Playing Fate (Endgame Series Book 1) by Leigh Ann Lunsford Page B

horizontal place to take their foreplay—half the people here are headed down the same course. I know this party is winding down. Part of me is ecstatic because I’m ready to revert back to my space, but I don’t want to say good night to Deacon. I feel hands slide around my hips, pulling me back, and as I’m starting to panic, “This is my dance,” vibrates from his chest directly to my pussy. ‘Whisper’ by Chase Rice is playing, and it’s sensual, sexy, and has me turning to wrap my arms behind his neck, pushing my hips into him, and the friction has me on the brink of coming, making me rub against him to ease this ache I’ve had all night.
    His chuckle helps me regain some sanity, and I allow him to sway us, minus me mounting him. I swear he is magic because he casts a spell upon me each time I’m in the same vicinity as him, and it’s getting harder and harder to fight. “If you hadn’t downed drinks like you were dehydrated I’d invite you for a sleepover.” I lift my head to look at him and open my mouth to accept. No words escape because his lips have covered mine. His tongue has taken residence in my mouth, and the fire he creates in my body is making me insane. “Not tonight. The next time you’re in my bed, you will be willing and sober.” He backs me to my door and kisses me once more, owning me, possessing every molecule of air. All too soon, he opens my door and directs me inside. “Lock it when I leave. Goodnight, Saylor.”
    What the hell just happened? He saved me from myself because I would have gone back to his house. I would have had my way with him. I would have begged him for his tongue on my body. He confuses the fuck out of me. Who does that? Deacon fucking Douglas is who.
     
     

     
     
    September fades to October, and we’re setting up for an epic Halloween bash. Our costumes are fabulous and all Avery’s doing. We are going as Fire, Hot, and Mild Taco Bell sauces. Avery took two pillowcases for each color and created dresses with ties up the side.
    Lee Lee is Fire, red with ‘Open quickly . . . I’m burning up in here!’ written across; Avery is Hot because I refused to wear orange. Her message ‘Why order a taco when you can ask it politely?’ I can’t help my laughter. My Mild in yellow has ‘Save a bun. Eat a taco.’ And I’m close to refusing to wear it. Besides the message, there is nothing to these flimsy ass costumes. As I’m shimmying in this thing, my eyes meet Avery’s ass . . . stamped with ‘Think outside the bun.’ I glance back, and it adorns all our asses.
    We’ve all fallen into a pseudo-routine. During the week we go to class. The guys have practice and workouts. I have continued doing their laundry for extra cash. Maybe once or twice a week we all eat together minus Deacon. I understand why he doesn’t do the weekday thing, wanting to keep Julie’s schedule. We alternate hosting parties, but that has quieted down some—the guys are in the thick of their rigorous routine with workouts and practice, mix in classes and homework, and there isn’t a lot of time. But Sundays . . . we order take-out and just hang. We do this early each week to allow time for Julie’s night routine, but Deacon still doesn’t show. Week after week his absence is noticed. It’s harmless, and he could bring Julie, but he chooses not to. I know it’s weighing everyone down. With all the changes growing up and college bring, they didn’t expect growing apart to be a factor. It hits Mason the hardest. He doesn’t say anything, but he watches the door until eight every Sunday, and like clockwork, his mood turns sullen.
    The nights Lee Lee and Avery work out, Deacon seeks me out. He catches me as I’m coming in from class or he’ll knock on the door. We don’t talk about what happened with us; he doesn’t push me for a repeat, but we watch Julie while she is in one of her baby activities and our conversations drift to the day we’ve had, upcoming plans . . . I