Page 118 of The Next Lie

I hate that he gives me the choice when so many other things have been taken. I hate that he knows exactly why it matters.

I step closer. That’s all the answer he needs.

Deacon kisses me like restraint is a language he speaks fluently and resents using. His mouth is firm, controlled for about two seconds, then my hand catches the front of his shirt, and whatever discipline he brought into the garden starts to crack.

The kiss deepens. Not soft. Not safe.

His hand slides into my hair, and he angles my head the way he wants it. I let him because I want it too, because my body keeps recognizing things my mind has not approved, because kissing Deacon feels like touching a live wire and finding out it knows my name.

Homer meows indignantly from somewhere near our feet.

I break the kiss first, breathing hard.

“That was irresponsible.”

“Yes.”

“You are a problem.”

“Yes.”

“You can’t just kiss me into accepting things.”

His thumb drags over my lower lip. “I can try.”

I glare at him. He looks amused again. I want to shove him into the fountain. I want him to kiss me again.

Both urges feel equally valid.

“Your feelings are confusing,” I say.

“Believe me, they are confusing for me too.”

“That does not make this better.”

“No.”

He leans in and catches my lower lip between his teeth. The bite is sharp enough to make me gasp.

Just hard enough to remind me he is not Ever. Not Shiloh. Not Nash. Deacon does not soothe first. He marks the place where the truth is going to enter and waits for me to stop flinching.

He lets go slowly.

“I’ll give you time,” he says.

My breath is still uneven. “How generous.”

“A little time.”

I blink.

His mouth curves. “Not a lot.”

Then he steps back, picks up Homer’s leash, and places it in my hand.

The kitten is now on his side, kicking the harness strap with both back feet.

Deacon looks down at him. “He may need practice.”