Second Chance Hero (34 page)

I laugh, and it feels so good to do it without being
in pain. I love this girl and her smart mouth.

“What I’ve been doing while you’ve been playing
receptionist and stocking the cupboards with sweets...”

“Do I want to know?” She asks, proof I knew exactly
what she was thinking.

“I think so,” I nod towards the tree, and pull her
out of her seat to follow me. I stop under the branch and jump up to grab it.
My leg still smarts when I do it, but I can get down and land on one leg so
it’s worth it.

Jenna screams and covers her hand with her mouth.
She’s been doing that a lot lately, and I realise she’s replaced her cheek
biting with bursts of emotion. More proof of how much she’s changed; when we
were younger she used to bite her cheek so she’d keep whatever she was
thinking, contained. She never wanted to let anyone know how she felt, or draw
attention to herself. Looking back I think she always had all my attention. But
she’s so confident in herself now, and I admire her for bringing herself out of
her shell.

“Deac, what are you doing?” I open my eyes and she’s
tugging on my good leg, “Get down. Your mother will kill me.”

I laugh again, and then again because it feels so
good. When I look back and notice Jenna glaring at me I pull myself up onto the
branch and sit with my legs either side of it. Leaning down, I support my
weight on one hand, extending the other to Jenna.

“You can't pull me up,” she shakes her head and
scraping her hands through her hair, “you’ll fall out.”

“Try me.”

I can pull her up; she’s lost a load of weight and
only seems to eat at lunch time, when I’m most active. I know she’s worrying,
but I’m better. I have flashbacks of the accident; I remember everything now, although
I try to keep that to myself. And my body is better too, thanks to my
determination to get into Jenna’s pants.

“If you fall I’ll break your other leg myself.” She
takes a deep breath, puffing her cheeks out when she exhales and grabs my hand.

As if she were a feather, I pull her up to my level
and she clambers to sit opposite me, her legs swinging either side of the
branch, her bare feet brushing my legs. It’s an incredible feeling, being
elevated with Jenna’s touch on my skin and nothing but a bit of tree holding us
up.

“So what are you walking me through?” She leans
forward and setting her hands on top of mine.

Jesus, I had this all planned out. I couldn't work
out when she went out yesterday, because of the rain. I didn’t even ask her to
go; she just left, leaving a note stuck on the door telling me she loves me.
She’s pissed off with me, but she still leaves little random notes everywhere.
I love it – it’s like a love note treasure hunt, and I can't wait for the next
one.

“I love you.”

I tell her again. I make sure I tell her a many
times as possible every day. Another reason why this moment, right now is so
important, and why I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve asked Jenna to
tell me what she’s thinking or feeling. You never know when you’ll run out of
chances.

She nods, “I love you too,” I take a shaky breath,
wondering if I’m ready for this. And another, while I still decide, “You okay?”

“I’m good.” I answer and decide to man-up, “I looked
in the box.”

“You did?!” She shrieks, and I clear my throat.

“If things had gone the other way, I’d never have
known what he thought was so important.”

“I’m proud of you.” Jenna links her hands behind my
neck and kisses me. I should feel like a child; being told someone is proud of
you should be patronising, but I feel like king of the jungle. And then my mind
goes numb when Jenna takes my bottom lip in her mouth and I push back, greedily
exploring her mouth with my tongue.

“No.” I let go, leaving us both breathless, “I need
to say something first.”

“Okay.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear,
but it just falls straight back across her face, “But there’s nothing you could
tell me now that would get rid of me.”

She’s convinced I’m trying to get rid of her.

“There’s this one day that sticks in my head
clearly.” I start, as Jenna scoots closer and lifts her legs over mine. She’s
so close I can smell her, “Brad was being a dick and stormed out of the house
and I ended up having a long conversation with my dad. I was sixteen and that’s
when I decided I was going to run Dad’s business with him. We didn’t say
anything, really, just went round in circles talking about football or college
or something that was irrelevant.

“It was irrelevant until he mentioned you. We didn’t
talk about it, I didn’t tell him anything. But as soon as he said your name my
world stopped and all I could think about was you, where you were, what you
were doing, what you were wearing, because at sixteen, I loved your legs in
those little shorts you
still
wear. I’d never felt like that about you
before. You were ‘just Jenna’ until that day. I remember that’s the day I fell
in love with you. It was picturing your face, realising I missed you even
though I saw you for breakfast, wanting to see you smile and be the reason why,
wanting to taste your cakes even if they were nasty, just so no one else could.
That was the day I fell, and I’ve been falling for you ever since.”

“I don't know what to say.” She says, running her
hands up and down my forearms.

“Don't say anything yet.”

I rummage around in my shorts pocket, avoiding the
folded up paper I put there earlier and pulling out what I’m looking for.

“I know I said I’d let you pick, and I will do this
again when I can get on one knee,” I open my hand, revealing my grandmothers
engagement ring, “but I want you to have this ring, and I can't wait another
minute to ask you to marry me, Jenna.”

“Deacon.” Jenna gasps, pressing her hands on her
forehead, “Red... Oh my god.”

“I’ve been waiting since I was sixteen to do this.”

We’re consumed by silence as Jenna panics.

Jenna

            Deacon just asked me to marry him.

I’ve wanted it, imagined it my whole life, and now I
can't speak as I look down at the ring in the palm of his hand. It’s the
prettiest thing I’ve seen and I’m struggling to imagine it on my hand. It’s an
antique style white gold diamond ring, and when I edge closer I see the
familiar delicate leafy scroll pattern surrounding the diamond in the centre
and the three smaller ones either side of it. It’s amazing, and definitely his
grandmother’s – I remember she used to let me play with it when we visited her,
and more recently I’d admire it in pictures of her. I had no idea the ring had
been passed on; I thought Violet would have been buried with her most-treasured
possession. And now it’s being offered to me.

            “I know it’ll be hard for you to trust
me.” Deac says, drawing my attention away from the ring and to his oceanic
eyes, “We’re going to fight, you’re going to hate me, and I’m going to screw
up. But I’ll spend my whole life trying to make marrying me worth it.”

            I can't speak, and I know it’s killing
him, but I can't speak. I want to scream, to cry, to pass out. But mostly, I
need to breathe and I can't. I hear Deacon tell me he loves me, and then it’s
silent again.

            “Marry you?” Finally I manage to speak,
when I look at him and see my silence is breaking his heart, “I’ve wanted to
marry you my whole life.”

            Deac throws himself at me, breathing out
the tension and wrapping me in his steel embrace. His arms feel different, he
can move them. He isn’t tensing as he crushes me to his chest, and makes no
indication that he’s in pain. He’s better.

            He releases me and holds his hand out
palm-up for mine. I hold it out, but hesitate.

            “What would Violet say?” I ask,
wondering if she’d have wanted me to have this.

            “Put the ring on and I’ll tell you.”

            I drop my hand the rest of the distance
and cry as Deacon slides the filigree ring on my finger. It fits perfectly and
I can't resist touching it, twisting it around my finger to admire it, as I
used to do on Violet’s finger when she sat in her armchair by the window and
watched the tide come in and out. This ring feels like it was made for me. I
pray that Violet is happy that I’ve got it, and that Robert, Deacon’s
grandfather is happy the ring he proposed to his wife with back in the
twenties, is on my finger, as I promise to love his grandson forever. I don't
need to promise; I wouldn’t choose anything else if I had the option. Deacon is
my soul mate; there aren’t many people in this world who can say they have
found theirs, but I did. Twice.

            “Tell me.” I remind him, but he slides
out from under me and drops to the floor.

            I cry out as he hits the floor, but when
I open my eyes, he’s looking up at me grinning. How did he do that?

            “What are you? Immortal? You were broken
this morning.”

            He taps the side of his nose, “All part
of my master plan.”

            Oh, yes. The master plan to be a
superhero. He’s been my hero all my life. And now my... fiancé – I squeal
inward at the idea – is standing beneath the tree, with his arms open for me.

            “No.” I cross my arms, trying my best to
sound stubborn and show him I mean it, “Go and get a ladder or something.”

            Curse Deacon Reid and his incredibly
sexy and frustrating height. He’s got a broken leg and manages to jump from a
tree eight feet in the air. My vertically challenged body won't cope with
almost an extra three foot drop. I need a ladder.

            “I’m not getting a fucking ladder,” he
grins, “hurry up and jump down here. I need my fiancé.”

            There’s that word again and I almost
fall out of the tree. We’re free. I’m free to be his, he’s free to be mine. We
almost lost each other and it’s the biggest wake-up call. I’m his fiancé. And
he’s mine; my best friend, my forever. He’s my everything.

But I’m not jumping out of a tree into his injured
arms.

            I shake my head, but shriek loudly as
Deacon reaches up, grabs my ankle and pulls. I fall out of the tree, and time
slows down. I land in Deacon’s arms, but the force of his pull sends us both
falling to the floor, and I’m on top of him.

            “Have you broken something?” I panic,
pressing my palms all over his body to check for pain. Deacon crosses his arms
behind his head and takes a slow, leisurely deep breath.

            “Please.” He smirks, “Continue. I’m
enjoying the examination.”

            “Your master plan will be the...” I stop
and bury my head in Deacon’s chest.

            “It will.” He chuckles, stroking my
hair. How can he be so relaxed about what I nearly said? “But only if you don't
do as you’re told.”

            I sit up, settling my legs either side
of his hips, my hands pressed flat to his granite stomach, as Deac’s hands grip
my waist.

            “Do as I’m told?” I ask, watching him
lick his bottom lip and swallow, “I can do that.”

            There’s something about the way he looks
at me, and I submit wholeheartedly.

            “You promise?”

            Do I? Do I promise to do as I’m told?
Yes, I do and the thought of it is such a turn on. I nod, slowly, tightening my
grip on him.

            “You’re going to have to trust me,” he
says, sitting up slowly, “I’m not going to listen when you tell me to stop.
It’s because you think we shouldn’t, not because you don't want it, right?”

            I bite my bottom lip, and Deacon tugs it
free as I nod. I want him every minute of the day; I crave his hands, his
mouth, and his scent on my body. But I feel the panic building quickly. Deacon
was just in an accident, one where he nearly... We shouldn’t. We shouldn’t.

            “Stop.” He says, pushing me back so I
stand up, while he brings himself to his feet, towering above me and looking
down, “Trust me,” His blue eyes darken as he reaches out and pulls me flush
against him, “Trust me.”

            “I do.”

            Deac grabs a handful of my hair, tilts
my head to the side and crushes his mouth, hard and hungry, to mine. I want to
melt under his scorching touch as he leads me through the garden and into the
lounge; but I want to feel every second of this. I don't want to drown in the
sexual expertise that he possesses – I want to feel every part of our first
time together. Officially together.

            But I’m pressed against the wall, with Deacon’s
hands and mouth exploring my body. The heat rages through me, refusing to
settle in any one place as Deacon sets my body on fire. I pull him up and give
him everything I have in one kiss, moaning as he slides his hands up my vest
and under my bra to cup my breasts. I arch my back, pushing into his hands and
mumble something about how good it feels when he twists my nipples with his
fingers and his mouth finds my neck.

            I’m panting and breathless, when I
realise I'm out of my bra and Deacon is wrapping my arms around his neck. He’s
stepped back and takes a minute to look at me, stroking his fingers up and down
my waist. I shiver, but take the moment to make sure his head’s in the game and
he isn’t in pain.

            “Wrap your legs around me.” He orders,
completely in control.

            I feel myself shaking my head and
realise it’s me who needs to get their head in the game. I promised I’d do as I
was told, I told Deacon I trust him to do this for us. And here I am, over
thinking everything, and shaking my head like my body isn’t screaming out for
him.

             I love the smile that plays on his lips
as he runs his hands from under my arms, and down my waist, over my hips, down
my legs, and he bends as he grips me behind the knees and pulls me up into him.
I hold on tightly, worried we’ll fall, but Deacon holds me and turns around,
walking across the room with ease.

            He tilts his head as I work on his neck,
cherishing the salty taste of his skin, “Don't tell me to stop unless you mean
it.”

            There’s a wicked look in his eyes and my
body clenches in anticipation as Deacon continues to walk through the
downstairs of the house and into the kitchen. He swipes at the counter,
knocking mugs and glasses everywhere. The impatience and need for each other
bubbles over and the second he releases me on the counter, I’m tearing at his
t-shirt as he rips my vest down the middle. I tug the buttons on his jeans and
the denim opens; I can't help but smile, knowing what’s coming. I’ve been
waiting for his for so long, and I can't wait to feel him...

            I gasp as my breath escapes me in a
rush; Deacon rips the seam of my denim shorts, creating a skirt, and slides his
hand into my underwear. I drop my head to his shoulder as he eases two fingers
into me and circles his thumb over my clit, driving me crazy. His pace is mind
numbing and something about his aggressive and untamed pace sends sparks
through my body with every expert move. But his kisses on my shoulders, along
my collar bone and jaw are feather-light and I let out the moan I’ve been fighting,
finally able to draw a breath. I brush my finger across the blond trail of hair
below his bellybutton and head south, feeling him tense beneath my touch. All I
can do is fist the material of his boxers in my hand as the orgasm rips
unexpectedly through my body and I scream out Deacon’s name, gripping his
shoulder with my free hand. He’s smiling sexily, but I’m struggling to come
down from the high of his magic, and put up no resistance when he slides me off
the counter and lays me on the kitchen table. I smile through my
breathlessness, eager to get my hands around his cock that’s strained against
the material of his underwear. I’m almost desperate for him to slide through my
wetness and take my breath away again.

            But he keeps his distance, his hands on my
thighs the only contact and I squirm under his gaze as he drinks in my
appearance, naked except from my shredded shorts up by my waist and my
dishevelled underwear.

            “The table is the perfect height.” He
murmurs to himself and I wonder how he’s so calm when he’s been making his
desires clear for the last two weeks of us being at home around each other with
not so much as a make-out session. I, on the other hand am going crazy with the
need for him. Fuck delayed gratification, if Deacon is my reward, I want it
now.

            “For what?” I breathe, my voice slow and
raspy.

            He shakes his head, reaching for my
shorts, unzipping the zip and sliding it down my body. I lift my feet up on to
the table so I can lift my back to free the shorts.

            “Stay like that.” Deacon says sliding
the denim off and putting my legs back on the table. I see the hunger in his
eyes now. Finally.

            I stay frozen, my knees bent and my
heels resting on the edge of the table, while Deacon looks down at me. And then
he pulls up a chair and sits down, scooting in closer to me and grabbing my
ankles. I know what his intentions are, I know it’s coming, but there’s no way
to prepare for Deacon’s mouth and tongue on me. He was right; it’s entirely
life-affirming and I tremble beneath his touch. One finger slides deep inside
me and his tongue flutters over my clit, gentle and strong, high and low,
stroking and probing. It’s like an outer body experience; I can hear myself
screaming, begging him to stop, and then not to stop, and then just begging. I
don't know what for. But I’m lost in a sea of euphoric pleasure and I wish I
could bottle this and keep the sensation that is burning through me, with every
plunge of Deac’s tongue, and then his fingers. He’s everywhere and it’s too
much, but not enough. The flames ignite, and my body is on fire. I grip the
edge of the table, trying to fight the feeling that I'm sure will rip me apart.
But with a final command from Deac, telling me to let go, I fall from the
precipice and cry out my orgasm as my body trembles and shakes and the sweat
pours down my temples.

            I open my eyes when I hear the scraping
of the chair on the floor, and in one swift move I sit up and grip Deacon’s
arms as he leans over me. We’re nose to nose and I crush my mouth to his,
trying to kiss out my frustration and need, and whimper when his tongue invades
my mouth. I can taste myself and I feel his hands sliding underneath me. I wrap
my legs around him in preparation, feeling him rock hard against me, his
underwear the only thing that separates us.

            “I need you.” I pant, clawing at his
back, “No more. I need you now.”

            He nods, accepting that I’ve gone as far
as I can without him with me, and saunters out of the kitchen, his mouth
devouring mine, his arms hooked under mine and his hands in my hair, holding me
to him. I’m trapped in a perfect prison, and I have no desire to be free. A
door opens, but I keep my eyes closed, telling myself to trust him, and not
prepared to break out of the haze of kissing my fiancé like our lives depend on
it.