That didn't seem very Deacon.

Which was another reminder that I didn't know Deacon. I didn't know what he did for a living. I didn't know his full name. I didn't know where he came from or how he became the man he was.

I knew he was thirty-eight, had slept with that same amount of women, (well, with me, one more), he was mellow, didn't talk much, was great in bed, liked my cooking...

And that was all I knew.

This put me in a bad mood. A bad mood where I sat on my porch in the rain (though I'd do that anyway) staring at the trees, trying not to make a big deal of this. A hot guy, great sex, a feeling of hope it was the start of something beautiful, something that could be forever-women got that feeling all the time and found they were wrong.

I tried to make it that simple.

But I knew it wasn't that simple.

I was staving off heartbreak...again. Doing it with the impending official adoption of the dog Deacon bought for me. I had pictures. The breeders e-mailed them to me weekly-the puppies rolling around, nursing from their momma, growing up, and playing.

I was in love with all of them and had no idea how I would choose when the time came two weeks from then when I'd have to.

I also had no idea how I would claim and care for a dog that would forever remind me of Deacon.

I closed my eyes tight on that thought, fighting the feelings that threatened to overwhelm me, and not in a warm way. In a devastated, I'm-an-idiot, I'd-picked-the-wrong-guy, when-was-I-gonna-learn way.

But I opened them when I heard the growl of an engine through the patter of rain.

I turned my head right to see who was there, and when I saw the rain slicked black Suburban through the gray dusk, I quit breathing.

I started again but only to do it erratically as I watched the driver's side door open and Deacon unfold his long frame from the seat. I heard the door slam and remained still, my eyes on him negotiating the trees at the side of my house as he stalked to the porch.

My breath caught again when he arrived at the porch and I could see his eyes pinned to me, his face blank, the mask returned (not a good sign), but there was no escaping the heaviness that descended from whatever it was that was emanating from him.

This could have been why I couldn't move.

Deacon could move. He put his hands to the porch railing, and even though the porch (and definitely the railing) was elevated several feet from the ground, he hauled himself up and threw his body over the rail, his boots hitting the deck with a definitive thud.

At this miraculous display of upper body strength, I swallowed a gasp.

I had no idea what he was doing there, and even if his expression was giving me nothing, I still understood from somewhere deep he didn't want to be there.

But he was.

And I didn't get that.

Though maybe I did. Maybe I was right. Maybe it was Deacon's time to say good-bye, face to face.

Suddenly, I wished he'd left me hanging.

He stared down at me and I still didn't move. Just had my neck twisted, my head tipped back, because his unfathomable eyes were locked to mine in a way I couldn't escape.

"Thought you were more woman than any woman I'd met," he declared, his voice low but cold, a voice I had for six years. A voice I thought was gone forever.

A voice it was a blow that hurt like a bitch to have back.

It was also a bizarre opening.

"Sorry?" I asked.

"A woman who's any woman at all, she wants shot of a man, she's got the guts to tell him."

I stared in disbelief.

What did he just say?

Shot of a man?

Before I could ask, Deacon kept talking "You don't have that and I should let you make that play. But what you gave me, Cassidy, not gonna let you make that play. So you want shot of me, I'm standin' right here. Now you say the words."

"Are you crazy?" I whispered, knowing he was because there was no way in hell he could think I was shot of him.

Him shot of me, yes.

Me shot of him...

Absolutely not.

"You quit callin'," he stated.

I finally moved, turning in my seat and keeping my eyes glued to his.

"You did too."

"I was workin'," he clipped.

I felt my eyebrows shoot up. "For weeks, without a moment to phone just to say hey?"

"For weeks, without a moment to phone and say hey," he confirmed, his words still terse.

"Seriously?" I asked.

"Seriously," he answered shortly and kept going. "Situation was not good. It was intense. And there were people there I did not know, I did not like, and I did not trust. No way in fuck I'm gonna take a call and expose shit to those fuckers. And no way I could take a call from you and not expose you mean somethin' to me. Since I was with them practically twenty-four fuckin' seven, I didn't take a call and I didn't make a call. Told you, I would not put you in danger. That world I live in, Cassidy, it does not exist for you and by that I mean you don't know that world and that world does not know you."

This made some sense, and some of it was very sweet.

However.

"So what's that mean, Deacon?" I asked. "Incommunicado for weeks with no idea when that incommunicado will end?"

"Fuck no," he returned. "It means you phone me so I know you're good and you're thinkin' of me."

Suddenly, I was over my shock he was there and this was because I was pissed.

"So I sit at home and give you that and I get nothing?" I pushed.

"You get knowin' it's good for me that I know I'm on your mind."

I had to admit, that would be a nice thing to give.

But when there's give, there should be get.

"And what do I get?"

"Woman, if you don't already know that you've been on my mind every day for the last six years, I got no clue how to communicate that to you. Now that I've had you, that shit has not changed. It's just got worse."

My back straightened and I started glaring. "Worse?"

"Worse," he confirmed on a downward jerk of his chin. "Now it's not every day. It's every hour. I don't fight it, every minute. Fuck, every second, I don't keep it in check. Every second, I'm thinkin' of you, thinkin' of gettin' shit done, but only so I can get back to you."

That was very, very sweet.

I was still pissed.

And this was because I got nothing from him, not one thing for a month!

"You didn't tell me that, Deacon."

"I fuckin' did, Cassidy."

"When?" I snapped.

He leaned toward me and shot back, "Every moment I was with you."

I drew in a sharp breath.

Because in that instant, I knew he was right.

"You're a vulnerability," he ground out. "My vulnerability. I have no vulnerabilities. I spent years shavin' every last one away from me so there was nothin' left. Now I got one, a big one, and I do not give one fuck as long as she's in Colorado, sittin' on her porch, waitin' for me to get back."

Oh my God.

"Deacon," I whispered, but got no further because he kept going.

"But I can't know she's doin' that if she doesn't," he leaned into me again, "phone me."

"What if I need you?" I asked softly, his words making me no longer pissed.

"Then you phone. You hang up. You phone again. You hang up. And you phone again. You keep phonin', Cassidy, I'll know I'm not just on your mind, I'm needed. And I'll phone back. But I'll do it on my way to you."

Oh yes.

I was no longer pissed, like at all.

It was then I stood and faced him, saying in a calming voice, "I couldn't know this, honey."

"Right. Then I'll educate you," he returned, his words still clipped, showing he could definitely get annoyed. "Those five men you had, not one of them was a man like me. A man like me, Cassidy, does not sit on a fuckin' chair on a fuckin' porch by a fuckin' river in the fuckin' Colorado Mountains and tell a woman he wants to be sittin' right there beside her when he's eighty if he does not mean that shit."

I felt my chin go back into my neck as I held his gaze, doing this to fight back the emotion his words rocketed through me.

Once I succeeded, I suggested, "Maybe we should get a system down."

The mask slipped but only for his face to darken on the words, "You're not shot of me?"

"Of course not," I answered. "I just...you didn't phone back so I thought you were shot of me."

"Here," he growled and I blinked.

"Deacon, I'm not a big fan of-"

"Future," he cut me off. "Assert your feminism when I'm not three seconds away from fuckin' you on your porch. I come to you, that's gonna happen. You come to me, maybe it won't."

Maybe?

I didn't ask that.

I asked, "So if you get your way and I come to you, you can miraculously control your base instincts?"

His reply?

"One."

My body jerked and my brows shot together as the meaning of that word hit me.

"Are you counting down-?"

"Two."

I planted my hands on my hips.

"You are!" I cried angrily. "You're counting-"

"Fuck it," he muttered, took two long strides, and I was in his arms.

Not only in his arms but his mouth was on mine and his tongue was sweeping inside.

That was when he was in my arms, seeing as I'd wrapped them around his shoulders.

The kiss was hard, it was heated, it was hungry, it was long, and it was beautiful.

Deacon ended it by shoving his face in my neck, his hand cupping the back of my head, guiding my face into his neck, his other arm holding me tight to his body.

As for me, I had one arm around his shoulders, fingers in his hair, one arm around him, forearm angled up his back.