His gaze locked to mine and I saw the intensity in his before he gave it to me.

"And that's where it's at with you."

The weight of that hit me, seven years, nobody, and then there was me, six years fighting it and now we were here.

And he was happy.

He wasn't roaring with laughter, teasing, playful, devil-may-care happy.

But I felt his contentment. I'd seen how he was with my hair. I knew what it meant to him to be there with me.

Now I knew it even more.

And knowing it, again, a weight hit me, and I dropped my head like I couldn't hold it up and this time did a face plant in his throat.

I felt him shift then I felt him kiss the top of my head.

"Right, Cassie, you got what you need out of me?"

I didn't answer the question because I couldn't believe he'd asked it considering the answer was no. Not by a long shot.

"For tonight, woman," he went on softly. "Got about three hours of shuteye last night. I'm wiped. Need sleep."

"Then if that's what you need, I've got what I need out of you," I replied but finished, "for tonight."

His fingers still at my neck gave me a squeeze then he rolled us, him rolling over me so he was on the other side of the bed where the light was lit, the side of the bed he'd claimed last night.

He reached out and turned out the light while I reached down and yanked up the covers. When I got them up and was preparing to settle in, he did it for me, tucking me into his side where I had no choice but to rest my cheek on his chest, just like last night.

I relaxed into his warm solidness, like I did the night before. Like I hadn't done it two nights in a row but like I did it every night for decades. Feeling safe and snug and content, my body pressed to his, his arm wrapped around me.

Being Deacon, he didn't say goodnight. I was learning when he had something to say he said it but he had a variety of ways of communicating and they didn't just come from his mouth. They included his eyes, his expressions, and his actions.

I was also learning that worked for me.

Thus, Deacon feeling his goodnight was shared by turning out the light and curling me into him, through my cheek over his heart, my hand resting on his chest, I felt his breath evening out and I knew, just like last night, he was gliding easily into sleep.

So I said what I had to say. What he had to know. What he had to carry with him all the time, when he was here and when he was away from me.

I said what I needed to give him in order to take up the challenge of making him even happier.

"I'm glad I didn't have a man, honey."

I knew he hadn't drifted into sleep because when I whispered those words, his body tensed against mine, his hand resting on my waist curled in, fingers digging into my flesh just short of painfully.

He held this several beats before he relaxed, his arm gave me a slight but short squeeze, and within moments, his breaths steadied.

And there it was again.

I was right.

Deacon could communicate everything without saying a word.

And that worked for me.

Chapter Seven.

That's Why.

My eyes opened and I saw skin. Sleek olive skin covering defined muscle.

Deacon.

More precisely, Deacon's back.

I was on my side, Deacon was on his, and I was tucked tight to his back.

Seeing what I saw, smelling nothing but the scent that was pure Deacon, having him there, morning two, after denying that I wanted him for what felt like eternity, I immediately got wet with wanting more of him.

Unfortunately, at the same time I remembered that he'd said the night before that he was wiped.

I was an early riser and didn't even have to look at the clock, just note that dawn was barely touching the sky, and even though we went to bed way early, it was also now way early.

So, as much as I wanted to put my hands on him, wake him up, coax him into making love to me, I needed to let him sleep.

Therefore, carefully, I rolled away from him, cautiously moving the covers so I wouldn't disturb him too much or give him a shot of cold as I got out of bed.

I didn't make it.

Deacon rolled too, and his arm came out, hooking me around my belly and hauling me back into his frame.

"Where you goin'?" he growled sleepily into the back of my hair.

"Letting you sleep, old man," I replied, hoping he'd get that with the last part, I was teasing.

He got it.

I knew with his unoffended response of, "Don't need sleep."

He also communicated what he did need, doing it by pressing his hips into my ass and I felt that at least one part of him was very awake.

"You got shit to do?" he asked, shoving his other hand under me as the arm already around me shifted, his hand trailing up my belly.

I always had shit to do, but truthfully, once I got the cabins the way I wanted them, outside of check out cleaning, since I didn't provide daily maid service, managing eleven rental cabins wasn't that taxing.

"Not really," I answered.

"Good," he muttered as his hands made it to their destinations, one curling around my breast, the other one cupping me between my legs.

I liked that. I liked the smell of him. I liked his heat. I liked that he was there with me. I liked all that so much, I pressed my hips back into his.

His hand between my legs pushed deeper, his fingers slipping through the wet folds, and my lips parted on a soft breath as my hips jerked slightly.

"Fuck. Ready," he growled and kept doing it. "You good with ungloved?"

I was good with anything he wanted to do to me.

I didn't say that.

I said, "Yes, baby."

His finger and thumb at my breast rolled my nipple as I felt his body shift, position. I knew what he was doing, I liked what he was doing, all of it, so I tilted my hips to give him what he needed.

His cock slid through my wet, the tip caught, and he thrust in, fast, hard, deep, filling me.

My head went back and I moaned.

He pulled hard at my nipple then his hand slid up to my throat.

"Gonna take me hard, Cassie," he warned.

I'd take him hard.

I'd take anything he wanted to give to me.

"Okay," I breathed.

"Okay," he whispered, then he buried his face in the back of my hair and did what he said he was going to do.

Fingering my clit, his other hand curled light at my throat, he fucked me hard, pounding deep, holding me steady to take him as I pushed my hips into his to get more, panted, whimpered, and finally tensed. My hands flying to his wrists to wrap around, I moaned long and brokenly as the heady release burned through me.

It was only then he lifted his head and buried his face in my neck, his hand between my legs becoming an arm wrapped tight around my belly. His hand at my throat shifting to become an arm across my chest, fingers curled into my shoulder. And he held me snug as I took him even harder. Coming down but still glorying in the velvet brutality, thrilling at every grunt that exploded against my skin.

And I did this until he sunk his teeth in my neck before he drove his cock deep inside me and groaned his climax into my flesh.

He couldn't have come down, not even begun to recover before his voice came at me, rough and thick.

"Here," he said, pulling his face out of my neck.

I didn't know what that meant since I was already seriously here.

I turned my head to ask and unintentionally gave him what he wanted.

He took my mouth, the kiss long, languid, wet, and sweet.

He ended it by letting go of my mouth at the same time he pushed his hips into mine one last time, reminding me of our connection, which meant it ended on a whimper from me.

As my eyes opened slowly, I noticed he didn't move very far away.

And the instant he got my gaze, he said quietly, "Mornin', Cassie."

Mornin', indeed.

"Good morning, Deacon."

He grinned at me.

And yes.

It was a good morning.

Indeed.

"The Mexican Jumping Bean?"

I turned my head to the left at Deacon's question.

We were up, showered, had toast, and got dressed and out to load up in his truck and hit the road to put money down on a puppy.

It took me a while to process being in Deacon's mud-caked Suburban, a vehicle I'd seen for six years (well, not this particular one, but still) and there I was...in it.

With Deacon.

This awesomeness took its time to move through me and only subsided when we were nearly through town and the sign for my favorite coffee shop caught my eye. Therefore, I asked Deacon to swing in (okay, I didn't ask, I bounced in my seat excitedly, and considering I figured he was not a man who did fancy coffee, I begged).

I didn't have to beg. He didn't hesitate to swing in. He parked in front and was now looking through the windshield, reading the sign while I undid my seatbelt.

"It's owned and run by a family of third-generation Mexican Americans," I shared and his head turned to me. "Obviously," I went on, since that was in the name, kind of, without the third generation part and adding the jumping bean. "They have normal coffee. And fancy coffee. And Mexican coffee, which has cinnamon in it and," I leaned into him, "it's divine."

He looked into my eyes, then to my lips, his lips quirked and he moved to undo his seatbelt.

I watched him do this, thrown, because apparently he felt he had to go with me, then I darted my hand out and curled it around his wrist.

He looked back at me.

"You don't have to go in," I told him. "I'll get the coffees and come out."

His eyes moved over my face, his expression not giving anything away, until suddenly his wrist twisted, disengaging mine but only so he could catch my hand, lift it, and jerk it. He did this hard enough to bring me closer to him, not hard enough to cause any pain.

When I was leaning across the cab, he leaned in to me.