That was when I burst out laughing.
While I was doing it, Deacon slid a hand up my spine until he had it curved around the back of my neck.
And when I quit laughing, I noticed that he was not sharing in my amusement.
When he spoke, I’d know why.
“Means a lot, baby, you want me to meet your family.”
I leaned closer to him. “Yeah,” I agreed.
“You give me the dates, I’ll make sure I’m free.”
“Okay.”
He slid his hand to the side of my neck, the tips of his fingers in my hair, his eyes moving over my face.
I let him. He had these moments occasionally, when he was feeling something, something beautiful and big, something about me, and since it was that, I wanted him to have them.
When he shifted his thumb so it swept my lower lip, I knew it was leaving him so I said, “I need to get down to frying the chops.”
His eyes went from my lips to mine. “You need a grill.”
He wasn’t wrong.
“Can you grill?”
“Do I have a dick?”
I smiled again.
“We’ll fight about who’s payin’ for that tomorrow, on the way back from gettin’ the dog.”
I kept smiling. “You’re on.”
His eyes crinkled.
I leaned in and kissed him. It was meant to be a touch but his hand at my neck tightened, his other arm lifted to round me, and it became a whole lot more.
This meant I was breathing heavily when I climbed off him and went into the kitchen to start the chops.
* * * * *
Hours later, after dinner (I was not wrong, Deacon loved the casserole; he even said that, of a sort, while forking it into his mouth, “This shit’s the shit, Cassidy,”) and cuddling on the couch watching a movie, Deacon turned on the news.
I tilted my chin to catch his eyes.
He felt mine and looked down at me.
“I’m turning in.”
“Gonna watch the top of the newscast then I’ll be up.”
“Okay.”
He bent his head to touch his mouth to mine and let me go.
I rolled off the couch and went upstairs.