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But all I got to see of Deacon’s dick tonight was the tent in the front of his athletic shorts, and even that was enough to turn me on.
Bur now I can’t stop replaying the vision of him on his knees, lips stretched wide around my cock as I fucked his throat. He did the exact same thing last week, but for some reason the image is more potent this time. And not just because it’s fresh in my head. Last week it was more of a sideline act, because I was already so riled up from the main attraction that it all just kind of happened in a rush. The fact that it occurred has crossed my mind on several occasions, but the memory hasn’t induced angry, throbbing hard-ons like the one I’m experiencing now.
I let out another groan of frustration and reach down to take my dick in hand, giving it a little relief.
Fuck, I wish I could understand why I even agreed to let him go down on me in the first place. My mind wouldn’t be such a fucking mess if I’d just said no. To be fair, he had his hand on my dick, and there aren’t all that many guys who would turn down that kind of offer. But that wasn’t why I tracked him down tonight; and when he told me that was all he could offer, I should have walked away.
I don’t need blow jobs from men. I hook up with men because I need to be fucked. I only do it when I absolutely need to, and I don’t give the guy a second thought afterward. The only thing I want from men is their cock. No fingering, no hand jobs, and definitely no blow jobs. If I sound like an asshole, so be it. They all know what the score is and I’ve never had any complaints so far.
Except for Deacon.
Why the hell is Deacon the one exception to all those rules? I’ve let him get so far beyond my comfort zone I’m not sure it even exists anymore.
The thought would usually send me into a spiral, but it doesn’t—all I seem to be able to fixate on is my disappointment that now that I’ve let him in, he doesn’t seem to want to be there.
I still don’t understand any of it. I don’t get why I can’t stop thinking about him fucking me. Or sucking me. Or why I’ve sprung enough spontaneous erections in the past week to rival a fourteen-year-old. Or why Deacon seems more than happy to go down on me but won’t give me his cock. None of it makes any fucking sense, and all I’m doing is twisting myself into tighter and tighter knots as I try to puzzle it out.
I straighten up, standing back under the water, and try to clear my mind using one of the boxing up thoughts exercises my therapist makes me practice. It’s not an exercise I’m great with at the best of times, and having a throbbing erection incessantly reminding you of the thoughts you’re trying to box up isn’t exactly helpful.
I give up the exercise as a lost cause for now and grab my dick again. Unsurprisingly, it’s the image of Deacon on his knees that comes to me as I stroke myself. I do my best to block out the confusion swirling in my head and just enjoy it.
Despite the strangeness of the situation, I think one thing is pretty obvious: I’m not done with Deacon. Not by a long way. I don’t understand why, I just know I need a hell of a lot more from him than what I’ve gotten so far.
I can’t give him the kind of commitment he wants. Even if I were interested in dating a man, I’m not going anywhere near the word “relationship” after my disastrous experience with Natalia. But maybe I can convince him to bend his rules for a little while—just until I get past this fixation, or whatever it is.
CHAPTER11
DEACON
“What do you mean you sucked him off in your classroom?” Skyler hisses at me as we claim a tall table at Doyle’s.
“I don’t think I stuttered,” I mumble.
“You couldn’t have told me this yesterday?”
I arch a brow at him. “What? When we were surrounded by the entire team? They already know way too much about my BJ skills thanks to you.”
He lets out a soft laugh, no doubt recalling his behavior last week. Then he fixes wide eyes on me. “It was seriously in yourclassroom?”
I sigh in exasperation. “Yes.”
Skyler’s lips quirk. “How very me of you. I’m impressed.”
I roll my eyes. “I hope you’re not expecting me to take that as a compliment.”
“I’m offended you don’t find that comparison complimentary,” he says with an exaggerated pout. Jackson arrives at our table and Skyler turns cow eyes on him. “Deacon’s beng mean to me.”
For once, Jackson doesn’t pander to Skyler’s whims, instead slumping down on a stool and letting out a heavy sigh, as though the weight of the world is on him.
Skyler instantly drops the kicked puppy act, his posture stiffening as he fixes an anxious gaze on Jax. “What’s wrong?”
“The roof of the shop got damaged in the storm last night. Insurance isn’t going to cover it, so we’re out thousands—probably tens of thousnads—from all the lost stock. And we’ve got no clue when we’ll be able to re-open.”
“What about the garage?” I ask, a wave of concern for both Jackson and Drew hitting me at full force.
He sighs. “Fine, thank fuck. We closed today and got an inspection, but it’s all clear. Just the shop.”
“You should have texted me,” Skyler says, an angry scowl crossing his face, which I’m sure is more out of concern for Jax than any actual anger on his part.
