Caged (Mastered, #4)(66)
“What?”
“Tell me you’re hungry.”
“Uh, why?”
“So I don’t f*ck you right where you stand.”
Molly stroked Deacon’s freshly shaved head. “Then you’d better feed me after you give me a tour.”
He gave her a quick kiss and backed away. Clasping her hand, he pulled her from the foyer around a wall that revealed the living room.
The openness of the space brought to mind Amery’s loft. But the kitchen was walled off and had an eat-in bar on one side like a restaurant pass-through. “I like this feature.” She ran her hand along the countertop. “It’s funky yet functional.”
They skirted the wall and entered the kitchen. It wasn’t huge, but wasn’t as dinky as hers either. Cleaner than hers too. Talk about spotless. He hadn’t left as much as a spoon in the ceramic sink.
The space had warmer tones than she’d expected: honey-colored cabinets, rust-colored walls, and small turquoise accents. No ostentatious appliances like a six-burner gas stove, a double oven, or an industrial-sized refrigerator.
Deacon wasn’t paying attention to her checking out his kitchen. He rummaged through a stack of take-out menus. “What’re you in the mood for?”
Molly stood beside him and rested the side of her face on his biceps. “You choose. Something fairly healthy.”
“House of Chicken makes a mean chicken spinach salad.”
“I’ll have that.” She pressed a kiss on the ball of his shoulder. Then another. “Whatever light dressing they have.”
He hadn’t moved.
“But if that’s not what you want—”
Deacon wrapped his hand around her neck, below her jaw. “You don’t even have to try, do you? You are just naturally affectionate.”
She blushed.
“There. That right there. Jesus. When you blush it’s like waving a red flag in front of me.” He brushed his lips over hers. Just a back-and-forth glide.
She could melt into a puddle from these pockets of sweetness he showed her.
Then, as quickly as he bowled her over with his physical contact, he let it go. “I’ll call the order in.”
Molly wandered out of the kitchen while Deacon talked on the phone. Again, she’d imagined Deacon living in an ultra-modern space, not one so welcoming with warmth and comfort. No black leather furniture. No Jumbotron TV. But she wouldn’t be afraid to sit on the furnishings in here either.
His arms circled her as she studied the framed art on the walls.
“Where’d you get those? They’re amazing.” The western paintings were vibrant and detailed, down to the ripped leather of the cowboy’s boot.
“Guy I worked with. When he showed me his paintings, I recognized his talent and hated seeing the hands that created such beauty stuck washing dishes.”
“Is he still painting?”
“No idea. Lost touch with him when I changed jobs.” He shrugged. “Most art is shit. But this? When I looked at it, I could almost smell the puffy tacos at the mercado in San Antonio.”
“Ah. So it’s an image of Texas—the people, the place, and the artist—that speaks to you.” She looked at him. “I’m jealous. Unless someone paints pictures of cornfields, I’ll never have that kind of connection.”
“I still think you should’ve taken the John Wayne on velvet painting from your grams’s house.”
“Now you’re just being mean.”
Deacon laughed. “Busted.”
“Just for that I want a tour of your bedroom first.”
“Not happening. I get you in there and we ain’t leaving.”
Molly pointed. “Maybe a trip to the balcony will cool you down.”
“Not likely.” He opened the sliding-glass door. “Go ahead. I’ve seen the view before.”
She loved being able to see Denver from different angles around the city. She could sit out here for hours. Yet she didn’t see a single piece of patio furniture. When she walked across the concrete to peer over the railing, Deacon warned, “Careful.”
“Why? Is this rickety or something?” She tried to jiggle the metal to test it, but it seemed solid to her.
“Jesus, Molly. Don’t.”
She whirled around and saw the pinched set to Deacon’s mouth. Now she understood why this space was empty. “You’re afraid of heights.”
He leveled the deadly stare that used to scare the crap out of her.
Not so much anymore.
“You know what I’m afraid of?” she asked as she walked back to him. “It’s stupid. But I’ve always had nightmares about being invited to an important party and when I get there, I’m wearing something completely inappropriate. Sometimes I’m dressed like a clown or a witch. One time I wore the papal stylings of the pope. Another time I looked like a punk-rock hooker. Everyone is laughing at me and yelling horrible things at me.”
“Nightmares aren’t the same as phobias, babe. I’ve suffered from both.”
At least she’d gotten him to admit that much. “Is your fear from something that happened when you were a kid?”
He shook his head.
“So, Deacon, if you’ve got an issue with heights, why did you buy a condo on the sixth floor?”