Page 9

CHAPTER NINE

FREYA

I sleep hard and wake to something rough brushing my shoulder. The pillow smells good—soap, skin, aftershave. Eyes shut, I inhale as warm breath and stubble drag over the nape of my neck.

For the first time in my life, I slept with a man in my bed.

He kisses me at the top of my spine. I’m deliciously warm beneath the heavy covers, his bare skin against my naked back. Light kisses feather down my upper spine.

“Open your legs for me, sweetheart.”

His voice is rough from sleep. It goes right down and centers in my pussy. Eyes still shut, I moan in my throat, and he spits in his hand and lifts my thigh. His fingers work over my sex. Then, he shifts until I feel his hard stomach and the short hair at his groin.

He pushes the tip of his cock into me, swearing under his breath. Pain ripples as he sheathes himself, but there’s something so softly erotic about what he’s doing that it turns to pleasure at the first thrust.

Why is this so intimate? I don’t really know him.

He takes my hip, lifting my thigh back over his leg, and starts fucking slow and deep. My eyes flutter open. The pale gray light from the not risen sun spills through the windows. The hills stretch out, dark and beautiful.

He groans, pulling me back. Hot breath fans over my nape.

“You feel so good,” he breathes. “Let’s get you on top. I want to see you like that.”

Before I can react, he pulls me off his cock, flips onto his back, and sets me back on it. My eyes widen as I sink down onto him—big, thick, four rounded points.

He’s big, I’m tender from last night. His gaze runs over my body. Unsure, I wrap my arms around my breasts, but he grips my wrists.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs.

I believe him—I’ve never seen anybody say so much with just his eyes. He releases my wrists and wraps his hands around my waist, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. I feel so small in Deacon’s lap. He’s a behemoth of a man, his hands almost touching at my spine.

“Ride me,” he rasps.

I shift my hips, and the final inch pushes in. My body fights him. I’ve never felt this full. The veins, the ridges, the heat—it takes over my senses, until all I feel is where our bodies join.

My hips move, guided by his hands. I take him even though it aches because I’m starving. I’m so starved for something I’ve only fantasized about—a man who touches without harming.

He looks at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on. I’ve never been worshiped like this, with this perfect mix of hunger and gentleness.

I didn’t expect this from him. Shy, my hips stutter, and I close my eyes.

“No, no, sweetheart, you look at me,” he says.

Face hot, I obey. He keeps moving my hips, back and forth with little strokes. My pussy is soaked—I can hear it between us. He’s so deep inside me, I know when he pulls out, I’ll feel him for days. Slowly, I pick up the rhythm. He lets one hip go and puts his fingers between our bodies. His touch finds my clit and circles it.

Oh God, I’m going to come .

It hits me so fast, I can’t do anything but gasp. He presses his thumb against my clit, triumphant. I’m flushed, pleasure pumping through me in slow strokes. There’s something so good about coming with him inside my pussy. It scratches an itch deep inside and it goes for so much longer.

I glance away, overwhelmed.

“You look me in the eyes when you’re on my cock,” he says.

He’s demanding, but his voice is so low and rough, it doesn’t intimidate me. Burning up, I shake, defeated, on top of him. It moves through me in waves, far more intense than what I felt last night. Finally, it ebbs, and I’m limp, barely able to sit up.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “That’s my girl.”

I’m not his anything, but there’s no time to protest, because he pulls me off him and flips me back into the position he fucked me in last night: on my knees, ass up, with my cheek against the bed. With one inked hand, he grips the headboard. With the other, he holds my hips and pushes back inside.

“God, that’s a tight little pussy,” he groans.

He’s so filthy. It’s a good thing I can bury my burning face in the bed. Bracing me in his grip, he ruts hard, like he did last night. His pierced cock hits up against my cervix, making my toes curl. It turns out, I like a little pain.

I’m dripping down my thigh.

He speeds up, panting, and I feel like I’m going to shatter for a second. Then, he pushes in and shudders. It goes on longer than last night, like it’s better. His body goes still as he thrusts one last time and pulls out.

I stay where I am. I can feel his eyes on my sex.

He clears his throat. “Do you need a morning after pill?”

Taken aback, I slip onto my belly and roll to my side to face him. He’s got sweat etching down his neck. There’s creamy arousal and cum smeared on his cock. I can’t tell if it disgusts or turns me on. All I know is I did that, I met this man yesterday, and now he’s covered with what we did together.

Now, there could be consequences .

Mentally, I start calculating my cycle with my heart pounding in my ears like a drum. I’m four days out from my period. I ovulated two weeks ago, so there shouldn’t be much of a chance of me getting pregnant.

I glance up, suddenly aware that I’m naked and I barely know this man. His eyes are alert, watching me. I tug the flannel sheet up over my breasts, holding it there.

“I’m due for my period in a few days,” I whisper.

He shakes his head, like he doesn’t understand.

“I track my cycle. I’m not fertile,” I say. “But I’ll take it if you want me to.”

It’s not foolproof, but I’ve been tracking my cycle carefully for the last couple of years. I’ve never had the money or access to the pill, so it was my only option.

He shakes his head, almost like he’s relieved.

“No,” he says. “I believe you.”

There’s an awkward silence. In the light of day, I don’t know what to do with myself. The northern lights are gone. The sun is up, and last night feels like a distant memory.

And he’s looking at me like I mean something to him.

“I’ll get breakfast going,” he says in that rough voice that makes my toes curl. “Clean you up first.”

Breakfast? He wants to fuck me like that, ask me about my period, and then feed me breakfast. My stomach swoops. Why is he acting like this is something more than a night where he gets to use me, no strings attached?

“It’s Sunday,” I whisper. “Church day.”

He goes into the bathroom. I hear the water running, and he returns with a wet washcloth. “The storm is back. I’ll drive you wherever you want to go after it breaks. Church can wait.”

I glance over and find he’s right. There’s gray rain whipping over the hills. Warmth slips between my legs, jerking my attention back. He wipes me off, uses the same rag to clean himself, and tosses it into the laundry basket. Blushing, I look away as he pulls on a pair of sweats .

He has a powerful, raw sexuality. It doesn’t turn off. It’s not intentional. It’s just there, potent in every move he makes.

He goes to the dresser, rummaging in the top drawer and coming back with a flannel. I can smell his scent on it as I pull it shyly over my body. Getting dressed in front of each other feels more intimate than what we did last night.

He leads me downstairs, hand engulfing mine. In the kitchen, the rain thunders against the windows. There’s bacon crackling and grits bubbling on the stove. He sets a cup of coffee before me. I wrap my hands around the warm mug and lean back in my chair to watch him cook.

My eyes linger on his shoulders. He wears a charcoal gray Henley, a clean one today. It fits his body well, hugging his shoulders and biceps. The collar is a little frayed, the top button open. The tattoos go up his neck to his jaw. His hair is buzzed short, but it’s thick enough to cover most of the ink that extends under it.

He’s trouble. I know his type. He’s got those dark puppy eyes that’ll have me forgiving him for everything he does—bar fights, rap sheets, and everything in between. I thought I’d learned my lesson about men like him. And Lord, do I know better than letting him do what he did last night.

At least, I thought I knew better.

“Coffee alright?”

I offer a small smile. “It’s good. Thank you,” I say.

He gives me a look that reminds me of all the filthy things he said to me in his bedroom. It’s followed by a slow drag of his eyes, a little flick at the end so he can look at my breasts. He’s not trying to be subtle.

“I want to ask you something,” he says, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter.

“Okay,” I say, guard rising.

“When I went to clean up last night, there was blood on my dick,” he says.

I stare, mortified beyond words.

“I’m not a virgin,” I whisper .

His brow creases. There’s a faint tattoo, barely visible on his upper cheekbone. I didn’t notice it until now.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Maybe a little, but not enough to worry about.” I shrug, squirming. “The other man…he was…wasn’t you.”

A muscle ripples in his jaw. Those eyes are like coal, black and simmering hot. “Did he hurt you?”

I don’t want to get into my one and only sexual experience before I’ve even had breakfast. It was disappointing enough when it happened. I don’t need to recount it in front of this six-five slab of muscle who’s far more sexually experienced.

“He wasn’t small. It just wasn’t an extra limb,” I say curtly.

The corner of his mouth twitches but not in a smile. It takes me a second of staring at his hard face to realize what’s going on.

My stomach flutters—all full of butterflies again.

He’s jealous .

That’s almost…flattering. If only he knew the underwhelming circumstances of losing my virginity. But he doesn’t push it, and I’m grateful. He puts two plates down, and we eat in silence. Finally, he leans back, his knees spread.

“I’m gonna ask you another question, sweetheart,” he says.

There’s a serious note to his voice. I nod, bracing myself.

“You go to church and shit,” he says slowly. “But...last night, that was a little more than I was expecting from you.”

I blink, not speaking.

“I’ve never been religious, but I thought there were some rules about fucking,” he says.

It’s a reasonable question. I think hard.

“I’m not really that kind of religious,” I say finally. “I’m just doing my best. I’ve always figured, if God made me, he knows me better than anybody and gets why I do what I do. You know, as long as I’m not hurting anybody.”

For a second, I expect him to laugh. Instead, Deacon nods thoughtfully. “Makes sense to me. ”

“I started going to church to get away from the house,” I said. “Aiden thought it was a waste of time, but Bittern stepped in. I went on my own. I could cut through the woods and get there pretty easily, be back home to make lunch.”

He looks at me like he wants to say something. A muscle in his jaw flickers. Then, he reaches out and puts his hand on my knee under the table. With the other hand, he drains his coffee and sets the mug aside.

I stare down at my lap. I’ve never been touched like this—casual intimacy. My heart thuds, speeding up. Maybe this is all too fast.

“I think I’d better go home,” I say.

He leans back and flicks open the curtain. “It’s letting up.”

I go to get my things before he changes his mind. It’s clear he doesn’t want me to go, but I’m risking making Aiden angry if I’m not there to make Sunday dinner. I put my dry clothes on, although I can’t find my panties, and get my boots in the hall.

When I step onto the porch, Deacon is by his enormous truck with wheels higher than my waist. There are boards poking out of the bed, a bandana tied around one. He has a rack on the roof with a tire and some random tools strapped to it.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he says.

My stomach swoops. I go, and he lifts me up and deposits me inside, waiting for me to scramble to the passenger side before he swings in. He turns the key and leans back, glancing over his shoulder as he guides the truck around and heads toward the road.

My heart thumps in the back of my throat. I slept with this man. I just went home with him because he asked. I let him take my clothes off and fuck me like it wasn’t anything at all.

I don’t know why I did that, the same way I just caved with Braxton. Maybe because, deep inside, I was hoping I’d find something different. It terrifies me that, last night, I did.

I glance sideways. He reaches out and lays his hand on my knee, like I’m somebody that means something to him. His eyes are still on the road. He just holds me and drives, knees spread and body relaxed in the seat .

I clear my throat.

“Can I ask you something too?” I say.

The corner of his mouth jerks up.

“I like that little drawl you’ve got there,” he says. “And yeah, go ahead.”

Heat creeps over my cheeks, but I stay the course.

“How old are you?” I force out.

His jaw works. “Probably a little too old to be fucking you, sweetheart.”

My mind fills with images of last night—up close, glaring snippets of sweat, gasps, the sound he made when he came.

I clear my throat. “That didn’t stop you, sir.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, and I glance over just in time to see him adjust himself.

“I just turned forty,” he says.

Oh.

All the tattoos and scars make more sense now. He’s lived my lifetime almost twice over. This isn’t his first rodeo. I should’ve guessed that from last night.

I swallow past my dry throat. My eyes swing around and fix out the window. He tightens his grip on my thigh.

“That scare you, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice a soft rumble.

“Do you usually go after women like me?” I burst out.

There’s a long silence.

“No,” he says finally. “You’re the first woman I’ve slept with who wasn’t my own age. I usually go for…more experience.”

Maybe I should be offended that he’s calling me inexperienced, but I’m just relieved he’s not going after me because he thinks I’m young enough to be manipulated.

I clear my throat again, wishing I’d had more than coffee to drink this morning. We keep going until we’re around the other side of the property, at the end of the long driveway that leads to Aiden’s house. It’s newly hewn and the gravel is still fresh gray .

Deacon parks but leaves the engine running. He leans over, one hand on the back of my neck, and kisses me deeply. He tastes like coffee and…Deacon Ryder.

When we break apart, his eyes are heavy.

“I won’t tell anybody,” he says, his voice all low and husky.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

His dark eyes are captivating. I look up and fall over the edge. He kisses me one more time but doesn’t pull back right away.

“Open,” he breathes against my lips.

I part them. His tongue flicks out, touching past my teeth and grazing my tongue. My nipples prickle against my bra. Boldly, I slide my hand over the thigh of his worn work pants to his groin. He’s hard underneath, pushing against the zipper.

His breath catches. I pull back.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, head dipping.

The way he says that word, low and raspy in his chest, turns me on more than anything else.

“I got something.” He leans across the seat to the glove box. I watch as he takes out a flat box and puts it in my lap. It's about the size of my hand.

“Found that early this morning,” he says. “For your collection.”

My heart starts pattering. I can’t bite back my smile as I lift the lid and gasp. It’s a fully intact Polyphemus Moth, the brown shades almost luminescent. The two eyes on its spread wings are brilliant.

“Found it by the barn,” he says. “I guess the cold got it. ”

“Thank you,” I say breathlessly.

He leans in and kisses me again. I climb out, giving him one last look, and start up the drive. He sits there in his truck until I’m out of sight. Then, I hear the engine fade away.

My feet are heavy as I climb up the front porch. It looks like Ryland’s truck is in the driveway, but Bittern’s is gone. I don’t mind Bittern. He’s not too mean to me, but Ryland is just awful some days.

I lean back and scan the gravel, looking for Aiden’s truck, but it’s nowhere to be seen. Inside, I creep upstairs and offload my bag and boots and get changed. While I’m upstairs, I put the moth in my display case. It’s so beautiful, and it makes me smile. Deacon saw that moth and he thought of me.

I go downstairs and tie an apron over my dress. Yesterday, I put a chicken into the fridge to thaw, and it’s ready to go into the oven. I take it out and start cleaning it in the sink.

The back door slams open. Ryland appears, cigarette in his lip.

I look up. “Hey,” I say nervously.

He jerks his head. “Where were you?”

“I got caught in the storm,” I say. “I stayed at Tracy’s house.”

His eyes narrow, like he’s trying to figure out what I did that’s got him pissed. But there’s nothing wrong with me staying with my boss to keep out of the storm.

“What’s for dinner?” he asks, opening the fridge.

“Chicken,” I say. “Greens and potatoes.”

He shuts the fridge. “What time?”

“Same time as usual,” I say.

I don’t say it mean. I say it nice and soft, the way I taught myself to speak to my brothers. But he gives me a dark glare and shoves open the kitchen window so he can have a cigarette. It irks me to no end that he smokes inside. Aiden built this nice house, and they don’t care for it the way they should.

Deacon would never smoke inside.

“There’s a couple guys from over the hill coming for dinner,” he says. “And a man from the city government.”

I glance at the chicken. “I don’t know if I have enough.”

He looks coolly over my shoulder. “Well, if you’d been here last night, you’d have known about it. Better go come up with something else.”

I hear the rumble of Aiden’s truck coming up the drive. Ryland shuts the window and takes a beer out of the fridge. He pops the cap in a sharp movement on the edge of the counter and leaves.

I get up and throw the cap in the trash. There’s a little mark on the countertop where they use it as a bottle opener. It irks me to no end .

Through the window, I see Aiden and Ryland standing at the bottom of the steps. Aiden waves his arm, and Ryland sits on the open tailgate of his truck. They both laugh. Then, Aiden moves up the steps and the door opens. I dip my head and start picking the remaining feathers from the chicken. Bittern culled it for me; he doesn’t do a very good job at the plucking part.

Boots sound. I feel my stepfather glance at me before he opens the fridge.

Pop.

Hiss.

He’s got a beer out. I look up, and he’s leaning against the counter, one arm crossed over his chest. Why is he staring at me?

“You stayed at Tracy’s, huh?” he says.

I nod. “Yes, sir, I did.”

He lifts the beer to his mouth. He’s acting like he’s not trying to pinpoint what I did wrong. Finally, he shrugs and pushes off the counter.

“We’ve got some men from town for dinner,” he says. “Make sure there’s enough for everybody.”

He goes upstairs. My stomach is a cold knot.

In the daylight, I can’t deny a horrible fact. He and Deacon are the same type, tatted up and rough-hewn. Aiden is only eight years his senior. They even walk the same, all big and casual, like they own the world.

Disturbed, I start cutting the chicken into pieces. There’s one thing I know, and that’s how to turn a little food into a lot. I pour oil and batter the chicken twice and fry it. The bag of potatoes under the sink are boiled and whipped with heavy cream.

By the time I see two trucks coming up the drive, there’s enough food to feed a dozen men. I pile it on the table as Aiden comes downstairs. He’s showered, his hair still wet, and he’s got a good shirt on.

These men must be important.

I take off my apron and head to the hall, intending to make myself scarce. He clears his throat, and I freeze .

“You stay for dinner,” he says.

“I don’t want to get in the way,” I whisper.

He points two fingers at me and then at the table. “You’ll sit and be quiet for the meal. No backtalk.”

I nod, throat tight. “Can I get cleaned up first?”

He jerks his head at the stairs. “Hurry up.”

Eyes down, I go upstairs and get in the shower. I used the little money I have to make mine pretty. The bathroom has two soft towels and a scented soap bar, but it’s not anywhere near as big and fine as Deacon’s house or the bathroom adjoining his bedroom with a tub so big, I could have sunk to my chin in warm water.

I scrub up and put on a dress. My hair is braided and wrapped in a knot at the nape of my neck. I’m trying to look modest because I don’t know these men and I don’t want them looking at me like vultures.

Downstairs, there are three new men in the dining room. Two are young, maybe early thirties, and the last is older, streaks of gray in his hair.

They’re at the table, talking. Their voices are loud, punctuated by laughter. I go to the kitchen and start bringing out the food. One young man, with brown hair that just reaches his shoulders, looks me up and down as I set the platter of chicken down.

“Who’s this?” he drawls.

Aiden glances up. “My stepdaughter, Freya.”

The man holds out his hand. Confused, I shake it. “Kasey McClaine. Pleasure to meet you, sweetheart.”

I don’t like that he’s using the same word Deacon used. It makes my eye twitch.

“Pleasure,” I say, voice cracking.

Kasey points to my other side. The other man, who looks pretty similar sits there, watching us. His hair is buzzed, and he has a tattoo of a skull on his forearm with a big scar through it.

“That’s my brother, Elijah,” he says.

Elijah leans over and shakes my hand too. I’m not sure why I’m getting so much attention, but it’s making me uncomfortable .

“Pleasure to meet you,” I say politely, knowing one wrong move could upset Aiden. “Let me just go get the food, and y’all can get to eating.”

Kasey gives me a smile that feels patronizing. Skin crawling, I go to the kitchen and bring back the mashed potatoes, broccoli greens, and bread I whipped up last minute.

Then, I awkwardly take the last seat beside Aiden, and everybody fills their plates.

I don’t know why I’m here, but it’s like being put on display. I’m painfully aware that it’s impossible to hide my curves in this dress. I wonder if Aiden is using me somehow. My cheeks are hot the entire dinner. Kasey keeps looking at me like he’s got every right to stare.

I keep my mouth shut and play dumb. The men eat, and I listen to them, piecing together what they’re doing.

The McClaines own the land above Ryder Ranch. Their property and my stepfather’s new land are separated only by the furthermost corner. I’m unsure what a lot of the words they use mean, but it sounds a bit like they’re making a deal with a builder or a company for the land on the other side of Ryder Ranch.

I wonder if Deacon knows. It doesn’t sound like something he’d like.

They wind down. Silently, I make the empty plates disappear and bring out drinks. Aiden has cigarillos in a wooden box; I set those on the table, even though I hate the smell. Pretty soon, the dining room is hazy and the conversation is loud. I clean the kitchen, relieved Aiden isn’t making me stay.

Around ten, the men get up. I’m still wiping the countertops as they go down the hall. My neck prickles, and I turn. Kasey walks in, giving me that look that says he’s hungry, but not for what I just made.

He opens his mouth to speak. Mentally, I cringe back. Out of nowhere, Aiden appears at his elbow. He’s boozed up but cognizant. A vein pumps in his flushed neck.

“Goodnight,” he says firmly .

Kasey veers off, touching his hat, and disappears. Aiden’s pale stare swings and fixes on me.

“And you can go on to bed,” he says.

I nod, setting the rag aside and wiping my hands on my skirt. His lip curls.

“You’re just like her,” he says hoarsely. “Just sitting there, eating all that attention up. Makes me sick.”

Here it comes. I drop my head, picking my thumbnail. I’m raw from being on edge all night. A tear is already sliding down my cheek and hanging on my chin. I can’t look up, or he’ll see it.

He clears his throat. “Just go to bed.”

Relieved, I duck past him and run up the stairs. I got off easy tonight. I didn’t have to sit there while he called me a whore like my mother—the whole damn speech. Pushing the lock down, I sag against the door.

I made it through another day.

After I’m in my nightgown and on my side, staring at the moon, it starts to fall into place.

The realization that Deacon is the same type as the rest of them is disturbing. After Braxton, I told myself never again. I swore I wouldn’t end up with a man like that…a man like Aiden, who burned through his wives like they were nothing.

He ruined them both. Lady Hatfield was Aiden’s first wife by common law, his high school sweetheart he got pregnant before she was fifteen. My mother, Laurel Rose, was his next victim, pulled into his life after Lady fled. She was young too, on the run from her father with a toddler in tow. I’m sure it was easy to manipulate her into thinking Aiden was a safe place to land.

Those two women are strangers to me, despite me living in their shadow, but I know their pain, know what they went through. Bittern told me a lot of it.

And yet…I think maybe Deacon is different underneath.

My eyes are tired. I’m ready to fall asleep, but they snap open when I realize there was a lump in Deacon’s pocket on the drive home. I remember glancing down when he was adjusting himself and seeing it.

That son of a gun took my panties.