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“Christ, Charlie. You’re gonna have to stop doing that, too.”
Except I couldn’t.
Not when he was still holding me like he didn’t want to let me go. Not when my mouth was just inches from his. Not when our bodies were flush and I could feel what this was doing to him.
Warmth swam low in my stomach as I fought with promises I’d made myself, and a need Deacon created inside me.
A need for him, a need to be touched. A greater need to be wanted and loved, completely and without reservations.
The feather-light touches resumed, instantly my skin was covered with goose bumps, and a shiver crawled down my spine, slow and warm.
The deep rumbling in Deacon’s chest and possessive curling of his fingers against my skin were the only warning I had before his hands were suddenly under my arms, hauling me up.
My book slid from my grip an instant before Deacon set me back down so I was sitting on his stomach. And then his hands were on my back, pressing and pleading as he bent me down.
Deacon’s mouth met mine with a force that both shocked me and fascinated me. Just as quickly there was the slightest bit of hesitation as he sought entrance along the seam of my lips, and I knew then that Deacon would always hesitate with me. Would always wait for me to give. Because as soon as I opened to him, he took and took, and, God, it made my head spin in the most exhilarating way.
My fingers traced the curve of his jaw, then wove into his thick hair, looking for something, anything, to hold on to as he sat up.
His hands moved from my back to my waist as I slid to his lap, and tightened when I moved against him. “Charlie,” his deep voice rumbled in warning, and he took my bottom lip between his teeth before devouring my mouth again.
But that fight within me was raging, stronger than ever. His thumbs were brushing the undersides of my breasts, and I wanted them to move higher. I wanted that shock of pleasure when I rocked against him again. I wanted everything, but I wanted more than I knew he could give me then.
Unable to stop myself, I moved my hips against his, and whimpered into his mouth at the feel of him beneath his mesh workout shorts.
“Fuck, Charlie,” he growled, and forced me back.
One second I was on his lap, the next my back was pressed to the couch and Deacon was lowering himself onto me.
He pressed a searing kiss to my mouth before he was moving, leaving a trail of hot kisses down my neck and chest as he slowly lifted my shirt.
My grip in his hair tightened as that fight raged and raged and raged.
“Deacon,” I breathed as his mouth touched the bare skin on my stomach, then moved down another inch.
I trembled beneath his touch and his lips as he moved lower still, and placed an open-mouthed kiss just above my shorts. “Oh, God. Deacon. Deacon, wait,” I said quickly when he gripped the top of my shorts in his hand.
Immediately he released the fabric and his body stilled.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I repeated over and over. Embarrassment coursed through me, and I hurried to cover my face with one of my hands.
I was afraid to know what his expression would say when he looked up at me, I was afraid to know what he would think.
My shirt was moved back into place, and a soft kiss was placed high up on my stomach before my hand was pried from my face.
Deacon’s eyes were still dark with lust and need despite the questions that hid there, but his face was full of patience. “Don’t apologize. You can say ‘wait’ at the last second, and I’ll fucking wait. You understand?”
I nodded quickly as I tried to figure out what to say to him—how to explain.
I could only imagine from his unspoken questions that he was wondering why I had stopped us since there was a three and a half year old asleep in his room that proved I wasn’t a virgin.
“I just, I’m sorry, but I—”
“Stop,” he begged, cutting me off. “Stop apologizing. You don’t have to, and you don’t have to explain yourself.” His eyes searched my face, still full of so many questions, making it hard to believe that he didn’t want to know why. His voice dropped, and his tone turned cautious. “Charlie, who was the last guy to touch you?”
My heart stuttered and skipped a beat before settling into a too-fast rhythm. A lifelong heartache echoed in my chest no matter how I tried to push it away. I opened my mouth to respond, but the name got caught in my throat.
Saying his name was one thing, though it always hurt. Saying his name like this? My body rebelled against the action.
