Dancing With the Devil (27 page)

Rhea gasped so hard it startled both of them, but he soothed her with another kiss and another touch. His finger was thick and hard, but no matter what she did, she couldn’t take him deep enough to satisfy the ache.

He withdrew his finger slowly, but she arched up again, urging him back. He pressed two fingers against her, eased in, stretching her, and then eased out again.

“Dea—” She couldn’t finish.

He smiled against her lips, dipping his tongue inside her mouth as his fingers dipped in the same rhythm. It was agony—sweet, delirious agony.

Nudging her wider, he lifted her hips a little and teased her with the tip of his hard length. Rhea just about came off the bed, but Deacon eased her back with a tender kiss.

Again he slid inside her, just barely, and then waited. Rhea writhed beneath him, clinging to him for fear
she’d crash into something she had no idea about. Her breath was ragged, her hips thrust forward, taking him deeper, yet not nearly deep enough.

Deacon leaned over her, took her breast in his mouth and stroked it relentlessly with his tongue.

“I…please.”

He held her hips in his hands, slipped his length almost completely out, and then in one long stroke, buried himself deep inside her.

She cried out, but held on. Her breath wouldn’t come, and her heart threatened to explode out of her chest. He moved inside her, harder, deeper, pushing her to the edge of something she’d never imagined. And all she could do was wrap her legs around his waist and lift her hips higher, taking the full length of him again and again.

He buried his face into the side of her neck and let out a low growl that only spurred her on further. Moving in slow circles, she rubbed against him. The ache inside her pushed deeper, fuller, until with one final thrust, she exploded into a world of exquisite frenzy.

Deacon gasped, his whole body went rigid, and then he collapsed on top of her. She couldn’t breathe, and she didn’t care. All she cared about was him, buried deep inside her, and how she wished she could keep him there forever.

When he raised his head a minute later, she thought he was going to end it, but he didn’t. He kissed her again, full on the lips, and then rolled to his side, pulling her with him.

“Don’t—” she started to protest, but he must have read her thoughts.

“I’m staying right where I am, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I just didn’t want to hurt you.”

“What about your wounds?”

“What wounds?” He kissed her again, held her hips
firmly between his hands and pushed into her one more time.

They lay there, wrapped only in each other’s arms, long afterward. By the time the storm outside subsided, leaving the room awash in the light from the full moon, Deacon had eased the deep ache inside Rhea twice more.

“Are you all right?” Even now, fully dressed and getting ready to walk back to town, Deacon’s need to touch her was overwhelming.

“I’m fine.” Rhea’s face pinked again as she struggled to rebraid her hair.

“Leave it down.” He brushed her hands away and ran his fingers through the length of her hair, sending it cascading down her back and over her shoulders. It drove him half mad seeing it that way, with its streaks of gold making it an impossibly amazing color.

He expected her to argue, but she didn’t. She simply kissed his cheek and left her hair as it was.

“Shall we go?” Her voice was too bright, her smile too forced.

“Don’t do that,” he said, cupping her face in his hands. “Don’t pretend with me.”

The smile faded until all that was left were trembling lips and scared brown eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “Sorry.”

Deacon pressed his forehead against hers. “What ever happens tomorrow…”

He wanted to say something comforting, something to ease the worry from her brow, but words wouldn’t come. The only thing he could think to do was kiss her. He pressed his lips to hers, finding his own comfort when she kissed him back so readily.

If only her lips weren’t flavored with the salt from her tears.

“We can stay here to night if you want.”

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s better if we don’t.”

“Better for whom?”

She smiled again, but at least it wasn’t forced this time. She reached for his hand, and they stood for a moment in the quiet of the room.

A feeling he could only attribute as panic began to grow in Deacon’s stomach. His time with Rhea was coming to an end, regardless of what happened with the judge tomorrow. Kit hadn’t popped in for more than a day, and that could only mean one thing.

Trouble.

“Don’t worry,” Rhea said, her voice quiet. “What ever happens, happens, and it’s my fault entirely.”

“You say that like it should make me feel better.”

“It should.” She pulled open the door and stepped outside, waiting for him to follow. “You’ve done nothing except try to help, Deacon, and that means everything to me.”

“A lot of good it did,” he muttered. “You would have been better off if I hadn’t come back to town in the first place.”

She tucked her hand in his, and they started for town.

“A week ago, I would have agreed wholeheartedly,” she said, squeezing his hand lightly. “Not now.”

Deacon forced a breath past the knot in his lungs and grinned down at her. “You only say that because you’ve just experienced the most amazing afternoon of your life. Tomorrow you’ll be dancing a different jig.”

He fully expected her to make a jest at his expense, maybe comment on how it hadn’t been
that
amazing, but she didn’t. She kept walking, her back ramrod straight and her chin lifted high.

“It’s more than that,” she said. “And yours is the only ‘jig’ I’ll ever dance.”

Now what was he supposed to say to that? Jesting he could respond to, but when she spoke words like these, with her voice so certain and so strong, all he could do was grind his teeth into his tongue to stop it from blathering.

Rhea didn’t need a man to speak words of love and affection to her. She didn’t need him to be all sentimental and soft.

She needed a man who was strong, who would love her and look after her without suffocating her, who would listen to what she had to say even if he disagreed. And who would love her more with each new breath.

If only he weren’t the devil’s son, he could be that man for her. If only.

The moon bathed Rhea in its pale yellow light, making her seem almost angelic. The thought had barely registered in his mind when a rip of pain sliced across the still tender wounds on his back.

He stumbled, swallowed the gasp that jumped to his tongue and forced a quick grin for Rhea.

“Two left feet,” he said. And a father who didn’t appreciate him thinking of angels. The pain eased slowly, until it was nothing more than another bad memory, pushed down on top of all the others just like it.

Her hand tightened around his and they kept going, walking in silence until the lights of town came into view. She still didn’t speak, but she seemed to be breathing harder and if she chewed the side of her cheek any harder, she’d soon gnaw right through it.

He bent his head closer so as not to disturb the quiet around them. “We need to do something before going back to the hotel.”

“What?”

It was his turn to chew his cheek. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Deacon.” It wasn’t a warning, more of a command.

He stopped walking and took both her hands in his, forcing her to turn and look at him.

“We need to stop at the…saloon.” There, he’d said it. And she was already shaking her head. “Rhea, listen.”

She yanked hard, trying to pull her hands away, but he wouldn’t let go.

“I need you to talk to Salma. Ask her anything you like.”

“No.” Her eyes, wild with nerves already, blazed with a whole new kind of hurt. “How can you even think to ask such a thing?”

“I’m not asking.” He pulled her hands to his chest and held her firm. “I need you to know the truth, and the only way you’re going to believe it is if you hear it from her directly.”

She shook her head again, harder this time. “I can’t go in there,” she said, obviously horrified.

“You don’t have to go in,” he said. “I’ll have her come down.”

Still, she shook her head. “Don’t do this, Deacon. Just let it go.”

“No.” He released her hands so he could wrap his hands around her upper arms; then he had to force his grip to relax, or he’d bruise her arms. “We don’t know what the judge is going to say tomorrow, but…”

“But what?”

He let his chin fall to his chest, wishing he didn’t have to tell her, wishing he could be the coward he was before and just leave.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“You’re leaving?” she squeaked. “Already? But I thought—”

“Rhea.” Why did his throat burn so much? “We both knew this was only a temporary thing.”

“Yes, but—” she sputtered, stopped, and then let her shoulders slump.

“Please,” he begged, “talk to Salma. She’ll tell you the truth about what happened that night. And then tomorrow…”

Her bottom lip trembled, and she dropped her chin to her chest. Deacon released one of her arms and eased her chin back up.

He brushed the pad of his thumb across her cheek, wishing it wasn’t the last time he’d be able to do it.

She stared back at him for a long minute, the moonlight illuminating the confusion and pain in her eyes.

“Okay, I’ll talk with her.” Her voice was low, her tone one of uncertainty. “But I am
not
going inside that saloon.”

Deacon expelled the breath he’d been holding. Finally—she’d know the truth, her heart would heal and everything would go back to the way it should be.

Well, almost everything, anyway.

“Thank you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her fore he ad.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, Rhea keeping half a step behind him as though that would prevent her from getting where they were going.

He led her around the back of the saloon and stopped in the shadow of the building.

“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll go get her.” Before she could argue with him, he ducked inside the back door and went in search of Salma.

Rhea stayed where Deacon had left her, but with each passing minute, the urge to run became stronger and stronger until she couldn’t stand it anymore.

Three steps out, the back door creaked open, and Deacon stepped into the moonlight with Salma.

It was little wonder the men wanted her. With a clear, olive complexion most women would kill for, eyes the color of pitch and hair to match, she was one of the most beautiful women Rhea had ever seen. The gaudy red dress she wore, however, left little to be desired.

Her ample bosom bulged over the feather-strewn neckline and though there were laces to hold the garment over each shoulder, she hadn’t bothered to tie either one.

“Lemme go.” Salma batted Deacon’s hand away and pulled out of his reach. “What d’you want?”

Rhea didn’t move; she could hardly breathe. How could she talk to this woman about something so personal? It was unthinkable! And it was incomprehensible that Deacon would even ask her to.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to ask at all.

“Salma,” Deacon’s voice was low in the darkness. “I need you to tell Rhea what happened the last time you saw me here.”

The woman snorted in very unladylike fashion. “What for?”

“Just do it. Please.”

The other woman squinted toward Rhea in the shadows. “She don’t look like she wants to hear anything I’ve got to say.”

When Rhea didn’t respond right away, Salma turned on her heel and started back for the door. “I got customers.”

“Wait.” Rhea had to say it twice before Salma heard her. She took one tentative step toward the woman, then another. “I-I’m listening.”

Salma cocked a brow at her and sighed. “What d’you want to know?”

“Tell her what happ—” Deacon huffed, but Rhea stopped him in midsentence.

She took one more step, then stopped right in front of Salma. “Did you and he ever…”

She couldn’t say it. Just the idea of it was making her sick to her stomach again.

“Oh, honey,” Salma chuckled. “This man here was the easiest money I ever made.”

Rhea stumbled backward, but Deacon was beside her in a heartbeat. She shook out of his embrace, not knowing what to do first—hit him or kick him.

“Salma.” Deacon’s growl was fiercer than anything Rhea had ever heard.

“Not that way,” Salma said. “Just the opposite.”

Rhea blinked hard, stepping out of Deacon’s reach. “What do you mean?”

“Your fella had been in a few times, mostly with the sheriff, of course, but all they done was play cards and drink. Didn’t hardly speak to anyone except themselves.”

Rhea cast a quick glance at Deacon, who seemed to be standing straighter, his head nodding along with Salma’s explanation.

“But the last time he came in, something was different.” Salma seemed to drift back in time for a second. “Was almost like something was diggin’ at him. He couldn’t sit still, he wasn’t drinkin’ and he didn’t pay no never mind to any of the games goin’ on.”

Rhea neither spoke nor moved. The woman was a prostitute, for goodness sake; certainly not someone she should put any stock in, yet there was something in the woman’s voice that unsettled Rhea.

She was telling the truth. So far, anyway.

“Next thing I knew,” Salma went on, leaning against the stair rail, “your man wants to go upstairs with me.”

Sharp pain shot through Rhea’s heart, but she stayed right where she was.

“He never done that before,” Salma said. “But I’m always up to try new things, so we went upstairs.”

She didn’t mean to, but Rhea found herself stepping forward again. “What happened?”

“It was the damnedest thing.” Salma shook her head and chuckled again. “He gives me a piss-pot full of money an’ then ducks out the back door.”

Rhea stared at her in stunned silence.

“That’s the same look I had on my face,” Salma laughed.

“But why…” Rhea turned to stare at Deacon, his face full of righteous determination. She turned back to Salma and studied the woman for a minute. “This happened months ago,” she said. “How do you remember it so clearly?”