Page 7

SUTTON

I move up the stairs, trying not to rush, but needing to put as much space between Deacon and I as possible. Once inside my room, I close the bedroom door behind me with a soft click, the sound far too loud in the hush of the house.

My pulse still pounds from the tension and that kiss—God, that kiss.

My lips feel swollen, like they’re still shaped around his name, and my skin buzzes with a charge that refuses to fade.

A low thrum pulses in my core, insistent and maddening, like my body hasn’t gotten the memo that the kiss is over.

I cross the room in a daze, heading for the en suite bathroom like it’s the only destination left in a world that’s suddenly tilted sideways.

Once inside, I shut the bathroom door and lean against it, heart still jackhammering. My palms are damp against the wood, my skin too tight for my body, like everything inside me is vibrating with leftover heat and confusion. Not from fear. Not even from adrenaline. But from that kiss.

That blistering, brain-scrambling, what-the-hell-was-that kiss. My lips still tingle like he branded me, and my skin hums with the aftershocks—like St. Elmo's fire crackling along the masts of a ship—the heat sinking into my bones. It’s not just muscle memory. It’s sensory possession.

My pulse kicks every time I breathe, and the echo of his mouth still thrums in places he never even touched.

My body feels like it’s vibrating on a sub-frequency only he tuned into—raw, hypersensitive, every nerve ending singing.

My skin prickles like it’s been stripped bare under moonlight, flushed and aching.

What's worse is I want more. I want the dangerous promise in his eyes, the ferocity in his grip, the way he made the world fall silent around us. It’s a craving I can’t rationalize, and that terrifies me more than the kiss itself.

Jesus.

I shove off the door and strip, flinging my clothes into the hamper like they’re to blame for my loss of self-control. The mirror mocks me—cheeks flushed, pupils dilated, mouth and nipples swollen. I look like a woman freshly ruined. Except I’m not. Not yet.

I step into the shower and crank the water hot, steam curling around me as I brace my palms against the tile.

“Damn him,” I whisper.

It should’ve felt like a power play. It should’ve pissed me off. But instead, it felt... elemental. Like he’d peeled something open in me I didn’t know was sealed shut. And now it’s open, gaping, pulsing with heat and want and worse—need.

I slide a hand down my stomach, skin slick with heat and need, fingers drifting lower with a breathless kind of urgency.

My thighs part, not with hesitation but with aching, insistent want.

I think of his hands—bigger, rougher, and sure in ways that promise ruin—and it’s like my body answers to his touch even in its absence.

One kiss and I’m undone? No. I’m scorched, unspooling under my own fingers with nothing but his name clawing at the back of my throat.

I don’t do this—I don’t lose control like this.

But Deacon’s changed the rules, and I’m not sure I recognize myself in the heat and hunger left behind.

That scares me more than anything else. I shouldn't give in, but my body doesn't care. It’s not logic that drives me now, it’s hunger—dark, slick, and devastating.

And in the silence of the steam and shadows, I let it take me.

I touch myself with practiced ease, but it’s not my hand I’m imagining.

It’s Deacon’s. Rough. Sure. Demanding. It’s messed up—I know that—but there’s a thrill twined so tightly together with a certain amount of shame that I can’t pull them apart.

I want him. I hate that I do. But wanting has never felt this sharp before—like I’m balanced on the edge of a knife, skin prickling with danger and desire.

My breath catches as I press deeper, circling, coaxing, every nerve ending wired to that kiss.

To the way he tasted. To the way his body pinned mine.

To the sound of that low growl in his throat.

It builds fast. Too fast. My back bows off the wall, every muscle tight as a drawn wire.

The orgasm hits like a live current—white-hot, electric, a violent flood of sensation that steals the breath from my lungs.

I bite down on a gasp, teeth clenched hard to muffle the sound, as my body bucks in release, wave after blinding wave crashing through me.

My knees give out and I slide down the tile, forehead pressed against the slick, cool ceramic, breath tearing from me in broken, helpless pants.

“Shit.”

I flip the tap to cold and let the water slam against my skin like ice daggers.

It strips away the heat, the haze, the trembling aftermath still coiled low in my belly.

I gasp, back arching from the shock, goosebumps erupting along every inch of me.

Not punishment. Just control. A brutal, sobering jolt that reminds me who I am and what I won’t let him take—not unless I choose to give it.

By the time I dry off, wrap my hair in a towel, and pull on a sleep-soft tank top and shorts, I feel more like myself. Less molten, less undone. My skin still hums faintly from the cold water and everything that came before it, but the shiver has moved inward—quieter now, manageable.

I pad barefoot across the warm wood floor back into my bedroom, the towel tugging at my damp hair as I go.

The scent of lavender from the body wash clings to me like a secret, and for a second, the stillness of the room feels almost sacred.

I sit down slowly on the edge of the bed, the sheets cool against my thighs.

The part of myself that isn’t a puddle of hormones and poor judgment gathers strength in that silence, breathing through the chaos, reclaiming ground one heartbeat at a time.

I grab my phone and stare at it for a moment, thumb hovering over Dad’s contact.

I don’t want to worry him—not if he hasn’t already heard about Sookie's death and my involvement. But knowing my father, if word hasn’t reached him yet, it will by morning.

Probably through one of his connections or because he checks the local reports before most people have had their coffee.

Still, I hesitate. It’s late. He’ll worry.

And if he doesn’t already know, calling might light a fire I can’t put out.

It’s funny how my dad always seems to know more than he lets on.

Word always reaches him even if it isn’t from me or through official channels.

I hate the thought of waking him, of letting the worry take hold too soon—but I hate the idea of him hearing it from someone else even more.

I settle on the edge of the bed and dial. It rings twice before Dad answers.

"Sutton, sweetheart. Everything okay?"

His voice always makes me feel steadier.

It's been just the two of us for as long as I can remember—Mom died young, before I even started school, and Dad raised me on a mix of dry humor, cold cases, tough love, and gentle resilience.

He's not just my father. He's my constant, my anchor, the voice that pulls me back from the edge when the world tilts too far.

"Define okay. Someone broke into my house tonight. I’m fine, just… rattled."

"Jesus, baby girl. Are you safe now?"

"Yeah. There’s a Texas Ranger here—Deacon Winslow. Says he’s in charge of whatever this is."

There’s a pause. Then a low exhale. "Deacon Winslow is the real deal. He and his team are known for closing ranks and keeping people alive. If he’s there, you listen to him. Understand?"

"He’s also bossy, arrogant, and kissed me like he plans to own me. Which would be easier to scoff at if I hadn’t liked it a little too much—and if part of me didn’t already want to see what else he thinks he owns."

Silence.

"He what?"

I scrub a hand over my face, regretting the slip.

"Never mind. It’s complicated." I don’t usually share this kind of thing, not even with Dad.

But the words had just slipped out—proof of how much Deacon’s gotten under my skin.

The fact that I said anything at all tells me exactly how off-balance I really am.

"Complicated or not, if Deacon Winslow says you’re in danger, you take him seriously. Maybe it would be better if you came home, Sutton. You can stay here until they get this sorted."

I glance around the bedroom—the mismatched lamps, the hand-thrown pottery vase filled with dried pussy willows and cattails, the quilt I found with Sookie on one of our antique binges.

"This is my home, Dad. I’m not leaving it."

Another pause. Then, more quietly, "Then promise me you’ll let that man do his job."

I sigh. "Fine. I promise."

We hang up, and I stare at the phone a beat longer than necessary, thumb brushing the edge like it might vibrate again with his voice.

Then I set it down on the nightstand and exhale.

My body still hums faintly—not just from the break in, but from the kiss and everything else.

The storm inside me hasn’t settled; it’s just changed shape.

That’s when the knock comes. Sharp. Steady.

A command wrapped in courtesy. The sound punches through the quiet, raising the hairs on my arms. It’s not loud, but it carries weight—a warning and a promise in one.

My breath catches, the echo of the cold shower gone in an instant.

Heat flashes through me like muscle memory. Deacon.

I jump a little, heart kicking like it forgot how to idle.

"What now?" I mutter, padding across the room.

I open the door a crack, and there he is—Deacon, filling the frame like he owns it. Arms folded, shirt untucked, jaw carved in tension. He shouldn’t look this good. Not at this hour. Not after the chaos and heat he stirred up inside me.

But my traitorous body doesn’t care. Heat pools low in my belly again, sharp, and insistent, and my breath hitches before I can stop it.

The scent of leather and warm skin drifts in, and my knees actually go a little weak.

I grip the edge of the door harder to ground myself.

He looks like every bad decision I’ve ever fantasized about—grit, control, and slow-burning danger—all wrapped up in one maddeningly composed man.

My breath catches, shallow and sharp, and my hand tightens instinctively on the doorknob, knuckles white with the effort not to let him see how easily he unravels me.

"The door stays open."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"It stays open so I can hear if anything happens."

"I’m not twelve."

"And yet I found you last night ignoring every safety protocol known to man. Humor me."

I consider slamming the door in his face. Instead, I leave it open and stalk back to the bed.

"Night, Ranger."

I climb into bed, cross-legged, and grab my laptop.

The sheets are cool against my skin, a soft contrast to the simmering tension I still feel low in my belly.

Work is safe. Work is order. Numbers make sense.

They don’t smirk when they win an argument or smell like danger and sin.

They don’t awaken something primal inside me or threaten to unravel years of carefully built composure.

Unlike Deacon, who walks through my life like a spark in a powder keg, work is a world I can master, control, and close with a keystroke.

It doesn’t kiss you breathless or stalk through your home with lethal grace.

Unlike Deacon Winslow—who’s all molten eyes, iron control, and maddening demands that somehow still sound like promises.

I shove the thought of him aside and open a spreadsheet, willing the formulas to pull me back to a world I understand.

I pull up spreadsheets and bury myself in them.

The tidy rows and logical formulas offer something I haven’t had all day—control.

While Deacon prowls the edges of my sanity, unpredictable and all heat and instinct, this is my world.

Here, there are rules. Equations balance.

Money trails don’t lie. Unlike men. It’s late, but the glow of formulas and account flows keeps me grounded.

My fingers fly, inputting data, adjusting equations. I almost forget the kiss. Almost.

Deacon checks on me twice. The first time, he knocks gently before stepping in, holding out a glass of water like it’s an excuse instead of a gesture.

His eyes linger a second too long on my bare legs tucked beneath me, but he says nothing, just nods and leaves.

The second time, there’s no pretense. He appears in the doorway like a shadow taking shape, watching me from under hooded eyes, the kind that strip you down to secrets and skin.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just stands there, quiet and coiled, before disappearing again like he was never there at all.

I don’t ask what he’s looking for. I already know.

And the worst part?

I want him to find it. Control. Surrender. Maybe both. I want to know what happens when I stop pretending I don’t feel this fire between us and let it burn.