Page 126 of Deacon

His eyes traveled down my sequined jumpsuit and diamanté heels, and he whistled under his breath.

Then he pulled me to his chest with one arm.

‘You look fuckin’ stunning, mama,’ he whispered into my ear, sending a jolt of static electricity down my spine. ‘Good enough to eat.’

‘Hey, behave,’ I warned him, laughing.

‘Not sure I can make that promise,’ he said, winking. ‘I’ll try, but I’m not one to let a moment get away from me.’

This man.

He claimed my waist, stroking the skin of my lower back, as he led me to the Bar on the thirty-first floor of the famous tower.

His touch seared me, each point of his fingers scorching me, making me feel more alive than I ever had, and sending shivers down my spine.

I tried to focus instead on the view of London unfolding through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.

We sat in sumptuous chairs in a secluded corner, with a stunning view of the panoramic skyline glowing as dusk bled into the night.

We scanned the mixed-drink menu, which celebrated iconic British figures through creative mixology.

As we ordered, we chuckled over their historical descriptions, from the Windsor Whisper and Fleming’s Remedy to a potent concoction named Churchill’s Vice.

I chose the Windsor Whisper, and when it came, it was divine.

Deacon went for a craft beer, and we sipped as we fell into easy conversation.

As night settled, the glittering city lights transformed the lounge into a romantic backdrop.

We decided to eat at the Bar and picked dishes to share.

We grazed on Portland crab perched on crisp focaccia toast and rich Wagyu beef sliders.

We wrapped up with an indulgent chocolate mousse, which we shared with a single spoon, fighting for the last bite, which Deacon conceded to me.

Our chemistry was through the roof.

Every time our hands or knees brushed beneath the table, my skin burned.

As we finished our second round of drinks, our eyes locked for a long moment, crackling with electricity.

Deacon bit his lip, then leaned in close, his knuckle tracing the line of my jaw.

His expression turned solemn, and my heart lurched.

‘This right here,’ he drawled, gesturing between us. ‘I hope this is not us playing games, because from where I’m sitting, you’re mine. You’ve always been mine. It’s always been you, Ana.’

His heated murmur and his claim jolted me, and I stared at him, unable to speak.

He went on, his beautiful eyes gleaming.

‘As far as I can see, you’d done settling for less. Hell, Ana, you know damn well I’m the only one who can handle you. You tried to run to Massimo, window-shopping for a basic life, but now you need to return to the real thing, to me, because no one else compares.’

I arched a brow at his audacity.

Unfazed, he went on.

‘I’ll give you the world, a family, our son, and ice on your wrist. Not because I have to, but because I want you to remember who always made you moan every time we’re tangled in the sheets. So don’t think I’m not coming hard for you. Don’t also treat me like the villain for wanting what’s mine. You know what we have is forever, and you can’t run from it.’