by Vesper Young
“Get in the pool, Deacon.” I didn’t dare answer his question. Like wasn’t the right word for that I felt when I knew he was watching my every movement. “Unless my sugarwoogums doesn’t know how to swim.” Apparently, my inner third grader had decided to take control of the conversation.
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”
“It’s okay if you’re scared, sugarwoogums. You can tell me.”
“Call me that again and you’re gonna find our how well I can swim.”
If generally being a prime example of male fitness correlated to being a good swimmer, I had no doubt Deacon would be superb. It didn’t stop me from say, “My sugarwoogums shouldn’t say things like that if he’s scared of the water.”
Before I finished my sentence, Deacon had begun unbuttoning his shirt. He didn’t look down to do so, just pinned me with a stare that said, Now you’re gonna get it.
Seconds later, his shirt was undone. He tossed it off without caring where it landed then unbuttoned his pants.
I stared. A second later those were kicked off too. All that was left were his boxers. The rest of his body was on display, the hard, corded muscles of his legs, his chest, and his face which was full of promise.
He took a step down the stairs. Far be it from him to recoil from the sudden cool. His pace was steady, determined.
I started to get nervous. He was here. In his underwear. And nothing else. His bare chest was on full display, the sweat of the day accentuating every inch of chiseled perfection. His powerful legs propelled him forward, step by step. I was equally exposed, the only barrier between us the water. And he was coming right towards me, shortening that distance with every second.
I began to scoot back. He began to swim for me, and I began to swim away. If he wanted me to stop calling him sugarwoogums, my sugarwoogums was gonna earn it.
He moved after me. I swam as fast as I could, but I hadn’t grown up near a pool. I barely knew how to keep from drowning. My legs kicked through the water, electrified by the chase. I got about a dozen feet before Deacon caught me, where the water was just a few inches too deep for me to stand.
He grabbed my arm, effectively ending the chase. His grip wasn’t painful, just proprietary. I stared at him. He looked right back. His hair was slick from the water. Drops of water coated his body, a single drip falling along his chin. For a moment, we were frozen. It didn’t feel real, this evening, the pool. Like all my problems were a thousand miles away, all the strings, and contracts. It was just me and Deacon. Half-naked and soaking wet.
“I’ve got you,” he said. His voice was breathy. We were close enough that the heat of it caressing my skin.
“You do,” I said. My chest beat fast, both from the exertion and the expression in his eyes.
He had me. I’d known I was falling, in a discrete, quiet way. I kept those emotions boxed up.
But now, I wanted. I wanted his masculine voice. I wanted his hand against my arm. I wanted the teasing, the provocation. I wanted the chest I slept on each night. I wanted to run my hands through his hair was either wild or groomed within an inch of its life.
I wanted to kiss him. Deep down, I’d wanted that for a long time, as much as I fought the desire. Now, the desire couldn’t be ignored. I craved more contact, more heat, more Deacon.
I reached for him, turning in his grip and pulled his face towards mine. His skin was soft in my hands. His lips were a hair’s width from my own.
For a fraction of a second, I thought it was a mistake. That I should let go and plead temporary insanity.
Then he kissed me.
The contact paralyzed my brain. My body, however, responded in an instant. Our lips crushed against each other. I opened my mouth and he was there. I felt him, all of him, all around me. His arms grabbed my body, pulling me against his hard body. My legs widened to accept him, wrapping around him. The water made us almost weightless, adding to the heady feeling of kissing Deacon. Or maybe I was so swept up, I would’ve felt this way no matter what.
Desperate. Burning. On fire.
I ran my fingers through his hair as if terrified he’d pull away. He made no move to, one hand dipped lower in the water on my end, pressing me against him. I rubbed my hips along him, aching to draw him closer.
I was kissing Deacon. There was no audience to pretend for. It was real.
It was amazing.
We broke apart briefly, catching our breath. I panted slightly, my heart practically vibrating. We stared for a moment. Something passed between us in that moment, something I craved and needed more of.
Then we dove back into each other.
Our second kiss—our second real kiss—was even more intense. A release of all the pent up desires I’d been feeling and Deacon echoed every single one of them. It was like someone was setting off fireworks in my belly, and the flares ricocheted even lower. Deacon moved his body against me in time with my own movement.
Eventually, we pulled our mouths away, letting us catch our breath.
“Wow,” I murmured, still reeling from the high that came from kissing Deacon Blake.
He gave me a cocky smirk. “That good, huh?”
Hell, yeah, I thought. “You tell me,” I teased, unwilling to cop to it.
“Better than my fantasies.”
Fantasies. Woah. He gave me a molten look that made my knees weak. Thankfully, he was still supporting my body, hand firmly gripping me while my legs hooked around him like a horny koala.
The next moments were a blur as Deacon lifted us out of the pool. Or rather, lifted me out, setting me against the edge and then followed, lifting himself from his arms out of the pool.
It was an impressive feat, considering we seldom broke contact. The taste of him was addictive. A little sandalwood, a little chlorine, and all that masculine something no cologne could replicate. He filled my senses. The sound of his groans against me, the feel of his hands as he carried me over to a wall and pressed me against it. We began to explore each other, our lips straying from each other and moving to jaws and necks and ears.
Finally, a stray thought of common sense broke through the lusty haze that made everything fuzzy except for crystal-clear need for more.
“God, we can’t do this here.” It came out between breaths as he sucked on my neck. The feeling of him, my husband, necking me, was indescribable.
Deacon pulled away, giving me a look that said he was about as keen to stop as I was. Meaning, not at all.
I was tempted to tell him to forget it and drag him back down, but a girl had to have standards. If I was gonna ravish my fake husband, it shouldn’t be where anyone could walk in. I said as much.
He moved away and already I felt the emptiness in front of me. Thankfully, he returned a second later with a towel. He wrapped one around me, his hands sliding along my chest to knot it in a method that probably wouldn’t win any awards for efficiency.
Without warning, he lifted me, one arm under my knees, the other supporting my upper back. He made beeline for the door.
“Oh!” The act took me off-guard.
The muscles on his arms weren’t for decoration. After all, I had seen him work out. Now, I was intimately aware of each of them as they pressed against my exposed back and legs. He carried me easily through the door and called the elevator. The way I was positioned, I was able to look behind him as we left.
“Deacon, our clothes!” I exclaimed.
“I’ll have someone get them. Later.”
I glanced at his behind. “You’re in your boxers!”
Waterlogged as they were, they hung dangerously low on his hips, clinging to the tree trunks that made up his massive quads.
We walked into the elevator and he silenced me with a kiss. It was hungry, and I met his desire, my worries disappearing.
And when we pulled away, a glance down at the view won me over from further complaints. I could only fight so much against my own best interests.
The thought pulled me back for a
moment. What were my best interests? Complicating a six-month arrangement by sleeping together sure didn’t sound like it… unless I was half-naked in the arms of an equally unclothed Deacon Blake.
Then it seemed like a fantastic idea.
Somehow Deacon got us into the apartment without dropping me. He’d managed to grab his keys when he got the towels, which saved us from an embarrassing hold up at the locked door. Said door shut behind us, though I only heard the sound faintly behind the rush of blood in my ears.
Deacon plopped me on the giant grey couch, the sudden fall startling me. Before I could complain about the drop-off services of my personal taxi, he dropped himself back over my body. His legs spread around my hips, pinning me. One hand was between my head and shoulder, stabilizing him, the other caressing my face.
He leaned in to kiss me and the frenzy began anew.
The heat from his touch was the right kind of hot. Flares of desire erupted wherever he touched me. Every inch of my body craved more.
He obliged.
His hands shifted to my breasts and I gasped. The thin fabric of my bra did nothing to diminish the feeling of his fingers, brushing, pulling, touching, but the wetness annoyed me.
I managed to push him backward. Now, it was my turn to straddle him. I tugged off my bra, not caring where it landed, then grabbed his hands and pressed them back against my chest.
I gasped. The room was comfortable, but since we were both wet, the heat of his hand fought against what would’ve been a chill.
Eager to taste more of him, I leaned in. I pressed my lips against his collarbone, breathing in that uniquely masculine scent. I moved lower, trailing my kisses down his chest. He reacted to each one. When I grazed him with my teeth, his hips bucked beneath me, sending a wave of elation down my spine.
I nipped him again.
That earned a growl to accompany his sudden thrust. The way we were positioned, his pelvis right under mine, I was straddling the bulge barely contained by his boxers. The friction between us when he moved like that was only a drop of something I wanted to be drunk on.
Deacon 25
Her teeth hit me again, saucy torture against my body. Like she was taunting me, trying to see how much I could take.I pinched her bare nipples between my fingers. The elicited moan was more erotic than any sound I'd ever heard before.
I couldn’t take any more.
“I need to feel you,” I told her. That earned another of her sexy little moans, her body tense in my grip.
“Yes,” she moaned.
She wanted it as badly as I did. I was gonna make her want it worse.
I lifted her off the couch and moved, carrying her to the bedroom where I pressed her against the wall. Her body was almost completely exposed. Even in the dim light of the room, my wife was breathtaking. Her breasts were the perfect size, nipples formed into hard peaks begging for my touch. She writhed under my touch, begging for more.
I pulled down her wet panties, revealing the rest of her aching body. Then I pressed a finger against her entrance. She moved against it, her slickness coating my finger while I made her wait with anticipation.
“Please, Deacon,” she whimpered.
I slid it inside. Her body welcomed the intrusion, happily taking my body inside of hers. The sounds she made confirmed that.
“More,” she begged.
My cock jolted at the sound of her begging, eager to please her.
But still. I was gonna make her crave it. I moved my middle finger inside, moving the two fingers inside her.
“Like that, baby?”
Mindy nodded, her eyelashes fluttering as if she was lost in pleasure. She ground her hips against my hand, half thrusting them in and out. I grazed my thumb over her clit. She jumped at the contact, eyes wide open as she stared at me.
“You want to feel me, baby?”
She moaned appreciatively
“You want me?” I wanted to hear her say it.
“So much!”
The desperation in her voice did me in. I grabbed a condom from the nightstand, keeping one hand pressed inside her, stroking her most sensitive parts.
I sheathed myself inside her and nearly came just from the sensation alone. She clenched around me. My wife.
I thrust in and out, harder, faster. She met me every stroke, lifting her hips to allow me back in. Her hands wrapped around my back, her fingernails digging in as if she was terrified I would move away.
Not. A. Chance.
Mindy 26
I woke up slowly, the warmth of the bed utterly tantalizing. Or maybe it was less the bed and more the body in the bed with me. A lazy smile was on my face as I looked up towards Deacon.
“Hey,” he said. His hand was woven through my hair, massaging my scalp in a delicious way.
“Hey, yourself,” I replied, my voice groggy and possibly a bit hoarse from last night.
Last night. My smile widened.
“Tell me what you’re thinking of.”
I told him. And then it took a surprisingly long time to get out of bed. Afterward, to my shock, I found out Deacon had turned into a cheapskate who thought it was necessary to consolidate our morning showers.
I didn’t object, though I doubted the forty minutes we were in there actually saved any money. We probably would’ve been in longer, but my stomach let out a rather un-sexy gurgle.
“I’ll take care of breakfast,” Deacon promised, planting a kiss to my lips.
He was probably going to order from somewhere. I didn’t complain, instead enjoyed the show that was Deacon Blake drying off and wrapping a towel around himself.
Hell, I could sell tickets to this and be a billionaire in my own right. But then I’d have to share view and I didn’t like that thought.
I took my time drying off and dressing. When I finally finished, the apartment was filled with the tantalizing smell of fresh pancakes.
I entered the kitchen, curious about if the apartment also had room service to have food so quickly and found Deacon flipping a beautiful, fluffy, golden pancake over in the skillet.
I nearly drooled, but the fact he was still in a towel was probably a contributing factor.
“You can make pancakes?” I asked, perching on the countertop so I could get a better look at the mouth-watering carbs.
“Surprised?” he teased.
“A little. Did Donna teach you?” I asked.
He shook his head. “My mother, actually.”
I perked up. This was the first time he’d mentioned her to me. “Did she like to cook?”
Deacon set the finished pancake aside and began pouring another. “Nope. As best I remember, she let Donna handle all the lunches and dinners. But she loved making pancakes. Most of my memories of her are in the kitchen, mixing, pouring, flipping. My father would act frustrated since, by the time she called him for breakfast, she and I had eaten half of them.”
He had a fond look on his face from the memory.
“How old were you when she died?”
“Four.”
Four. How young.
“I didn’t eat pancakes for a long time after that.”
I wished I could wipe away the sadness from his expression.
“My mom wasn’t much of a cook, either,” I said. “So I learned a few basic recipes and managed that. Or we ate out.”
He moved the final pancake onto a plate and shut off the burner. “Was your father around?”
“Died before I was born.”
He lent me a hand to get down from the counter.
“Mom spoiled me afterward. Almost every day when I came home from school she’d give me some type of gift. Unless we argued, as mothers and daughters did. Then she’d ‘forget’ to get me anything while out for a few days.”
I wasn’t sure why I mentioned the second part. I didn’t like to talk about my mother.
“Is that why you can’t stand when I spend money?” He watched my face for a moment. “There’s something else,” he concluded.
I served myself a giant pancake and bit in to avoid answering immediately. There was something else, but how much could I tell him? I knew I was falling for him, but if this was ending in a few months, how could I lay myself bare?
“I understand if it’s too personal to share.”
And then he had to go and be understanding after he told me about his mother.
“Even when she did give me gifts, they were never just gifts in the end.”
Something seemed to click for him. “The strings you kept mentioning.”
I shrugged. “Pretty much. And as silly as it sounds, I never saw them coming. In retrospect, it’s obvious.” I was half talking to myself, reminding myself to stay alert lest I relearn the same lesson again.
“There’s no shame in that. It’s natural for a child to crave their parent’s affection in any form.”
I wondered how much of that had been Deacon talking to himself, for when the pancakes went away and his father was all he had left. I’d gleaned enough over our talks to learn Fred Blake was just as much of a workaholic as his son. And if he was anything like Deacon, he’d try and find solace in the loss of his wife in the office instead of his own home.
Dang. This was heavy talk of breakfast.
“The pancakes are delicious,” I said, changing the subject.
The cocky smile he gave me took another stupid piece of my heart. And I wondered if there were strings even now tied to whatever this was. Heartstrings.
Deacon 27
The weekend sped by in what was probably the closes to bliss I’d ever experienced. I woke up at 4:15 on Monday and seriously contemplated calling out to work for what would perhaps be the first time ever, our honeymoon excluded.
Mindy slept peacefully, sprawled over my body. Her nightshirt had ridden up, leaving her back mostly exposed. I wanted to pull it off and press her against me, flesh on flesh.
For a brief while, I’d forgotten about work. But I couldn’t rest until the company was secure. I had work to do. I got up and dressed, leaving for the office with after giving the bedroom a long look.