“You’re barely older than me.”
He lifted a hand, framed the side of my face, and started stroking my cheekbone with his thumb, but he made no reply.
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.