“Yeah. And I’ve been careful. But you’ve had experience so we’ll have to be better about that.”

“Don’t worry about me ungloved. Haven’t fucked anyone for seven years.”

I felt my lips part and my eyes blink.

Twice.

Rapidly.

Then I whispered, “Seriously?”

“Yep,” he said bluntly, like badasses confessed to the new women in their lives every day that they’d been celibate for years when I was stunned badasses could actually go for years without having sex.

I lifted my head to look at him and when I did, he tipped his chin down to catch my gaze.

“You haven’t had sex in seven years?” That was uttered incredulously, as, of course, it would be.

“Fuckin’ you on the table was hot but I came fast. Man gets it regular, he does not come that fast, even as hot as that was.”

I didn’t have that much experience but I figured this was true.

“Might not go to the doctor regularly,” he continued. “But back then I knew I was clean and you can’t catch that shit airborne.”

That I knew was true.

“I…well, it would seem you got a lot of experience in in a short period of time,” I noted.

He said nothing mostly because, with the number of partners he’d had, there was nothing to say but confirm.

“Then nothing for seven years?” I pressed.

“I think you get I fucked around a lot,” he replied.

I nodded because I definitely got that.

“Searchin’ for something,” he went on. “Doin’ that, found, if it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean anything. Meaningless fucks are just that and I don’t do a lot that’s meaningless, definitely not something important like connecting with a woman’s body. Also found it’s not hard to go without when going with doesn’t work for me.”

“But…you’re a badass,” I pointed out.

“And?” he prompted, brows drawing together, apparently well aware he was a badass.

“Badasses need to get them some,” I explained.

“Badasses know what they want, definitely know what they need, and don’t settle for anything less.”

That was probably very true.

It was also a really good answer.

I slid my fingers back to play with the ends of his hair and my voice was soft when I asked, “It really doesn’t work for you if it has no meaning?”

“Biologically, anything would work. Pussy is pussy,” he stated baldly. “You drive your dick into it, close your eyes, you’ll get off. But sex isn’t about that. It shouldn’t be about that for anybody. It doesn’t have to be about emotion, but it has to be about something. If I don’t respect the woman attached to the pussy I’m fucking, can’t look in her eyes and be all about that with her, not just all about the moment I get off, it’s pointless. And there’s no point to doing something pointless.”

He was right about that too.

“Agreed,” I said quietly.

“Add emotion,” he went on, his thumb now stroking my throat. “That’s where it’s at.”

Now he couldn’t be more right.

That was where it was at.

“Yes,” I agreed.

His gaze locked to mine and I saw the intensity in his before he gave it to me.

“And that’s where it’s at with you.”

The weight of that hit me, seven years, nobody, and then there was me, six years fighting it and now we were here.

And he was happy.

He wasn’t roaring with laughter, teasing, playful, devil-may-care happy.

But I felt his contentment. I’d seen how he was with my hair. I knew what it meant to him to be there with me.

Now I knew it even more.

And knowing it, again, a weight hit me, and I dropped my head like I couldn’t hold it up and this time did a face plant in his throat.

I felt him shift then I felt him kiss the top of my head.

“Right, Cassie, you got what you need out of me?”

I didn’t answer the question because I couldn’t believe he’d asked it considering the answer was no. Not by a long shot.

“For tonight, woman,” he went on softly. “Got about three hours of shuteye last night. I’m wiped. Need sleep.”

“Then if that’s what you need, I’ve got what I need out of you,” I replied but finished, “for tonight.”

His fingers still at my neck gave me a squeeze then he rolled us, him rolling over me so he was on the other side of the bed where the light was lit, the side of the bed he’d claimed last night.

He reached out and turned out the light while I reached down and yanked up the covers. When I got them up and was preparing to settle in, he did it for me, tucking me into his side where I had no choice but to rest my cheek on his chest, just like last night.

I relaxed into his warm solidness, like I did the night before. Like I hadn’t done it two nights in a row but like I did it every night for decades. Feeling safe and snug and content, my body pressed to his, his arm wrapped around me.

Being Deacon, he didn’t say goodnight. I was learning when he had something to say he said it but he had a variety of ways of communicating and they didn’t just come from his mouth. They included his eyes, his expressions, and his actions.

I was also learning that worked for me.

Thus, Deacon feeling his goodnight was shared by turning out the light and curling me into him, through my cheek over his heart, my hand resting on his chest, I felt his breath evening out and I knew, just like last night, he was gliding easily into sleep.

So I said what I had to say. What he had to know. What he had to carry with him all the time, when he was here and when he was away from me.

I said what I needed to give him in order to take up the challenge of making him even happier.

“I’m glad I didn’t have a man, honey.”

I knew he hadn’t drifted into sleep because when I whispered those words, his body tensed against mine, his hand resting on my waist curled in, fingers digging into my flesh just short of painfully.

He held this several beats before he relaxed, his arm gave me a slight but short squeeze, and within moments, his breaths steadied.

And there it was again.

I was right.

Deacon could communicate everything without saying a word.