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Chapter 16
Tiff
“Youaren’trunningaway.”
“What?” Deacon’s chest stills beneath me.
“I know you said if I wasn’t going to listen to the rules you might as well break them with me, but I still expected you to jump up and run away after…” I trace the outline of his pec with my finger instead of finishing that sentence.
“I shouldn’t have done that yesterday.”
“No,” I agree. “But I get why you did.”
“Don’t make excuses for me.” His fingers trail lightly over my naked back. “Giving in to temptation is the shittiest thing I could do to you.”
“I tempt you?” It’s hard to keep the hint of pride out of my voice.
“Obviously.” He smacks my ass playfully.
“You don’t sound like you regret it.”
“Well, I’m still inside you so, no. I don’t.” I feel the growl of his words under my cheek before he plants a chaste kiss on my forehead. “I probably will when we get home, and I can’t touch you, though.”
“That should be another rule you break.” I’m pushing my luck so soon after I already got him to break one, but I can’t ignore the fact that the clock on our little escapade is running out.
“I’d prefer to keep my dick hanging between my legs, thank you.”
“What if I never say stop?” I kiss his pec, and he stills again.
“Let’s don’t get caught up inwhat-ifs. Hop up.” He smacks my ass again. “I need to get rid of this condom and you’ve gotta be sore.”
I keep my face blank as I climb off so he can’t see how disappointed I am. If he thinks for even a second that I can’t handle this 'only in Vegas' thing—that I’m going to latch on like a stage five clinger and never let go—he’ll end it right now. The only way this works is if he believes he can walk away, right up until he’s forced to admit he can’t. He’s not there yet, so I’ll just have to play secret affair a little bit longer.
Spotting my shirt on the floor, I reach for it and pull it over my head as Deacon comes out of the bathroom in just his jeans, carrying a washcloth. “Spread your legs.”
His tone leaves no room for argument, so I lean into the cushions and follow his instructions. Bringing the warm, damp cloth to my center, he tenderly cleans away the evidence of his touch.
“Does this mean no more touching?” I ask softly.
Somehow his touch turns even more gentle. “It means we’ll see how you feel later.” He balls up the washcloth and tosses it toward the kitchen, where it lands in the sink.
“Nice shot.” I grin as he hands me my pants.
“Eight years of basketball growing up.”
“Do you still play?”
“At the gym when the weather keeps me from biking or boarding.” He tugs his discarded shirt back over his head as I finish pulling on my pants and sit next to him.
“Why do I never see you there?” The gym is in the same rec center where I teach dance, though I don’t ever remember seeing him at the building. Not until he was hired to do the landscaping.
“I must not be there at the same time as your dance classes. So,” he rises off the couch to put another log in the wood stove, “Are you serious about moving?”
“Probably not.” I exhale heavily.
“Then why come all this way for an interview?” He keeps his back to me as he speaks, poking at the logs that don’t need to be repositioned.
Part of me wants to give a made-up answer, so I can keep at least some of my dignity intact. But after that game of truth or dare anything less than complete honesty feels insulting. “I wanted to think of myself as a badass bitch. At least for a few days.”
