He looked back to the trees, murmuring, “You’re not a usual woman.”

I turned my attention to the trees, murmuring back, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Meant as one.”

I grinned into my glass and took a sip.

Then I kept talking.

“A lot of people would think I’m crazy, but this is all I want. I want to be sitting right here when I’m eighty, listening to the river, gazing at the trees.”

“Nothin’ crazy about that.”

Oh man.

I liked that he thought that.

I took in a deep breath and let it out, asking, “Where do you wanna be when you’re eighty?”

“Don’t fuck up and blow my shot, sittin’ on my ass on a chair that I’m glad now has a pad, next to a decent woman with beautiful eyes, lips made to be kissed, and phenomenal hair, listenin’ to  a river and starin’ at some trees.”

Yes.

I was crazy.

Absolutely.

Because I was filled with glee that he wanted that.

Not to mention the sweet things he said to me.

“Though,” he continued, “only if she doesn’t turn out to be a crazy bitch who loses her mind if I don’t put my towel on the rail the exact way she wants it to be.”

I looked to him, grinning.

“Towel placement is super-important, Deacon.”

He said nothing but in the dim light coming from my lit kitchen, I saw his eyes crinkle.

“Coaster usage is too,” I went on.

The eye crinkles stayed where they were even as he took a sip of bourbon.

“Not to mention, appropriate care and cleaning of your vehicle.”

He had something to say to that.

“A truck that’s not dirty is not a truck. It’s a pussy wagon.”

I burst out laughing.

“I’m not joking,” he said through my laughter, which made me laugh harder.

It also made me get up, put my glass on the railing, and move to him.

I saw his head tipped back, watching me, but he didn’t move an inch as I maneuvered over him, tucking a knee into the seat at his hip and swinging a leg wide to straddle him.

When I settled my ass to his thighs, I put both hands to his chest and leaned in. He put his hand without the glass to my ass, rested his head back on the seat, and let me.

“I decorated eleven for you,” I whispered after I got into position.

His hand clenched my ass and the eye crinkles vanished.

“I wanted you to have a place that you were comfortable being,” I told him.

“Cement countertops were a good touch, baby,” he told me.

It was so cool he noticed the countertops so I got closer and smiled.

His hand slid up my spine.

I held his eyes and felt my smile leave when I told him, “You hurt my feelings when you paid for Christmas.”

“Needed to give that message, Cassie.”

“I know, but it still hurt.”

His hand rounded my shoulder and cupped the side of my neck when he whispered, “Sorry, baby.”

“Make it up to me. Let me pay you back for the dog.”

He slid his hand into my hair and pulled me closer to his face.

“Future reference, this game you’re playin’ to get your way, it’s gonna work a lot of the time. When it’s about me givin’ you somethin’ that’s doin’ somethin’ for me, like givin’ me peace of mind I did what I could to keep you safe when I’m not here, it’s a game you’re gonna lose.”

There it was. More happy. And he even managed it while denying me something I wanted.

I totally had to step up my game.

“No fair,” I said quietly. “You can’t give me a reason that makes me feel all warm and squishy when you’re not giving me my way.”

I heard that thread of humor in his voice and it wasn’t near as slender when he asked, “Warm and squishy?”

I dipped closer, sliding my lips along his cheek to his ear as I rolled my hips in his lap, and whispered, “Squishy.”

His head moved and I turned mine in time to see him belting back his bourbon.

A beat later, the glass landed on the arm of his chair with a thud, and a beat after that, we were out of that chair, one of his arms under my ass holding me wrapped around him, the other one at the back of my neck, holding me tight to him.

“I take it it’s time for bed,” I noted as he walked us to the door to the kitchen.

“Yup.”

I dipped in again and said against his neck, “Yippee.”

His arms gave me a squeeze as he walked us into my house.

Then he carried me to bed.

* * * * *

I slid Deacon’s cock out of my mouth, licked the tip, and called, “Deacon?”

I didn’t have to call him. I was curled between his legs, his knees cocked, shoulders to the headboard, and he was watching me.

“What?” he growled, the sound coming from deep, like it was torn from him.

I licked the tip again and said, “I don’t know why.”

“What?” he repeated.

I licked him from base to tip, my eyes glued to his, then I swirled the head with my tongue, watching his face get darker and darker, his jaw harder and harder, his legs more tense as he watched me. I did all this fighting the urge to squirm or climb on and ride him until I gave it to him. And me.

I wrapped my fist around him, pulling his cock away from where it was lying on his stomach, and said, “I don’t know why it’s you.”

“Jesus, woman, you wanna share this with me now?”

I stroked him with my hand and whispered, “I just know it’s you.”

His face got darker and I knew it wasn’t just because of what I was doing with my hand.

I kept whispering when I shared, “Because you make me happy.”

I lost purchase on his shaft when he did an ab curl and grasped me under my arms. With a yank, I was up and moving swiftly, landing on my belly on the bed. I felt Deacon’s knees pushing my legs apart as he positioned, his hands on my hips hauling me up.

He barely got my knees under me before he thrust in, yanking my hips back, drilling me.

And I was even more happy.

“Baby,” I whimpered.

Then, no other way to put it, even though he’d already pretty much mounted me, he finished that by curving his body over mine, putting a forearm into the bed beside me, thus mounting me.

He pulled my hair away from my face and put his lips close to my ear.

“Future,” he grunted, still driving deep. “That game you just played, you play it again, you’re gonna win, but I’m gonna choose how you get the prize.”