Page 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

FREYA

The trucks pull away after dinner on Friday night. I go to my room at the back of the house and shut the door.

The sun is setting, and a single golden ray cuts through the window. My collection is neatly stacked on the desk and above it, my butterfly specimens glittering in an array of colors. My bed is neatly made, the red flannel quilt tucked beneath the mattress. My clothes hang in the open closet. The rug I braided from rags lays like a coat of many colors over the floor.

I stand in the center, hands folded.

Maybe he won’t come.

Or maybe he will—that’s more nerve-wracking.

I think back to the night I spent with him. We started as strangers. But when we woke up, I think we became something else I can’t name. And I liked it. I felt safe in his arms.

That’s unexpected.

My eyes follow the vines and flowers I painted on my bed frame, over the dried flowers, cedar, and lavender, the jars full of rocks and shells.

The Appalachian Mountains, the soft green hills, the snakelike rivers, were my safe place. Now, my safe place is boxed and painted onto my furniture. I’m roaming in my heart, ready to let the wind pull me up and blow me away.

Somehow, instead, I ended up in the bed of a man who looks just like the men I’ve been running from all my life.

I turn on the radio so the house isn’t dead quiet. Then, I wash up in the bathroom and braid my hair down my back. The air has a little chill to it, so I pick out jeans, boots, and my fern-green sweater.

Something crunches on the driveway. I frown, freezing.

That doesn’t sound like a truck.

I put my boots on and go downstairs. Through the front window, I see Deacon Ryder on his dark horse, so tall, he’s a shadow against the sunset.

My stomach swoops. He’s rough but so damn handsome. And he didn’t forget he was coming for me.

Heart thumping, I push open the front door. He dismounts and heads toward the porch, stopping at the bottom step. He takes off his hat and slaps it on his thigh. A puff of dirt comes off it. He looks good, windswept, like he was riding hard. They were probably working all day up at Ryder Ranch.

I slip out onto the porch. I should be afraid of being alone with him, but I’m not, and I’m worried that means something. Things are moving fast.

“You look pretty,” he says.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “I didn’t realize you were going to pick me up on a horse.”

“That a problem?” He turns to look at Bones. “I can hold you right up here in front of me.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “I’ll go get an overnight bag.”

“Pack light,” he says.

It doesn’t occur to me what that means until I’m heading back downstairs with my messenger bag over my shoulder. Was the implication that I shouldn’t bother to pack many clothes because I’ll be naked?

He’s standing by Bones, waiting. I let him lift me up, and then he’s behind me, holding me against his warm chest. He clicks his tongue, and Bones prances sideways before turning to head up the hill where our property lines touch.

I’m glad for his iron arm over my body, because Bones runs like the devil is on his tail. He seems to love it, but I’m shaken, especially when he scales the low portion of the fence easily and gallops down the hill on the other side.

I swear, my teeth are chattering from fear when we pull up in the driveway of Ryder Ranch. Deacon slides down, unbothered. He glances up and sees my face, and a line appears on his forehead.

“You alright there, sweetheart?” he asks.

I nod. “Just a little cold.”

He lifts me down effortlessly. I feel him, a warm, thick slab of muscle against my body. Then, I’m on my feet, and he’s hollering for someone in the barn to come get his horse. Andy appears. His eyes glint as they run over me, but he doesn’t seem surprised. I stand awkwardly while they confer in the overhead light.

The man takes Bones’ reins and disappears into the barn. Deacon comes back to me, his hand on my waist, and ushers me up the stairs and into the house.

I’m swept off my feet. One minute, he’s showing up to my house on a horse called Bones. The next, he’s got me in his house and he’s taking my jacket. I look down at him, on one knee, pulling my boot off, and realize I like this.

Nobody has ever taken care of me before.

He sets my boots aside, but he doesn’t get up. One hand, blue from ink, touches the inside of my knee. Our eyes lock in the dim hall.

“You hungry?” he says, voice husky.

I shake my head. My mouth is dry as dust. “I ate,” I manage.

He’s probably hoping to take me up to his bedroom, but right then, the puppy cries in the living room. I dart around him to look in. He has a wire pen by the hearth, and the puppy is rolling on newspaper, kicking a toy in its back legs. It sees me from the corner of its eye and flips, lifting its fuzzy head .

I get blinders, forgetting all about Deacon, and go right for the puppy.

“Oh, he’s so sweet,” I whisper, picking him up.

He nuzzles my neck, chirruping in his throat. Deacon appears at my elbow, hands on his hips. He gives the puppy a stern look, as if he’s jealous.

“I better not hear any bullshit tonight,” he says.

The puppy ignores him, writhing in my arms. I look up at Deacon, all the tension gone from my body. Maybe it’s the puppy, or maybe it’s being out of my house and back at Ryder Ranch, but here, I feel like I can let my body relax.

“What’s his name?” I ask.

Deacon shrugs. “Doesn’t have one yet.”

“Can I name him?”

My voice is higher than usual. Am I being…bubbly? I haven’t been bubbly since I was a little girl, and it feels…so good. Deacon looks at me, and his brows lift.

“Yeah, whatever you like,” he says. “You want a drink? I got wine.”

I nod. “I don’t drink wine, but I’ll do moonshine if you have it.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Yeah, I think I do.”

He disappears into the kitchen. I kiss the puppy on the head and set it back down, letting him go back to attacking his toy. I follow Deacon around the corner and find the closet door behind the fridge open. There’s a soft crash, some cursing, and then he appears with a jug of moonshine in his hand.

He shuts the door and sets it on the counter.

“No getting drunk,” he says.

I lean on the counter next to him.

“Why’s that?” I say.

He fills a shot glass and sets it down. “Because I brought you here to talk,” he says. “Get to know each other.”

“And?” I press.

He pours a second shot and hands it over. “I’m gonna fuck you good and hard, sweetheart, so keep your head on straight for it. ”

Heat explodes. The way he says it, all intense, takes my breath away. I shoot the moonshine to cover up my blush. A smirk flashes over his face as he bolts his shot.

He looks at me, I look up at him. All I have in my head is the memory of him flipping me onto my hands and knees and telling me to hold the headboard.

“It tastes like apples,” I say.

“Supposed to be apple pie,” he says. “Ginny made it.”

“It’s good. I’ll have another shot.”

There’s a little sass to my voice, and my accent is coming through harder than usual. Maybe it’s because I’m nervous. He pours me a splash more. I bolt it, flipping my glass and pushing it next to his. He leans in, and I shudder as his mouth brushes the side of my neck. His body shifts against mine, pinning me into the counter.

My stomach swoops and my pussy tightens, like it remembers him and wants more.

He tilts his head and his mouth finds mine, as hungry as the first time. He tastes like apples and Deacon—familiar, sweet, with an edge of something masculine. There’s desperation on his tongue as it swipes against mine.

He pulls back and pushes his head against my neck insistently. His short beard is rough on my skin. His mouth burns, hot as a fireplace in winter. A tingle shoots down as my body remembers how it felt between my legs.

My thighs clench. His gaze drops.

God, I want him again.

“Can’t get you out of my head,” he says, voice hoarse. “Spread your legs for me.”

His eyes lock on mine. They’re a bed of coals, simmering beneath darkness. My nerves tingle. With trepidation, I lift my hand and touch the bare skin above his collar.

He tenses, like he feels it all through his big body, but he keeps still. I trace down until my finger hits cloth, and then I undo his top button. He’s warm. I felt his body in the dark before. I crave the feeling again .

I didn’t want to fall for one of these rough Montana men with their hard hands, their windswept faces, and their cold eyes that feel like November. I never wanted a hellraiser, a heartbreaker, like Deacon Ryder.

But he’s different, at least I want to believe he can be.

Holding my breath, I run my finger from the hair on his chest up his tattooed neck to his chin and lower lip. He looks at me like he can’t tear his eyes away, and that makes me uneasy. If he decides he wants more than pleasure, I think he’ll be hard to get rid of.

But right now, with the cold creeping in from outside, I can’t refuse. He’s everything I swore I wouldn’t fall for—from the soles of his boots to the tip of his head, from his lifted truck to the ink up to his jawline to the way he walks like he’s got somewhere to be and damn anybody who gets in his way.

The problem is, I never realized how intoxicating that getup could be on the right man. Mouth dry, I start unfastening his shirt.

One button at a time, until it falls open.

I study his chest. The ink on his skin covers everything, dark blue and black. Scars disrupt it and tug the lines here and there. I pick out a few things I recognize—a bird, leaves, chains, mountains, bones. They’re all jumbled up, like he didn’t have a rhyme or reason in selecting them.

I graze my fingertips over them. He keeps still, like he’s worried I’ll shy away. Maybe that’s a quality he learned from training his horses. He clears his throat. I glance down. There’s a rise beneath his zipper—he likes me touching him.

“Where did you get these?” I whisper.

“Around,” he says. “Most I got when I was underage. I’m lucky I’m not dead from infection.”

“Do you like them?”

His jaw works. “I don’t know if liking them factors into it. It’s a long story, sweetheart.”

“Well, I got all night,” I say.

He cocks his head, the corner of his mouth turning up. “No, you got all night for other things. We can talk later. ”

There’s a distant buzz in the back of my head. and I know the moonshine is hitting. I’ve got a good resistance to it at this point, with my stepbrothers making it in the tobacco shed all the time. I’ve been skimming it since I was a kid. It takes a lot of moonshine to make me dead drunk, but buzzed is a different story.

I need the liquid courage right now. Maybe that intimidates me more than I realized.

My fingers move down, undoing the final buttons of his shirt. A tremor shivers down his stomach as I touch the trail of hair leading to the belt. He’s watching me, lips parted, eyelids so heavy, I can’t read his expression.

He wants me, but tonight, I need something different than what we did. If I’m going to sleep with this man again, I want to see every detail this time. My fingers ache to run over him and explore his hard, inked-up muscle. I’m so curious about his body.

My fingers stop on the buckle of his belt. I glance up, the question in my eyes, and he nods once. His throat bobs.

Carefully, I pull the leftover end of his belt free and press it back until the tine slips from the hole. I tug the opposite side of his belt free, feeling like I’m unwrapping a present. There’s an intimidating button underneath. I pause, my fingers hovering.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he says, voice hoarse, like he might die if I don’t.

Against my plain cotton panties, my pussy gives a deep pulse. There’s an itch in me, and I know he knows how to take care of it. I tense my inner muscles, achingly empty.

In one quick movement, I undo the button and tug down his zipper. The tension releases as the front of his boxer-briefs stretch to accommodate what’s underneath. My fingers falter.

“Don’t stop,” he says.

I glance up at him, and a rush moves up my spine. I’m soaked between my legs, my heart thumping at the base of my throat. He’s on the verge of panting, and I haven’t even touched him where he’s most sensitive .

My fingers curl on his waistband. He inhales sharply. I tug it down and he snaps free, hitting against his hard, lower abdominals.

I let the band go and cover my mouth with both hands.

He’s big and fully hard. The hair over his tattooed groin is cut short, neatly kept. That’s something I’m realizing about Deacon. He might look rough, but he’s meticulous, his house in order. Even when he sweats, it smells good, like clean salt.

The house is completely silent. I know his blood is going hard; I see it in the thick vein running up his heavy length. I have to touch him. Lips parted, I trace the underside, and he twitches.

His head goes back. “Fuck,” he breathes.

He’s strong, like a bull. But when I wrap my hand around his cock, I swear, his knees buckle just a bit. Before I can let my nerves get the best of me, I slip from the counter, drop to my knees, and take the head of his cock into my mouth.

I don’t know how to do this, but I have a pretty good idea I can figure it out.

He groans, his thighs stiffening. My eyes flutter shut as his hard, hot length slides between my lips. Salt and clean skin fills my senses. He’s leaking into my mouth, and it’s good—so good, I suck to get more.

His palm slides against the back of my head. Not holding me in, just cradling me. Like I mean something to him.

His gentleness brings down my walls faster than anything else. My jaw aches a little as I push down. I’m halfway, and there’s nowhere else for him to go.

Wriggling my tongue beneath him, I work it against the vein and the little lip beneath the head. A harsh moan sounds from up above. More salt spills out, slipping down my throat.

My head is empty for the first time in my life. There’s no danger. My body isn’t tensed to react. He strokes my nape, gripping it. I moan around him.

“Goddamn it, girl,” he rasps .

Out of nowhere, he’s pulling me off his dick by the scruff of the neck. He picks me up, and the living room falls away below us as he carries me upstairs.

His dark room is lit by the fireplace. Through the window, black and gray clouds writhe in the sky, stretching for miles around Ryder Ranch.

Then, he’s got me in his bed. His fingers undo my clothes, leaving me naked on my back.

He sits up on his knees and pulls his shirt free. My heart beats in my mouth that still tastes like him. His pants come down, revealing more tattooed skin. Then, he’s naked, his body like a solid wall of warm muscle and ink.

In my desperation, aided by the little buzz in my head, I sit up and push him until he falls onto his back, stretched out, taking up so much of his bed.

Hungry, I clamber up his body and straddle him. His cock is pressed beneath us. His heartbeat pulses through it. His rough chest burns beneath my palms.

We pause, gasping. I don't know where I got the courage to get on top.

He makes me wild. Fearless.

His hand grips the back of my neck, pulling me down. I lean in, and he kisses me the way he did under the northern lights.

I come alive. Everything prickles with magic.

Deep inside, my body tells me to be careful. He’s like a wild animal, hiding in his beautiful house with nobody to fill it. Winter is coming fast, and he’ll spend it alone, his nights surrounded by starlight in his shadowy room.

Unless he intends to spend it with me.

Deacon breaks away, bringing me back down to Earth with a thump. His dark eyes, up close, aren’t frightening. They’re beautiful, warm pools I want to dive into. I touch his face, relishing the rasp of his beard, and kiss his mouth. Slowly, I let the tip of my tongue touch his lips.

He follows my mouth with his as I pull back .

“What do you want from me?” I whisper.

He sits up, his arms wrapping around my body, holding me in his lap. Skin on tattooed skin. Hard against soft.

“You,” he says.

The way his voice is just a rasp when he whispers is so soothing, like waking up scared and hearing someone safe coming for me.

“Why?” I breathe.

He nuzzles his nose under my chin. His lips run over my collarbone.

“You’re something,” he says. “Something I shouldn’t be allowed to have, but I want anyway.”

I understand that to my core.

“I don’t know,” he continues. “I’m not like you, sweetheart, I don’t have nice words. But I know you stopped me with one look. That has to mean something.”

My head falls back. He’s kissing me, licking me, biting my skin.

Up until now, I’ve only experienced male attention as a negative. I’ve been called a whore plenty. I’ve been touched by someone who didn’t like me but wanted to get all the pleasure he could from my body.

But I’ve never had anybody touch me the way Deacon does.

I’m not sure knowing better has got anything to do with what we do in his bed. It’s a pull I can’t resist, I couldn’t fight it from the moment we met. And I’m scared I’ll just keep coming back for more.

He brushes my chin with his mouth. “I need you, sweetheart.”

Breathless, I nod. He flips me to my back and pulls me beneath the quilt. The world is just heat and darkness and him. Insistently, he shoves my thighs apart and sinks between them. He spits into his hand, and his palm runs over my sex. Then, the head of his cock pushes against my entrance, and I wince.

“That hurt?” he asks.

I nod again. “A little bit. You’re big.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a compliment. You’ve got an extra limb down there,” I whisper, surprised I have it in me to tease him .

He reaches up and takes a pillow, lifting my lower body and setting it down onto it. It’s a flat pillow, so there’s only a slight tilt to my body.

His lips brush my forehead.

“Sometimes, I can be rough,” he says. “But I don’t mean to be.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I like it.”

“Tell me if it hurts and you don’t like it,” he says, giving me a piercing stare.

I nod. He spits on his fingers again, and they slip between us. This time, they find my clit and move in slow circles—not right on it, just barely grazing where the nerves are most sensitive. Heat tingles up my thighs and centers in my core.

His fingers go faster, getting closer. My eyes flutter shut for a second, and I let myself moan because I want him to keep doing that. He shifts his thumb to cover my clit, moving it back and forth. Pleasure tightens inside, rising until it’s an itch he has to scratch. My hips undulate. His fingers keep going.

Then, he stops.

My eyes snap open. He’s lifting me, rolling to his back, and settling me astride his body.

“Changed my mind,” he grunts. “Need to feel that tight pussy wrapped around my dick.”

I tense as he lifts me with one hand, reaching between us, and guides himself into me. Slowly, holding his wrist for balance, I let him slide into my pussy. It’s as heavy and thick as it was the first time around. I bite back a groan as our bodies connect.

He has this look about him when he’s caught up in lust. It’s a hungry stare, with heavy lids, a little red at the corners of his eyes. A vein pulses in his neck. Sweat glitters in the hair down his stomach.

A shudder runs along my spine.

I could fall hard for this man.

“Start riding, sweetheart,” he orders.

He puts his hands on my thighs and rocks them. I lay my palms on his warm chest and slowly undulate my hips. A shock of pleasure hits me as his cock moves deep in my lower belly. Experimentally, I flex my pussy, and he groans, eyelids flickering.

“Fuck, you’ve got a tight little cunt,” he breathes.

There’s something about seeing such a big man on his back, breathing hard because of something I’m doing, that drives me wild. I brace my knees and let him move me, rolling my hips as he does.

This is why all men ever talk about is getting laid. It really can be that good.

I’m jerked from my thoughts by a sharp slap on my upper thigh. It stings, but in the most delicious way as he grips me, squeezes, and slaps again. I ride faster, nails digging into his chest.

“That’s my girl,” he drawls.

He fucks and talks so dirty. All my defenses are down. The ceiling spins overhead as I let my head fall back, still riding him hard. It’s not lost on me that, tonight, I’m not ashamed. Of anything. What we do is as instinctual and shameless as eating or sleeping.

Our bodies know only carnal satisfaction. Our minds, we can figure those out tomorrow.

Our hearts…those might take longer than a day to learn.

We fuck until there’s nothing left. This time, he pulls out and comes on my stomach. We’re both too tired to clean up. Instead, we fall asleep, wound up in each other.