“They were just kids. I knew that.”
“They were drunk, high, well-built high school boys with a hankerin’ for pussy and no fuckin’ scruples at all about how they got it.”
I sucked my lips between my teeth because he was right.
“You got a pussy, Cassidy?” he asked derisively.
I didn’t give him the answer to that question because he knew the answer.
Since he knew it, he kept at me.
“Your beauty, five foot fuckin’ five, a slip of a woman with tits and ass, don’t matter you’re older than them, they’re in the mood, they’ll take that beauty, woman. Take it. Use it. Fuckin’ destroy it.”
“I—”
“You need a goddamned man,” he spat.
I decided at that juncture not to speak, mostly because he wasn’t letting me say anything, partly because he was scaring the crap out of me, and lastly because no one could rant forever. He’d eventually burn it out and take off.
He always took off.
He came.
He left.
And we never changed.
But that thought gave me a new fear, a fear bigger than any I’d had in my life.
That fear being whoever he was, whatever he did, what happened that night made it clear in a way he could no longer ignore that I meant something to him, and him being with me, even if he was never really with me, brought me danger.
So he’d never come again.
The danger he might bring did not scare me.
The idea of losing him, though…
I had no idea why, but that petrified me.
My body strung tight when his voice sounded again, this time so guttural, it was tortured.
“Why don’t you have a fuckin’ man?”
His obvious pain slicing through me, my lips moved, and when they did, they did it to whisper, “Honey.”
And then he wasn’t across the room.
He was right there, his arms locked around me, one hand in my hair tugging back and not gently, his mouth crashing down on mine.
I didn’t hesitate even a second.
I opened my lips.
He thrust his tongue inside on a feral growl that shot right through me, straight through, down deep, detonating between my legs.
And I was up, plastered to him but moving swiftly.
Then I was down, back to the kitchen table, Priest (or whoever he was) bent over me, his tongue taking, his big hands moving over me just like I knew they’d be.
Far from gentle.
Rough.
Greedy.
Demanding.
Amazing.
I was ready. His tongue in my mouth, his scent in my nostrils, his big body bent over me, those hands on me, I was ready.
And it had nothing to do with not having a lover for months.
It had everything to do with the man who called himself John Priest.
So I curled my fingers into his thermal and pulled up.
He broke his mouth from mine instantly, arching back. His hands going behind his neck, he tore it off and tossed it aside. Then he moved his arms back around me but his fingers yanked at my thermal. I instantly shot my arms in the air, he ripped it off, and threw it away.
Within a breath, I felt my bra unclasped at the back and his finger scratching between my breasts, jerking it off, the straps scraping my arms that were forced in front of me to accommodate its release.
Then he was bent over me and I was forced back to the table, his mouth tracing a path from my neck down. It latched on to my nipple and he drew it in, hard and sharp.
I cried out, my fingers diving into his hair.
“Name,” I breathed.
He sucked harder.
I squirmed beneath him.
“Name!” I demanded.
He released my nipple and his mouth came to mine.
“Deacon,” he rumbled against my lips.
“Deacon,” I whispered and then he was again kissing me.
My fingers still in his hair, I held him to me and kissed him back, giving him everything, taking all I could get.
I felt his hands at my jeans and I knew what that meant. I wanted what that meant. So my hands went there. Our fingers colliding, I got the button, he tore down my zipper.
Suddenly, I lost his mouth but I didn’t mind (much) because my jeans and panties were being dragged down my legs. I felt them catch at my feet and gone was one boot and sock. Then the other. Finally I was naked on the table, my legs spread with big hands gripping tight at the sides of my knees, and he was down.
As in down.
On his knees on the floor, his mouth between my legs.
Feeding.
God.
Oh God.
Not feeding.
Feeding.
My back left the table. My legs spasming against his grip, he tossed them over his shoulders, cupped my ass in his hands, and pulled me deeper into his mouth.
I dug my heels in his back, my own back arching higher, as a cry escaped my lips and my climax tore through me, shredding me, destroying me.
The good way.
The way it was meant to be.
Before I was even close to coming down, Deacon was over me. I felt the tip of his cock sliding through my wet, he caught where he needed to be and thrust inside, filling me.
“Baby,” I breathed, wrapping my arms tight around him, lifting my knees high, pressing my thighs to his sides as he drove into me.
“Fuck. Years,” he grunted against my neck, powering deep.
Oh God.
God.
He’d waited, holding back, wanting, maybe hoping.
Just like me.
“Years,” I whispered.
“Too long,” he growled.
“Way too long,” I agreed, gliding from the down of my climax into the up of another one as I took his cock and felt his teeth nip my earlobe.
“Beauty,” he ground out.
“You fit me. Perfect.”
“Tight. So wet. Fuck,” he groaned, slamming inside me.
“It’s building again,” I told him, my voice breathy and sharp, the pleasure amping.
“Ride it, Cassie.”
Cassie.
Oh man.
He was right.
This was right.
We were right.
Beauty.
I held on tight and then tighter as I lifted my head, shoved my face in his neck, and moaned my second orgasm into his skin.
He bucked hard and fast between my legs, then with a grunt that rolled into a very long groan, he joined me.
I held on coming down and then I held on tighter listening to him do it.
But as I did, panic gripped me and I tried to get a hold on it even as I fought back the desperation to take everything in. Memorize it with a clarity that meant I’d never lose the memories.
The feel of him inside me. Moving my hands to take in the sleek skin over tight muscle on his back. Drawing him in through my nostrils to memorize the scent of his hair tickling my nose.