“Emma?”
From somewhere inside, she groaned. She slid open the door a minute later, yanking a thin, v-neck T-shirt lower down her thighs. Her hair floated around her head like a halo, and from the thigh down, her skimpy outfit revealed an acre of creamy skin.
Emma searched his face in the dim light. “Deacon?”
“Can I come in?”
Her features twisted in concern. “Of course. Don’t tell me I had another nightmare.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “Not today, Emma. It was my turn.”
“What?” Her voice wavered with worry, and she reached for him, her hands circling his back. Her embrace was a sanctuary, her palms hot against his skin. “What happened?”
He couldn’t answer for a minute, so she slipped a hand into his and pulled him into the room. Deacon followed her to her bed, sat down numbly with his feet on the floor and his back to her as she curled under the sheets.
“Do you want the light on?” she asked.
“No.” His voice sounded distant and scared. He was Peter Pan, just another Lost Boy.
“Deacon, talk to me.” She rubbed a hand over his back, and he dropped his head into his hands.
Now that he was here, this seemed like a bad idea. He really was bad for her. And he was going to bring her down with him. “If I tell you why I got so mad at you, you won’t like me anymore.”
Her voice was fierce and determined. “Try me. There’s nothing you could say to change how I feel about you.”
Her words were a blessing, and all he could do was snarl, the beast ripping out of him. Saliva and sweat, claws and teeth.
“Oh yeah?” His voice was a trap. “I murdered my brother.”
Emma’s gasp was a knife in his stomach. The serrated kind. “No,” she said. “You told me you were an only child.”
“I am. But not by choice.”
“What happened?” She didn’t back down or send him away. Instead, she pressed her hands against his sides, holding him steady in a way he didn’t even know he needed.
“You know how the drummer wrote that song?”
“Carry On?”
“Yeah.”
Emma’s voice was careful around the words. “The drummer who died?”
Deacon’s throat squeezed. “Simon.”
Saying his name conjured him, the dark-haired golden child with the hands and rhythm of a rock god. Simon had spent the whole summer after sixth grade trying to copy Deacon’s smirk in the mirror, only he was too good, too kind, for the don’t-give-a-fuck to reach his green eyes.
Emma stilled, her hips curled around the muscles of his lower back. “Deacon?” she asked again. “The boys in the picture on the fridge…”
“He was my brother, Sass. The talented one, the one who was going places. I spent my whole life trying to protect him but living in his shadow.” Her hand soothed him, rubbing the muscles in his back. “He had a pick of any career or college because he was smart, too. But he chose music, and after he graduated high school, he planned to move to Los Angeles.”
His voice shook, but he continued. “We had a deal, Simon and I. He was supposed to call me if he got into trouble and needed a ride, no matter what.” He pushed his fingers under his cheekbones, felt the hot planes of his face. “He called in his favor after one of his friends’ graduation parties. So I came.”
Simon’s voice on the line had been uncharacteristically loose that night. “I’m calling in my favor, Deac.” Over the phone came a burst of scattered laughter, a party dying down.
So Deacon had come, his motorcycle revving between his legs. “I’m pretty sure I just added to your street cred, he’d said, handing Simon a helmet. “Simon Whistler, life of the party, making his grand exit on a BMW R1200GS.”
There was no more sound in the room. Deacon could feel Emma breathing, her body rising and falling against his back, but his ears filled with a rushing noise. Just wind. “It was only one drink, Sass. I was fine. But a minivan ran a red light as we crossed through the main intersection in town—”
He didn’t feel Emma sit up—couldn’t feel anything—but her arms draped over his shoulders, and her face by his cheek was wet with tears. He wasn’t sure who was crying, only that their faces were both damp and his mouth tasted like salt. “Here’s the thing, Em. Simon tried to do the right thing. He didn’t drink and drive, he didn’t stay and fuck a girl in the back room. He didn’t pass out in a stupor on the couch and wake up with a dick drawn on his face in permanent marker. He didn’t get busted by the cops or puke in the front bushes. All things that I did, at one point or another. He called for a ride. And his older brother killed him anyway.”
Emma clutched his neck, and her breath gusted hot on his ear. “No.”
“Afraid so.” He squeezed his eyes closed. “So you see, Sass, you’re right. I’m no good for you. You need someone who’s going to protect you, and I can’t be that white knight for you.”
“Deacon, stop. The thing with your brother wasn’t your fault.”
He shrugged off her words. “If I hadn’t been drinking, I might have been able to brake in time. A fraction of a second could have changed everything.”
“Deacon, listen to me.” Emma pressed a hand on either side of his head and turned his face toward hers. The dim glow of her alarm clock tipped her features in pale blue light. She was just an outline on a blank page. But she was also heat and softness, and those huge, gorgeous eyes. “The only reason I care is because it’s hurting you. Not because I’m worried about your character.”
“You should be. But it doesn’t change the fact that I want you.” He took a ragged breath, and she stroked her thumb over his cheek.
“You are a good man.” She held his eye steady like she believed every word she said. “I’ve told you that before, and I’ll tell you that again.”
“But is that enough, Emma?”
She blinked at him. “What do you mean?”
“When you talk like that—like you have all the faith in the world in me—it makes me want to live up to your expectations. I want to be that guy for you.”
“You already are.” She smiled, and something loosened in his chest. “And I want you too, you know.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Obviously. That has never been the problem with us.”
She leaned forward and kissed him, a gentle thing, her hands still on his face. Deacon clung to her, wrapping an arm around her back and deepening the kiss so when she finally pulled away and touched her forehead to his, both of them were breathing heavy.
“I think we could be great together, Sass,” he whispered. “If we don’t kill each other first.”
Her face lit with understanding. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
“Yeah, Emma. I don’t know if I’m good enough to deserve you, but I want to try with you. I’m not always going to get it right. But seeing you with that other guy…I can’t do that again.”
“I told you he’s just a friend.”
Deacon’s fingers ached with the need to touch her. “That doesn’t matter to me, Sass. I want all of you.”
She pulled him down on top of her, her back on the bed and his body covering hers like a shield.
“Then have me.”
Chapter 19
Deacon’s lips captured Emma’s, and he kissed like he was a drowning man. Like she was oxygen, and he’d never have enough.
Emma’s heart squeezed, and her lungs couldn’t hold enough air.
Deacon.
Her Deacon.
He’d cracked for her, unfolded. And the man inside, under all the layers and attitude, was hurting, carrying the guilt of a tragedy that wasn’t his fault.
Deacon rested his forearms on either side of her body, wiped her tears with shaking hands. “I’m sorry I made you cry.”
She touched her hands to her cheeks, and they came away wet. “It’s not your fault.”
She raised her head to kiss him again, and he fisted his hands in
her hair, his body heavy on hers, his erection straining against her hip.
There was just a fraction of light in the room, and the darkness, their tears, turned everything so incredibly urgent and raw. His kisses seared through her senses—taking, wanting—and she shimmied out of her shirt, arched her back to push her breasts into his chest.
Deacon cupped one of her breasts in his hand and lowered his head to seal his mouth over her nipple, flicking his tongue against it. She cried out, and he kissed a trail back up her neck, lightning shooting through her body, sparking in her core.
“God, I missed you, Sass.”
She’d missed him too.
Deacon reached a hand down and tested her skin, finding her wet and needy.
“Deacon, please.” There was no long foreplay, no slow devotion. But she’d never been more ready. “I need you.”
He shifted his weight up onto his knees and felt for her bedside table, rolling on a condom with ragged breath.
Emma reached for him, pulled him back down, and they both groaned with relief as he sank into her.
“Oh, fuck, Deacon. That feels so good.”
He pulled back and stroked into her, sending a shiver of ecstasy racing through her body. “More,” she whispered. “Please.”
She wrapped her legs around his back and held him, rocking with him, trying to soothe him with her body. Deacon moved, picking up the pace, his body demanding access as he plunged into her over and over. He was racing toward his climax, the muscles of his body jerking with his effort, his face strained.
“You are so gorgeous,” he groaned. “You are so good.”
The friction built, and Emma’s body softened, pulsing higher.
She was prepared to let this be for Deacon, to heal him, to unburden him, but he slowed his pace and pulled out of her.
“You okay?” she whispered, and he gave her that panty-melting grin of his, touched only by the faint light of her clock.
“Never better. But I need those legs around my neck.”
She giggled as he hooked her feet over his shoulders, folding her. This time when he slid in, she was impossibly tight, he was impossibly deep, and he filled her so completely it forced the air from her lungs.
“Touch yourself, Sass. I want you to come with me.”
She nodded and moved a hand between her legs, sliding over her slick skin. She was drenched, and just the thought of it was enough to send another wash of arousal through her body.
Deacon slid in and out of her, and she circled her fingers, bucked her hips up to meet him, to meet her hand.
It was so, so much, and she was scattering, all her thoughts gone, her body just sensation, just points of light and connection every place her skin touched his.
“I’m going to come, Deacon,” she panted. “I’m going to come.”
He thrust faster now, harder, so when her body stiffened, he carried her over the edge. Emma splintered apart as he moved, and his arms shook with effort, and his eyes screwed shut, and then he was coming, pulsing along with her, his groan raking through her whole body.
Oh god. This.
Why had she ever tried to stay away? This was exactly where she belonged.
Deacon lowered her legs and collapsed onto her, still inside her as he buried his face in her hair.
“Sassafras Harrington,” he smiled against her neck.
She giggled. “Deacon Whistler.”
“How’d I ever find you?”
Emma rubbed a hand over Deacon’s back, his heart beating to match the pulse in her palm. “If I recall correctly, you posted an ad.”
His voice was drowsy, sated. “That was smart of me.”
She stroked his skin and smiled. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along.”
Sara reached for the plate of fettuccine alfredo that their waitress had just dropped off on their table and pulled it to her with a gleam in her eye.
“You look like you want to marry that pasta,” Emma laughed.
Sara grinned at her. Over her shoulder, line cooks loaded unbaked pizzas into the Grotto’s wood-fired pizza oven, and overhead, glass chandeliers shaped like upside-down flames cast a warm glow on their table. “I’ve determined that I’m slightly less pukey when I’m shoving food in my face. So, fingers crossed for today.”
Emma pulled her own spinach, pear, and bacon salad closer and lifted her fork. She wasn’t sure where you were supposed to draw the line between calling something salad versus a breadless sandwich when bacon was involved, but she’d go with the restaurant on this one. Because, whatever, there was lettuce and bacon.
She bit into her food and smiled. “Glad you’re over that first-trimester hurdle.”
“Seriously. They call it morning sickness, but it can be all day sickness.” Sara rubbed her lower belly. “Unfortunately, my latest anti-nausea plan involves eating everything in sight, but at least I’m getting fat for a good reason.”
“Oh, shut up. You’re barely showing and you look gorgeous.”
“So do you.” Sara gave her a knowing look. “Glowing, I’d say.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “Dude. Not pregnant.”
“Getting laid, then.”
Emma blushed and fiddled with her fork. “That, actually.”
Sara squealed, clapping her hands together. “Ha! I knew it. So who’s the lucky guy?”
“My new roommate, Deacon. He’s…” She shook her head. “I don’t even know how to describe him.”
“Well, try. This baby is sucking my libido, and I need a little inspiration.”
How the tables had turned. Sara used to be the one with all the sex stories to share, and now, finally, Emma had adventures of her own. And adventures with Deacon were her very favorite kind.
“He’s hot—blond hair, a body he takes care of, a very…capable…mouth. He’s a tequila brand ambassador, so he knows how to have a good time, but we don’t need to go out to have fun. Plenty of sparks.”
Sara fanned herself. “Sounds like you’ve got a little love cocoon going on.”
Emma shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Have you taken the relationship for a spin in the real world?” Sara twirled fettuccine around her fork and used it to gesture around the restaurant.
Emma laughed. “Every time we go out to one of his events together, something goes wrong.”
“Maybe you need a date where there’s no tequila involved.”
Emma shoved another bite of salad into her mouth. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you. Did you say no tequila? Is that even a thing?”
Sara rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m happy for you.” She chewed her pasta and narrowed her eyes at Emma. “You know, I’m surprised you even got a new roommate.”
“Why?”
Sara lifted a shoulder. “You know. You’ve always been so independent. I kind of figured after you moved out that you’d do your own thing.”
What? Emma wasn’t independent at all. She spoke her mind about a lot of things, but when it came to being on her own, that creep in college had taken more of her confidence than she let on.
“You’re so sweet,” she told Sara.
“Considering I kicked you out of your apartment, I’ll take it.”
Emma laughed and let the memories of that dark night slip away. “You know, it worked out okay for me in the end. It’s a short-term lease, but after the two months are up, I don’t see why I wouldn’t stay.”
“Wow. Sounds serious.”
Emma set down her fork. “He likes me for me, S. My yoga-loving, candle-burning, magazine-reading, obsessive cleaning self.”
Sara lifted a glass. “Cheers to that.” She took a sip of her drink and frowned. “In six months this won’t need to be a mocktail.”
“I know a guy who’s good with tequila.” Emma giggled. “I’ll try to keep him around long enough to fix you a real drink.”
“I like him more and more every time you say that.”
Emma lifted her glass and smiled. “Me too.”
> Chapter 20
Pináculo Tequila had partnered with a tortilla chip company for tonight’s event at the 5 O’Clock Somewhere Bar in the Margaritaville Casino, and the scent of hot, fried chips, fresh salsa, and citrusy tequila filled the air. The night was hopping—a steady mix of college-kids, a handful of Parrotheads, and tourists in to enjoy Saturday night on The Strip.
The bar’s thatched roof, fake palm trees, and tropical drinks highlighted its beach-hut vibe, and the kitschy atmosphere put everyone in a relaxed mood. Behind the counter, regular bartenders Billy and Kevin flipped bottles, blew whistles, and put on a show for the crowd.
Deacon laughed as a particularly large tip earned one of the patrons a burst of confetti. He might not be able to do tricks quite as well as the bartenders behind the bar, but tonight his free tequila made him just as popular.
“Who’s ready for some shots?” he called into the crowd, and a bro-army approached with eyes laser-focused on the tequila bottle in his hand.
He poured a round for the guys and lifted his own glass in a cheer.
“Ariba!” He lifted the glass, and the bros followed suit. “Abajo!” He lowered the glass and grinned. He brought the shot forward with, “Al centro!” and finally called, “Adentro!” and slung it back.
The crowd smiled along with him, and he moved with a loose-limbed purpose. After tonight he’d head home to Emma. His girlfriend. The thought warmed him almost as much as the alcohol.
Maggie slipped through the crowd and elbowed him in the side. “Don’t look now, but Brad’s here.”
“Brad?” Deacon’s head jerked to scan the room for his boss. “What the hell’s he doing here? We’ve got it covered.”
“Be on your best behavior,” she hissed, then smoothed her face, batted her eyelashes, and lifted her tray of shot glasses.
Sure enough, Brad’s wide shoulders—a nod to own his ex-bro days—parted the crowd in front of Deacon. In fairness, if Pináculo Tequila wanted good advertising, stretching its name across Brad’s expansive chest was cheaper than paying for a billboard. Too bad the smile never reached his eyes.
His Invitation Page 11