I slid a hand up his chest, encountering dips and swells, firm and supple, and the tickle of the sprinkling of dark hair along his pectorals that was scattered to perfection.

“What’s your last name?” I asked quietly.

“Deacon.”

I tipped my head to the side. “What’s your first?”

“Deacon.”

I stared. “Your parents named you Deacon Deacon?”

That got me the gift of another grin but this one didn’t reach his eyes.

“No, Cassidy. Was a man. Not that man anymore. Now I’m just Deacon.”

That didn’t make sense, or not any good sense.

Just bad.

“Did your parents give you the name Deacon one way or another?”

“Yes.”

“So that’s you.”

“Yep.”

“And always has been, in a way,” I pressed and he dipped his face closer to mine.

“No, baby. The man I am is not the man I was.”

This confused me.

“I don’t get it.”

He didn’t give it to me. His thumb swept to my mouth and he glided it across my lower lip then he pulled out but rolled, taking us both to a new position, him on his back, me on top.

It seemed he was going to say something but before he did, he gathered my hair away from either side of my face and I watched, my insides melting, as he lost track of what he was doing when he became fascinated with my hair, looking at it, feeling it.

I knew by the way he did it that he’d wanted that. He’d wanted this.

He’d wanted me.

For a long, long time.

That made me happy. Happy enough not to push about his name and instead give him his moment with my hair and make it a long one.

Then I decided to take my own moment and I slid a hand up his chest to his neck so I could glide the tips of my fingers along his jaw, letting the stubble scrape my skin.

I watched my hand then I slid my eyes to his to see him watching me.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” I whispered.

He didn’t reply but this time he didn’t have to. The warmth in his eyes that warmed me said all he needed to say.

“Are you gonna stay?” I asked.

“For two more days.”

This did not make me happy.

My eyes went to the pillow by his head and I stopped stroking his jaw.

My hair was released, falling down, curtaining our faces, and this happened so Deacon could wrap his arms around me.

I looked again to him.

“I’ll be back,” he said quietly.

“When?”

“Got a job. I do the job, I’ll be back.”

My eyes drifted away again but came back when one of his arms gave me a squeeze and his other hand moved up and again pulled one side of my hair away from my face.

Then he kept talking.

“Not in three months, not in eight. When the job is done. Could be a few days, a few weeks, maybe a month. But when it’s done, I’ll be back.”

That was better news so I gave him a small smile.

His arm around me shifted down so he could trace random patterns on the skin just above my hip.

That felt heavenly.

Even so, inside, I felt weird.

Right and wrong. Comfortable. Sated.

And awkward.

“I don’t know what I can ask,” I blurted. “What to say. What to do.”

He bunched my hair at the back of my neck. “Do you know what to feel?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Go with that, Cassie.”

Cassie.

My family called me that, some friends back home. I liked it.

It felt disloyal but I never liked it more than the two times it came from Deacon.

Yes, I absolutely knew what to feel.

“You don’t seem to feel weird about what’s happening,” I observed.

“I’m not ’cause I’m not takin’ the risk. You are.”

“Are you a risk?” I asked cautiously.

His eyes gentled and his hand splayed flat on my hip as he chided softly, “Baby, you gotta quit askin’ questions you know the answer to.”

Baby.

I didn’t like that better than Cassie, but it worked.

Without a word, he rolled me to my back, over me, and let me go before he rolled out of bed on the side closest to the bathroom.

I pulled the sheet over me as I watched him go, but, to give him privacy, I stopped watching when he went in and I could see him because he didn’t close the door.

He was getting rid of the condom he’d slid on before coming inside, something he hadn’t slid on last night.

I was on the Pill, so that was not a concern.

Him having thirty-eight women was.

I heard the toilet flush, the tap go on and off, and not long later, he was back to me. On his side, elbow in the pillow, head in hand, he ran his other hand down my body, taking the sheet with him, his eyes watching it go, exposing me.

I felt his gaze like a touch on my skin, something I enjoyed immensely. But as much as I liked it and was glad we had a light on and I could see all of him (and there was a lot, and all of it was as beautiful as the promise that it would be), I wasn’t all that fired up with him seeing all of me when he didn’t have me panting.

Therefore, I rolled into him, pressing close, wrapping an arm around him, and nuzzling my face in his chest.

He trailed a hand down my back and again started tracing random patterns, but this time on the skin of my ass.

That felt better, enough that I shivered.

“Great ass,” he muttered like he was talking to himself. “Six years, saw it covered in shorts, jeans. Like it best like this.”

He was a guy. He would.

Then again, I was a girl and I shared this sentiment about him.

“Ditto with you,” I told his chest.

He fell to his back so he could wrap his arms around me, pull me up his chest, and get my eyes.

His were smiling.

And again, all was right in the world.

“Six years, never saw you smile,” I told him.

It was the wrong thing to say seeing as the smile died.

“Deacon?”

“Not easy, fightin’ your pull. Wantin’ to be right here. Knowin’ I was no good for you. Prayin’ you’d get a man so when I’d come back I’d have a reason to stay away.”

His words, words I liked at the same time not so much, made me slide a hand up his chest, his neck, and partly into his overlong hair where I played with the ends.

“Do you smile when you’re not here?”

“No.”

I knew it. I’d sensed it the moment I’d laid eyes on him. But the weight of that as a reality settled on me, making my head dip closer to his like I couldn’t hold it up anymore.