Caged (Mastered, #4)(21)

You are gone for her, man, and you haven’t even f*cked her.

Yet.

She climbed in before he could jump out to help her. “Hey, I didn’t recognize—”

Deacon’s need to take the kiss he’d been craving for four long days overruled any warring thoughts about acting cool.

After sating himself on her taste, he rested his forehead to hers. “New rule. You gimme this mouth first thing.”

“Even before we say hello?”

“Yeah.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of her lips and murmured, “Hello.”

“You are high-handed. I can’t believe I like that about you . . . sometimes.” She buckled her seat belt. “Where’s your Mercedes?”

“In the parking garage.”

“So you have two vehicles?”

“Define vehicles.”

Molly held up her phone, and he watched her flick past screens.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Opening my dictionary app.”

“I didn’t mean to literally define it.”

“Live and learn that I’m always literal.” Her thumbs moved fast. “Aha. Here it is. Vehicle: a means or machine used to carry or transport people or goods from one place to another.” She gave him a haughty look.

“Sometimes I f*cking hate smartphones.”

“Answer the question.”

One corner of his mouth kicked up. “No, I don’t have two vehicles.”

“You have more than two vehicles.”

“Yep.”

“How many total vehicles do you own, and what kinds?”

Deacon swept her hair over her shoulder. “We playing twenty questions?”

“With your one-word answers, it’d take two hundred questions,” she grumbled. “So just tell me what you’ve got, since I prefer to be direct.”

So much for Knox’s assumption that women played coy. “I have a Mercedes, this SUV, a Jap bike, a Harley, a four-wheeler, and a dirt bike.”

“You drive all of them regularly?”

“My bikes are for warm weather. This and the Mercedes get the most drive time.” He squinted at her. “Why? You secretly a car chick?”

“I don’t have the money to be a car chick. But you don’t seem like a car guy.”

“I’m not. I drove this because I wasn’t sure how far back into the mountains we’d have to drive. Hit me with the address for the GPS.”

“There’s no street address, city slicker. I’m your copilot. I’ll give you directions, and you’ll follow them.”

He stared at her.

“What?”

“I hate getting lost.”

“We won’t get lost! Get on C-470 south. I’ll tell you when we get close to the exit.”

“I ain’t the only bossy one, babe.”

“Aw. You say the sweetest things.” She pecked him on the mouth.


He checked his mirrors before pulling into traffic.

“If we need to pick up water, there’s a convenience store about a mile up.”

Inside the convenience store, Deacon grabbed a twelve-pack of water bottles. It would’ve taken him a minute to get in and out. But Molly had wandered to the snack aisle.

Deacon pressed the front of his body to the back of hers and rested his chin on her shoulder. He noticed the packages in her hands. “Trail mix? Seriously?”

“There’s a reason it’s called trail mix, Deacon.”

“Is there a rule we have to take it on the trail?”

“Smarty.” She grabbed four packages. “Just for that comment, I’m not sharing with you. You can eat squirrel poop, gnaw on tree bark, and forage for nuts, for all I care.”

“I’d rather you foraged for my nuts, darlin’.”

A beat passed. Then she laughed.

Why was it so damn easy to tease her and flirt with her? He’d never been so comfortable with a woman. A sense of happiness had Deacon impulsively spinning her around and kissing her thoroughly.

“Fine,” she said a little breathlessly. “I’ll share.”

Back in the car, Molly pulled a paperback out of her purse and flipped to the page marked with an owl-shaped sticky note. “The Hayden/Green Mountain Trail is closest to Denver. It’s where the Front Range meets the plains. It’s a three-mile loop. The difficulty level for the hike ranges from easy to moderate.”

“Show me that map.”

“It’s not a map. It’s a trail guide.”

Three miles after Deacon turned onto 470, he said, “What exit?”

“It’s a ways up yet.”

“Is ‘a ways’ an actual measurement of distance?”

“It’s between ‘as the crow flies’ and ‘down the road a piece,’” she said sweetly.

“Funny, farm girl.”

“Take the Morrison Road exit, cowboy.”

He shot her a look. “Not all Texans are cowboys.”

“Not all Nebraskans are farmers either,” she retorted.

“But weren’t you raised on a farm?”

“Yes. And don’t you have at least one pair of cowboy boots, a hat, and Wranglers?”