Chapter Eight
In a dark, secluded booth at the back of the club, Deacon wrapped his hand around a glass of water and drank like his life suddenly depended on it. In some ways, it felt like it did.
Across from him, Hannah mimicked the gesture, pursing her plump red lips around the straw as she stared a hole into the tabletop, and Deacon cursed as he had to adjust himself again in his jeans. Even watching her drink water was sexy now. He was so damn screwed.
The seething anger from seeing that jerk manhandle her had faded to a low boil, but in its wake had swelled an emotion that was more complicated to deal with and a hell of a lot more tempting.
Peaches. She’d smelled like peaches.
The new scent was seriously messing with his head. Normally, Hannah smelled like her freesia body wash, which somehow smelled like candy and flowers rolled together. It was soft, sweet, and feminine, just like her, and it’d gotten to the point where he couldn’t walk through the floral department or even the candy aisle at a grocery store and not think about her. Now he’d never look at fruit the same way, either.
Ever since he’d inhaled the tropical scent on her breath, assumedly from the pink cocktail she’d been devouring, Deacon couldn’t help wondering if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.
It was that kind of thinking that kept knocking him for a loop. Hannah’s blue-green eyes flicked to his, her damn full lips still wrapped around that straw, and it hit him like a physical blow. Ever since she’d walked out in that dress tonight, he’d been reliving their “almost kiss.” Berating himself for letting the moment go on for as long as it had….and questioning his own sanity. He knew damn well what it was like to lose Hannah and how miserable he’d been when she lived in Paris. Did he really think this could possibly end any differently? That she wouldn’t run the second things fizzled and got weird?
No. Allowing his imagination free reign was one thing; giving in…
An abrupt thud jerked Deacon’s attention back to the club. Across the booth, Hannah shoved aside her discarded glass and leaned against the table.
“Anyone ever told you your ears are the perfect shape for your face?”
He started to say thank you…then, “My ears?”
“Yep.” She looked at him from beneath dark eyelashes, and a slow smile curved her lips. “I love a man who gives good ear.”
Deacon choked on his spit. The line—if that was what that was—didn’t even make any sense. But when delivered with the liquid desire swirling in her eyes, he more than got the point.
Okay…so maybe he wasn’t the only one having inappropriate thoughts lately. But that was explainable. Normal, even. They’d recently been separated for the longest time since they’d known each other, and they were struggling with where they fit now. Plus, they were both young and hot-blooded, living in close quarters, and they trusted each other. It was expected that boundaries would blur. It had happened with Miles and Lindsay, too, only they messed up and gave in, and it ruined their friendship.
The difference here was that he and Hannah wouldn’t be the only ones hurt in the fallout. Max would be devastated, too. His actions had already cost his son one mother in his life, and he was only just beginning to grasp what it meant to have a single parent. Deacon couldn’t let him lose Hannah, too.
With that thought, he grabbed his glass. He took another large gulp—as if strength was somehow infused in the water—and watched a determined look settle over Hannah’s face before she started a deliberate scoot around the long, curved booth for eight.
Sweat dotted his upper lip. He liked to think he was a strong man and could withstand just about anything; his past sure as hell tested that theory more than was necessary. But the past few weeks had weakened him, and if Hannah actually pressed that body against him and came onto him? He’d need the libido of a monk to say no.
Blood rushed from Deacon’s brain, and his favorite body part stood at attention. Shiiiiiit.
As Hannah neared, the thought crossed his mind that he was getting his due. This was the universe’s way of punishing him for his past sins. After all, when he’d left Tyler and Charlie at the bus, hadn’t he let them think this was exactly what would happen? At the time, it’d seemed easier to go along, since it helped get him off the bus faster, which stopped Hannah from meeting someone else and replacing him. Another reason he was being punished.
With each slow slide of Hannah’s hips, Deacon’s mind raced. She was drunk, or at the very least, severely buzzed, which meant she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. It was on him, as the sober person at the table, to keep their friendship intact.
Grabbing hold of the bench cushion, he inhaled deeply through his nose, needing a dose of clarity. What he got instead was peach and freesia. Hannah erased the scant inch left between them, scooting until her thigh fit tightly against his, and a jolt of energy passed through his body.
As Deacon closed his eyes, he imagined two mystical creatures perched on either shoulder. One good, one bad, fighting it out for the upper hand. He hoped the good one proved stronger than him.
“Deke,” Hannah whispered, and the warmth of her breath hit his neck, giving him chills. The devil on his left cackled with glee. “I want to know what it’s like.”
Swallowing hard, he shook his head. He shouldn’t ask. He. Should not. Ask.
“What what’s like?” he asked.
A breathy moan hit his ear next, and the sound shook the hackles of his restraint. “What it’s like to feel your scruff on my…” When her voice trailed off, Deacon’s eyes flew open at the possibilities. She inhaled audibly and finally whispered, “My everywhere.”
“Holy hell.”
Deacon searched his mind for a basketball player, any basketball player, and came up empty. The angel on his shoulder had nothing, either. A lot of help you are.
Hannah grinned, clearly pleased with herself, and leaned in closer. Of course, having already been firmly pressed against his side, closer meant crushing her barely covered breasts against his arm.
At the feel of those soft curves on his bare skin, Deacon’s eyelids grew heavy. Three weeks of fighting had left his control hanging by a thread. Hannah licked her lips and skated the fingertips of her left hand down his chest and over the ripples of his stomach.
The devil on his shoulder kicked the angel to the curb.
As Hannah trapped her bottom lip between her teeth, Deacon’s mouth began an unconscious descent toward hers. Her hand drifted lowered still…
And grabbed a sizeable fistful of his crotch.
Deacon’s ass shot straight off the seat. “What the—?”
His hips collided with the table, toppling their glasses. Ice and cold water sloshed over the sides and cascaded over the surface, rushing toward their laps, and Deacon grabbed his jacket as they bolted out of the booth, Hannah stumbling on her heels behind him.
Her eyes were like giant saucers in her face while her chest heaved beneath the straining fabric of her dress. “Crap! That wasn’t your upper thigh!”
Deacon’s eyebrows hit his hairline. It was tempting…so very tempting…to ask what she’d planned on doing with his upper thigh, but he bit his tongue. He didn’t trust himself not to act, not with the imprint of her hand still burning in his lap.
Jaw clenched, he flagged down a waitress. After explaining about the mess, he placed a firm hand on the small of Hannah’s back and started steering her toward the exit. Fresh air. That was what they both needed to restore a little sanity.
He threw open the door and dragged in heaving breaths of crisp, cool night air. He watched Hannah do the same as he led her around the side of the building and down the street.
Neither of them said a word, but then, they never did in cases like this. Whenever things got heavy—whether it was bullying classmates, unexpected pregnancies, or sudden single parenthood—they always took a step back and let whatever was rocking their worlds sink in before jumping into the deep end.
That was fine and good and all, but in this case, things weren’t just heavy. They’d nearly been catastrophic.
At the intersection that’d either lead them back to the arena or further into the city, they came to a stop. Hannah wrapped her arms across her chest, her slim shoulders shaking with a shiver, and Deacon opened his jacket, draping it around her slim shoulders. He stepped back again, out of reach, and she smiled at the ground.
“Thanks.” She burrowed into the leather and raised her head slightly, staring at his throat. “Uh…did you want to order an Uber?”
Right. They were stranded and still had to get back to the bus. Deacon shoved his hand into his pocket, hating the awkward distance between them, but not knowing how to overcome it, either. He palmed his phone, ready to pull up the app…but then, an alternative plan came to mind.
They both knew what would happen if he called for a driver. They’d sit in silence during the ride, go back to their roosts alone, and the weirdness between them would fester.
Screw that. They’d wasted too much time when she’d lived in Paris. Entire days had gone by where they’d had no contact other than a texted hello. He wasn’t living like that again. Hannah was back and he planned on making himself a fixture in her life for as long as she’d have him. That meant either getting over this awkwardness now or confronting it, head on.
Deacon withdrew his hand, sans phone, and said, “You know, the arena’s only four blocks away.”
This time, Hannah stared at his chin. “Oh, did you want to walk?”
It was late, cold, and not exactly a familiar neighborhood. It’d make a hell of a lot more sense to call a car. But since when did anything in his life make sense?
He shrugged. “I could use the exercise.”
Truth? Performing every night was killer cardio, as were his morning runs around the arenas. But walking meant talking. It meant dealing with the issue rather than sweeping it under the rug, and the sooner that happened, the quicker they could get back to normal. Maybe even forget it altogether.
Hannah grabbed hold of the ends of his jacket, her small white teeth sinking into her bottom lip. She knew what walking meant, too, and as a twinge of pink hit her ivory cheeks, her foot slid back and forth along the loose gravel. What he wouldn’t have given to know what she was thinking.
Finally, a slow smile formed on her lips. “Exercise sounds good.”
When she raised her eyes to meet his, her usual sea-green shade had darkened to jade. Just like inside, the connection hit Deacon square in the gut.
Every need, every desire roared back again, this time heightened with a jagged edge of delayed anticipation. Somewhere, a demon was laughing his ass off.
Hannah’s smile spread, as if she knew how hard his heart was pounding, and a pulse of heat passed between them. As much as he wanted to, Deacon couldn’t look away. She licked her lips, a slide of pink tongue that he felt in his groin, and he bit off a curse. Music from a nearby club swelled and waned, matching the slow-burning throb in his blood.
One heartbeat they were a foot away from each other. The next, he reached out and yanked her to him. Hannah gasped, and the breathy sound took root low in his stomach. He wanted to hear it again.
Silver moonlight fell over her hair, caressing her shoulders, and Deacon told himself it’d just be a taste. One small kiss to take the edge off. Things wouldn’t get weird after that. Hell, it might even make things better. Kill the curiosity of the unknown.
He brushed her hair away from her face and cupped her cheek in his hand. Hannah’s eyelids fluttered shut then opened again, and when they did, the only thing he saw was matching want. Control snapped like a twig.
Scooping her into his arms, Deacon crushed his lips to hers. At her soft moan, a fire ignited in his blood. He threaded a hand through her tangle of curls, tugging to adjust the angle of his kiss, then licked the seam of her mouth, demanding entrance. When she let him inside, the essence of peach exploded on his tongue. Mixed with her own flavors, it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.
Hannah squealed as he yanked her closer, and then she attacked him, clutching his shoulders as she tried to climb him like a tree. Her knees pressed into the sides of his legs, and as she wiggled and squirmed, he grinned against her mouth.
Deacon released her hair to rake his hands down her back. He palmed the flare of her hips before sliding his hands lower to clutch the back of her thighs. He lifted one and wrapped it around his waist. When his hips rolled of their own volition, thoughts ceased to exist.
Nothing in his entire life had ever felt this good.
Another surge of his hips and Hannah pulled him back to her mouth. She sucked on his bottom lip and slipped her hand beneath the cotton of his shirt. Her nails skimmed over his stomach, scratching lightly, and he hissed.
In that moment, it was like the entire universe stood still. Nothing else mattered. She grabbed onto his forearms, nails leaving crescent-shaped war wounds in his skin, and Deacon skimmed his hand over the smooth skin of her thigh, slowly inching his fingers under the hem of her dress.
BEEEP!!!
An incessant car horn jerked his questing hand away, shattering through the sensual haze.
Holding Hannah tight, Deacon raised his head, and the world around them came into focus. The sounds, the smells…the smirking crowds.
They were on a street corner. A car drove through the intersection not five feet away as people strolled past them on the sidewalk on their way to the next club, blatantly gawking at the guy who’d just been mauling his best friend in public like a damn teenager.
Crossing a line that could never be uncrossed.
Fear pumped through Deacon’s blood as reality crashed down. How much he’d messed up, exactly what was at stake, and how much he’d put at risk. Abruptly, he dropped Hannah’s leg, reaching out when she stumbled on her heels only to pull back once she righted herself.
Dazedly, Hannah brought her hand to her mouth. Her lips were cherry red and kiss swollen, and they tumbled open as she traced them with her fingertips. Her eyes cleared in degrees and they sharpened on him, looking for answers.
“Hannah.” Deacon wiped a hand over his face, wishing he had them. Instead, a sinking sense of dread coated his skin with a thin layer of sweat. “I’m not…I mean, I didn’t—”
“Stop.” Shuffling forward, she covered the distance he’d put between them and shushed him with her fingers. “Please, don’t say anything. Not yet.”
Her sea-green eyes spoke for her, asking him to wait until what had happened sank in…but that scared him almost as much as what it meant.
Where did they go from here? What was the next step? If Sherry were here, she’d try pushing them into a relationship because, apparently, the friends in his life couldn’t stand the idea of him being single. They didn’t realize that he wasn’t built for forever. Sure, he’d been prepared to give it his best shot after Krista got pregnant, but even she’d known what a bad bet he’d be. Even if he wasn’t, he wanted better for Hannah.
But if he lost her because of this? He’d never survive it.
Gently, Deacon tugged her fingers away from his mouth and swallowed hard. “Cherry…don’t you think we should at least—”
He never got to finish his thought.
As he’d stumbled over his words, Hannah had lurched forward. Deacon caught her in his arms, confusion transforming into fear as he watched pure panic flood her face. She fought against his hold…then promptly vomited onto the ground.
And all over his boots.