Page 156 of The Next Lie

He leans in. “You are finished pretending you don’t want me.”

I try to slap him. He catches that hand, too.

Now both my wrists are in one of his hands, held between us, and his other hand comes up over my mouth, his palm flat. Firm. Commanding.

My eyes widen. His drop to mine, dark and amused in a way that makes me want to commit a crime.

“Enough talking.”

The words should make me angrier. They do. They also make every nerve ending in my body wake up like it has been waiting for him to stop using language as a leash and switch to his hands.

I glare at him over his palm.

Then I stick out my tongue, and I lick it.

His pupils blow wide. For half a second, the room stops breathing. Then Deacon laughs under his breath.

It is not a nice sound. It is the sound from the bathroom in the Toulouse bar. Low. Dark. The one I could not identify then and cannot get out of my head now.

He removes his hand slowly.

“Oh, Little Ghost.”

My whole body reacts to the name. Betrayal by nervous system.

“I hate you,” I whisper.

“No, you don’t. You just wish you did.”

He turns me fast, backs me into Nash’s desk, and lifts me onto it in one smooth motion. Papers slide. A pen hits the floor. The edge of the desk bites into the backs of my thighs.

I grab his shirt—maybe to shove him away, maybe to keep him close.

We both know which.

His mouth comes down on mine, hard enough to bruise. This is not Ever grounding me. It is not Shiloh coaxing pleasure out of grief. It is not Nash taking command of the storm and building walls around it.

Deacon Cross is the fucking storm.

Deacon kisses like he has been starving and resents me for being food. His hands are everywhere at once with brutal efficiency—under my shirt, over my breasts, dragging the cups of my bra down until his thumbs find my nipples and roll hard enough that I gasp against his mouth.

He swallows the sound.

Then he yanks my shirt up, bends his head, and takes one nipple into his mouth. My head falls back.

“Fuck.”

His teeth graze. My hands go into his hair. He releases me long enough to look up, mouth wet, eyes almost black. “Hands on the desk.”

I do not move.

His smile is dangerous. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Then put your hands on the desk.”

I hate myself a little for obeying, but I plant my palms on either side of my hips.