Caged

by Lorelei James

  that all the Divas except for Presley hopped in their team van and returned to Denver.

  Molly checked in at the front desk, while Presley and Deacon waited in the lobby. When she returned with the room keys, she winced at seeing her friend’s injuries.

  The right side of Presley’s mouth was swollen. Two spots of blood remained crusted beneath her nose. A bruise had started to form on her cheekbone. Presley managed a wan smile. “Looks worse than it hurts—doesn’t it, Con Man?”

  “Yep.”

  Presley snatched a room key. “I need a shower. See you up there.”

  Deacon threaded his fingers through Molly’s and led her out of the hotel.

  The summer night air held a sultry hint—an oddity since Colorado had low humidity. Once they reached the parking lot, Deacon directed her to his car with his hand in the small of her back.

  She wrapped her arms around his waist. “I hate saying goodbye.”

  “Me too.” Deacon’s hands slid up to cradle her head, holding her in place for his kiss.

  The kiss didn’t veer into blinding passion, but it bubbled below the surface, waiting to erupt. It took more control from him to show her it was there than to just give in to it.

  And then he gave in to it completely. “Need you,” he rasped against her throat. “In my bed. All weekend.”

  Molly angled away from his wicked mouth to look into his eyes. “You’re inviting me to your place?”

  “You’re surprised.”

  “You’ve been secretive about where you live.”

  “Not intentionally.” He pushed a hank of hair over her shoulder. “It’s just a habit.”

  “Why?” Did he live in a scary neighborhood and worry that’d freak her out?

  “I don’t take chicks to my place. Ever.”

  Chicks. Sometimes she wanted to smack him. “Because you’re a slob?”

  His lips twitched. “No. Just private.”

  “Wow. I must be special,” she joked.

  Deacon’s eyes softened. “You are.” Then he proved it by gifting her with a sweet kiss.

  Molly’s belly performed a slow roll. Her head told her this was all going way too fast. Her heart agreed. Her body . . . well, it had a mind of its own when it came to Deacon McConnell. As it’d proved every night this week, basking in the worship Deacon focused on every inch of her flesh.

  “You make that noise again and I’m fucking you right here against the car,” he grumbled against her lips.

  “Sorry.” She forced herself to release him. “I know you have to go. Drive safe.”

  “I will. Call me when you get into town tomorrow. Pack a bag and plan on staying until Monday morning, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  DEACON lived in a condo complex in the part of Denver known as the golden triangle, closer to Black Arts than Molly’s apartment in the university section.

  After meeting her out front, he climbed in and directed her to one of his parking spots in the underground garage. “Must be nice not to have to scrape your windows in the morning.”

  He shrugged.

  They took the elevator to the sixth floor.

  Deacon hadn’t said much—nothing new for him. But he seemed tense.

  As soon as he unlocked the door and shunted her inside, he had her pressed against the wall. He didn’t kiss her. He just studied her.

  “What?”

  “Tell me you’re hungry.”

  “Uh, why?”

  “So I don’t fuck you right where you stand.”

  Molly stroked Deacon’s freshly shaved head. “Then you’d better feed me after you give me a tour.”

  He gave her a quick kiss and backed away. Clasping her hand, he pulled her from the foyer around a wall that revealed the living room.

  The openness of the space brought to mind Amery’s loft. But the kitchen was walled off and had an eat-in bar on one side like a restaurant pass-through. “I like this feature.” She ran her hand along the countertop. “It’s funky yet functional.”

  They skirted the wall and entered the kitchen. It wasn’t huge, but wasn’t as dinky as hers either. Cleaner than hers too. Talk about spotless. He hadn’t left as much as a spoon in the ceramic sink.

  The space had warmer tones than she’d expected: honey-colored cabinets, rust-colored walls, and small turquoise accents. No ostentatious appliances like a six-burner gas stove, a double oven, or an industrial-sized refrigerator.

  Deacon wasn’t paying attention to her checking out his kitchen. He rummaged through a stack of take-out menus. “What’re you in the mood for?”

  Molly stood beside him and rested the side of her face on his biceps. “You choose. Something fairly healthy.”

  “House of Chicken makes a mean chicken spinach salad.”

  “I’ll have that.” She pressed a kiss on the ball of his shoulder. Then another. “Whatever light dressing they have.”

  He hadn’t moved.

  “But if that’s not what you want—”

  Deacon wrapped his hand around her neck, below her jaw. “You don’t even have to try, do you? You are just naturally affectionate.”

  She blushed.

  “There. That right there. Jesus. When you blush it’s like waving a red flag in front of me.” He brushed his lips over hers. Just a back-and-forth glide.

  She could melt into a puddle from these pockets of sweetness he showed her.

  Then, as quickly as he bowled her over with his physical contact, he let it go. “I’ll call the order in.”

  Molly wandered out of the kitchen while Deacon talked on the phone. Again, she’d imagined Deacon living in an ultra-modern space, not one so welcoming with warmth and comfort. No black leather furniture. No Jumbotron TV. But she wouldn’t be afraid to sit on the furnishings in here either.

  His arms circled her as she studied the framed art on the walls.

  “Where’d you get those? They’re amazing.” The western paintings were vibrant and detailed, down to the ripped leather of the cowboy’s boot.

  “Guy I worked with. When he showed me his paintings, I recognized his talent and hated seeing the hands that created such beauty stuck washing dishes.”

  “Is he still painting?”

  “No idea. Lost touch with him when I changed jobs.” He shrugged. “Most art is shit. But this? When I looked at it, I could almost smell the puffy tacos at the mercado in San Antonio.”

  “Ah. So it’s an image of Texas—the people, the place, and the artist—that speaks to you.” She looked at him. “I’m jealous. Unless someone paints pictures of cornfields, I’ll never have that kind of connection.”

  “I still think you should’ve taken the John Wayne on velvet painting from your grams’s house.”

  “Now you’re just being mean.”

  Deacon laughed. “Busted.”

  “Just for that I want a tour of your bedroom first.”

  “Not happening. I get you in there and we ain’t leaving.”

  Molly pointed. “Maybe a trip to the balcony will cool you down.”

  “Not likely.” He opened the sliding-glass door. “Go ahead. I’ve seen the view before.”

  She loved being able to see Denver from different angles around the city. She could sit out here for hours. Yet she didn’t see a single piece of patio furniture. When she walked across the concrete to peer over the railing, Deacon warned, “Careful.”

  “Why? Is this rickety or something?” She tried to jiggle the metal to test it, but it seemed solid to her.

  “Jesus, Molly. Don’t.”

  She whirled around and saw the pinched set to Deacon’s mouth. Now she understood why this space was empty. “You’re afraid of heights.”

  He leveled the deadly stare that used to scare the crap out of her.

  Not so much anymore.

  “You know what I’m afraid of?” she asked as she walked back to him. “It’s stupid. But I’ve always had nightmares about being invited to an
important party and when I get there, I’m wearing something completely inappropriate. Sometimes I’m dressed like a clown or a witch. One time I wore the papal stylings of the pope. Another time I looked like a punk-rock hooker. Everyone is laughing at me and yelling horrible things at me.”

  “Nightmares aren’t the same as phobias, babe. I’ve suffered from both.”

  At least she’d gotten him to admit that much. “Is your fear from something that happened when you were a kid?”

  He shook his head.

  “So, Deacon, if you’ve got an issue with heights, why did you buy a condo on the sixth floor?”

  “I asked for ground floor when they were building this. But something got fucked-up. The real estate developer cut me a deal, and it was too good to pass up.”

  “Where’s your bedroom?”

  “Patience, woman. Let’s head back to the kitchen.”

  Molly was out of patience. She needed to see where he rested his shaved head at night—why was he denying her? To distract him so she could make a break for it, she said the first thing that popped into her head. “Look! There’s Batman!”

  When he turned to look—gullible much?—Molly ducked under his arm and booked it down the short hallway.

  She flung open the door and frantically patted the wall until she found the light switch. Then she stopped in the middle of the room, taking it all in.

  This was where Deacon slept. This was where he dreamed. Where he hurt. But this wasn’t a place he chose to fuck or make love.

  Until now. With her.

  Large hands landed on her hips. “Batman. Seriously, babe?”

  “Hey, you looked.” She paused. “I have to ask you something. Am I really the first woman you’ve had here?”

  “I wouldn’t lie about that.”

  “I wasn’t accusing you,” she said softly. “I don’t know whether to be nervous or flattered.”

  “Neither.”

  “Then what? Why me, Deacon?”

  “Jesus. You’re here. That’s what matters. Why do you have to dissect it?”

  “I don’t.” Molly crossed over to the bed and braced her hands on it. “Wow. This is firm.”

  “This is firm too.” Deacon scooted in behind her, rocking his groin into her ass, performing a sexy bump and grind that seemed almost . . . playful for him.

  Probably moves he picked up after spending years at strip clubs.

  She willed the cynical voice to pipe down.

  “Something wrong?” he asked as he brushed his lips against the hollow behind her ear.

  “Yeah, there is.”

  Deacon froze.

  Molly spun in his arms and fisted her hands into his T-shirt. “Let’s christen this room.”

  “I plan to. After we eat.”

  “You know what they say about the best-laid plans,” she murmured. Her greedy hands followed the hard muscles of his chest, past his chiseled abs to that sexy flexor muscle beneath his hips.

  She dropped to her knees. He wore athletic shorts. No belt, no zipper—one tug and his clothing hit the floor—no underwear either.

  “What the fuck, Molly.”

  Feeling ornery, she dragged her tongue up his shaft, keeping her eyes on his as she licked the hard, meaty goodness. In the two weeks they’d been together, Deacon had kept his dick away from her mouth . . . and that was stopping right now.

  He exhaled loudly. “We—you—can pick this up later. The food will be here shortly.”

  “Don’t care.” She teased the head of his cock, flicking her tongue over the sweet spot. Then she parted her lips and slipped the length into her mouth, over her teeth and across her tongue. She sucked experimentally and glanced up to see Deacon’s reaction.

  He hissed in a breath and his hand cupped the back of her head. He didn’t use his grip to drive his cock deeper into her mouth; he gripped her hair tightly, as if he needed to hold on.

  The taste of him was . . . so perfectly him, so utterly male. Hot and dark. A little salty. A little musky. Smooth. Hard. Molly closed her eyes and savored him, even as she drove him mad with long, slow sucks. She even attempted to work past her gag reflex, wanting to get the whole of him inside her mouth.

  “Fuck.” His legs started to tremble.

  Imagine that. She could make him weak-kneed. But she wanted more than that. She wanted to hear her name exploding from his mouth as his seed exploded on her tongue.

  “Babe,” he panted, “stop.”

  Molly ignored him and just kept on taking what she wanted.

  When he realized she wasn’t stopping until he came, he became more aggressive. Pulling her hair. Rocking his hips into her face. Muttering dirty things.

  She loved it.

  “Sweet Christ. Fuck yeah. Feel that. Feel what you’re doin’ to me.”

  She felt it; his cock had suddenly gotten harder.

  “Gonna come.”

  The first splash of heat surprised her, as did Deacon’s hoarse, “Suck hard.”

  She swallowed. Again and again, until the jerking pulses stopped. Only after his semihard cock slipped out of her mouth did she feel shy. She rubbed her cheek on the tops of his thighs, loving the rasp of his hair on her skin.

  Deacon’s hand fell away.

  When Molly finally glanced up at him and saw the fire burning in his eyes, her heart slammed into her throat.

  His rough-skinned fingers stroked her face—her cheekbone, her jawline. “You have any idea how fucking hot it was watching my dick disappearing between these pretty lips?”

  “No, I don’t. Tell me.”

  “Fuck, woman.” He laughed. A bit shakily. “I don’t know whether to turn you over my knee or get on my knees.”

  A chime sounded.

  Deacon allowed one last caress before he stepped back and yanked up his shorts. “That’s the food. Don’t move until I get back.”

  Screw that. She was not eating chicken salad on her knees.

  Molly stood and walked into the master bathroom. It wasn’t overly done, just basic cream tiles with navy blue accents. A white counter with two inset glass sinks topped the oak vanity. She peeked in the shower. Yeah. It rocked. The space had to be big to fit Deacon’s large body. She could see multiple showerheads on three walls, and along the back was a bench seat.

  The mirror above the vanity stretched almost wall-to-wall. The mirror in her bathroom was pocket-sized compared to this one.

  A tremor rolled through her, remembering when Deacon had bent her over the counter in her bathroom. He’d fucked her slowly,