead on if he hadn’t, as his shoulders brushed both sides of the frame. Older houses weren’t made for people over six foot two.
She placed her clutch on the dresser and turned around as he was entering and chuckled a little. “Wow, you look—”
Deacon covered the distance between them in a heartbeat, his hands on either side of her face, his mouth crashing into hers in a kiss that wasn’t gentle or tentative but hungry and rough.
It was a dam breaking open. Honestly, he couldn’t wait another second.
He’d barely been able to drive after the show she’d just put on for him.
He was surprised he was able to do anything since all of the blood in his body had traveled below his belt.
For a second she froze, maybe startled by the force of it. But then she opened to him, her hands clutching his jacket, pulling him closer, deeper, wanting more, always more.
He kissed her like he was starving. And he was.
It was years of wanting and not letting himself have.
There was nothing practiced or performative about it—just hunger, a raw, desperate need that blotted out everything but her and him and the friction of their bodies pressing so close he wondered if her bones would fuse to his.
He kissed her like he’d been given a death sentence and this was his last request, and he wanted to imprint her into every cell so even when he was gone, she’d be burned into his muscle memory.
Her mouth. Her tongue. The impossible softness of her lips, the taste of her breath, the little involuntary whimpers and gasps that broke free when his hands moved lower, finding the edge of her thigh through the slit in her dress.
Every inch of her was brand new and familiar at the same time, the way you recognize a dream when you’re still inside it and can feel how real it is, even if you’ve never lived it before.
His hands roamed her body, desperate to feel her skin, to find the places that made her shiver or arch or gasp again.
When he palmed her breasts, half exposed from the dress, she made a sound that was both a relief and a need, her hands flying up to grip his biceps, as if to anchor herself to him.
He squeezed her there, just shy of rough, and when she tilted her face up to look at him, her eyes were wide and shining, pupils blown dark with want.
He found the zipper at the side of her ribs, tugging when it didn’t come down easily.
She caught his wrist and laughed breathlessly. “Whoa, this is vintage Valentino, sir.”
He met her eyes, his own stormy and direct. “I don’t give a fuck.” It was a growl, a confession, and a challenge all at once as he continued tugging.
“I do,” she said, her voice low but resolute.
She sidestepped out of his hands and turned her back to him.
He watched her take a breath as if she were collecting herself for a second, as if she needed to pace her own heart.
She slipped out of her jewelry, setting each piece down on the dresser with deliberate care, her hands trembling just enough that he noticed as she glanced over her shoulder with a very seductive grin. “You have to be gentle.”
“I’m not feeling very gentle right now.”
She grinned with a little shrug. “Whose fault is that?”
“Yours.”
Her smile widened as she slid one strap off her shoulder and then the other and slowly, painfully slowly, slid it down her body and stepped out of it. He didn’t try to hide how much he was staring. She was perfect—fucking perfect.
She turned and hung the dress back up, giving him an excellent view of her ass so he was not complaining, and he decided it was time to catch up. When she turned back around, his tie was undone, his shirt was unbuttoned, and he was unzipping his pants.
“Lay down,” he instructed, voice low and rough and just the tiniest bit frayed with nerves. He wasn’t used to this—he wasn’t used to wanting so much—or to feeling like he would do anything, sacrifice anything, just to get a little closer to her.
The room was small, but thankfully, the bed was king sized, covered in a dark blue quilt and with at least six unnecessary pillows.
He never understood why women had so many pillows.
The bedside tables didn’t match, but they each had a lamp that cast a soft, golden haze.
The window was cracked open, letting in the sound of crickets and, somewhere distant, the muted bass thump of a passing car.
She did as he asked, crawling onto the bed and arranging herself like a queen on a velvet throne.
The navy blanket beneath her fair skin, and the antique brass headboard framed her body in a way that made his brain short-circuit.
She watched him as he approached, and if she was nervous, she didn’t let it show.
Or maybe she did, because her hands trembled just a little as she rested them at her sides.
He kicked off his shoes and removed his shirt, pants, and boxer briefs, folded them, and laid them over the armchair then picked his tie back up, walked over and lowered down onto the mattress beside her.
He took her hand in his, lifting it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. Then, gently, he guided her arm above her head, and did the same to her other wrist, his lips lingering for a beat as he felt her pulse hammering beneath the skin.
She looked up at him, eyes fluttering half-closed, and gave a little shiver when he ran his nose along her forearm.
He lifted his tie above her head and watched her face as he did it, searching for a hint of fear, a no, a stop, but all he saw was anticipation, trust, and a wicked spark of excitement.
He looped the silk material around her wrists, wrapping the tie over and under, snug but not cruel, then cinched it against the headboard’s central bar.
She watched him intently, her perfect breasts rising and falling as he wrapped the silky material around them tightly, pulling it together, then securing it to the brass headboard.
He tugged, making sure that she couldn’t move her arms.
Her fingers flexed, testing the give. He kissed her again, softer this time, his mouth lingering at the corner of hers. “Okay?” he asked, his breath uneven.
She grinned up at him, her voice bold and bright and so Jenna it made him ache. “If you’re asking for consent, you’ve got it.”
He started with her lips, then her jaw, then her throat, each kiss felt like a tiny confession, a relinquishing of every defense he’d ever built.
He mapped every centimeter of her flesh as if he needed to memorize it before it was taken away, her collarbones, the sloping curve of her shoulder, and the place behind her ear where her pulse fluttered like a secret.
He kissed her breasts like he was starving, sucking the nipples so hard she whimpered, then kept kissing her until the urgency dissolved into a dizzying sweetness, her back arching and offering him more.
He loved how responsive she was, every gasp, every quiver, every impatient push of her hips seemed to give him permission to continue, and he was greedy for every last particle of her.
Sliding lower, he kissed the gentle swell beneath her breasts, down her belly, his hands stroking her sides.
He took his time, teasing his way down the line of her hipbone, dipping his tongue into the hollow above her pelvis.
She was so gorgeous, laid out beneath him, it was almost more than he could process all at once.
He wanted her wild and boneless, wanted to dissolve every line between fantasy and reality, wanted to devastate her and then gather her into his arms, whole and safe.