Fuck, did she?
“Yes.”
“Do you?” he repeated as he circled her clit.
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“I want you in my bed.” She could barely speak, herclimax was so close. Her hips were searching, seeking, but he was keeping it away from her.
“Ask me to take you home.”
She leaned her head back away from him so she could look in his eyes. Then she moved her hand from his forearm and slid it between her legs, covering the back of his hand with her own. She arched her back, spine pressed to the buttery leather, head tilted and eyes locked on his. Her lips parted in a gasp—more a challenge than a plea—as she seized his touch and ground it harder against herself. The sensation was electric, a current that ran from the raw, swollen center of her need outward, making her toes curl and her vision swim. He stared back, unblinking, jaw clenched as if he were physically restraining himself from pouncing on her like an animal. Maybe he was. Maybe she wanted that.
She flexed her wrist, using the leverage to press his fingertip against her clit and squeezing her thighs together, holding him in place. She moved him exactly where she wanted—angle, rhythm, and pressure. He allowed her to, letting her use his body as an extension of her own will. The friction was perfect, maddening, sending her hurtling toward the edge even as she tried to draw out the moment. It was dizzying, the way she could be so exposed and yet feel power coursing through her veins.
Her release struck with a violence that surprised her. Every muscle in her body seized, every nerve ending lit up in a white-hot burst. She wanted to cry out, but what came out was a soundless, shuddering gasp. Her hips bucked against his hand, desperate for more even as she shattered. He caught her, bracing her, anchoring her as she rode wave after wave. The crescendo wasn’t a single note but a whole symphony.
She whimpered as the aftershocks rolled through her,wrung-out and trembling. For a moment she was weightless, the world reduced to the harsh rasp of their breathing, the thump of her racing pulse, and the way his thumb continued to skate gentle circles over skin now exquisitely sensitive. She’d never come like that before—never lost herself so completely or needed someone so much in the aftermath.
She removed his hand from between her legs, now too sensitive to have anyone touching her, and slowly, deliberately, brought it to her lips. Without breaking eye contact, she licked the length of his forefinger, swirling her tongue around it. Then the next, his middle finger. She tasted herself on him and didn’t look away, the act was part erotic spectacle, part declaration of ownership. His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide, and she could feel his restraint fraying with every flick of her tongue.
She smiled, slow and wicked, and pressed his hand back to the steering wheel, lips brushing the stubble at his jaw as she leaned in close. Her breath ghosted across his ear—her voice low, dangerous, hopefully, irresistible. “Now take me home and fuck me.”
Jenna fell back against the passenger seat, and as they drove through town she couldn’t believe she was doing this. Then she looked next to her at the hottest man she’d ever seen, a man who made her feel things no man ever had, a man who brought out a side to her she never even knew existed… okay maybe she could believe it.
Deacon followed Jenna up the narrow steps of her stairs and hesitated outside her bedroom door for the briefest of moments wrestling with the knowledge thatentering Jenna Thomas’ inner sanctum meant something seismic.
This wasn’t just another woman or another room, whatever threshold he was about to cross, it wasn’t just physical. With Jenna, every small gesture seemed to ripple outward, consequences multiplying. He had to force himself to unclench his fists, to enter with a casual, confident stride that didn’t betray his nerves. Any move he made could be the wrong one, and the last thing he wanted was to bulldoze his way into the softest, most private corner of her world.
He’d been impressed with her house as a whole. The entryway was tiny, shoehorned between the outer wall and a staircase that looked like it had been imported from a Victorian dollhouse, but it radiated a warmth that made his chest ache. The air smelled like cinnamon and lavender dryer sheets. Every corner seemed to overflow with books, plants, mismatched artwork, photos of Blake at every age on the living room wall.
The kitchen separated the living space by a half-wall crowded with succulents. There was a battered farmhouse table, a fridge covered in magnets, and a coffee maker so enormous it looked like a chemistry experiment. As he’d walked through, he’d had a weird urge to run his finger along the countertop, to touch something, to make sure it was real. That she’d actually allowed him into her space.
Jenna sensed his hesitation, looking over her shoulder. “You coming, or are you casing the joint for valuables?”
“Just making sure I don’t get a head injury.” He ducked under the casing of her doorway, which he would have beamed his forehead on if he hadn’t, as his shoulders brushed both sides of the frame. Older houses weren’t made for people over six foot two.
She placed her clutch on the dresser and turned aroundas he was entering and chuckled a little. “Wow, you look?—”
Deacon covered the distance between them in a heartbeat, his hands on either side of her face, his mouth crashing into hers in a kiss that wasn’t gentle or tentative but hungry and rough. It was a dam breaking open. Honestly, he couldn’t wait another second. He’d barely been able to drive after the show she’d just put on for him. He was surprised he was able to do anything since all of the blood in his body had traveled below his belt.
For a second she froze, maybe startled by the force of it. But then she opened to him, her hands clutching his jacket, pulling him closer, deeper, wanting more, always more.
He kissed her like he was starving. And he was. It was years of wanting and not letting himself have. There was nothing practiced or performative about it—just hunger, a raw, desperate need that blotted out everything but her and him and the friction of their bodies pressing so close he wondered if her bones would fuse to his. He kissed her like he’d been given a death sentence and this was his last request, and he wanted to imprint her into every cell so even when he was gone, she’d be burned into his muscle memory.
Her mouth. Her tongue. The impossible softness of her lips, the taste of her breath, the little involuntary whimpers and gasps that broke free when his hands moved lower, finding the edge of her thigh through the slit in her dress. Every inch of her was brand new and familiar at the same time, the way you recognize a dream when you’re still inside it and can feel how real it is, even if you’ve never lived it before.
His hands roamed her body, desperate to feel her skin, to find the places that made her shiver or arch or gaspagain. When he palmed her breasts, half exposed from the dress, she made a sound that was both a relief and a need, her hands flying up to grip his biceps, as if to anchor herself to him. He squeezed her there, just shy of rough, and when she tilted her face up to look at him, her eyes were wide and shining, pupils blown dark with want. He found the zipper at the side of her ribs, tugging when it didn’t come down easily.
She caught his wrist and laughed breathlessly. “Whoa, this is vintage Valentino, sir.”
He met her eyes, his own stormy and direct. “I don’t give a fuck.” It was a growl, a confession, and a challenge all at once as he continued tugging.
“I do,” she said, her voice low but resolute.
She sidestepped out of his hands and turned her back to him. He watched her take a breath as if she were collecting herself for a second, as if she needed to pace her own heart. She slipped out of her jewelry, setting each piece down on the dresser with deliberate care, her hands trembling just enough that he noticed as she glanced over her shoulder with a very seductive grin. “You have to be gentle.”
