“Don’t move,” he ordered gruffly. Lighting two candles, he placed one on each side of the bed on the small oak nightstands. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Ruth glanced out the bedroom window, where the moon was shining through a covering of clouds above the tree line. It was so late…or early, she thought. Deacon stood at the edge of the bed and pulled his shirt up and over his head before letting it drop to the floor. Ruth stared. Hard. The candlelight reflected off his taut, tanned chest, and the delicate silver cross hanging from the chain around his neck. This man was amazing, no doubt about it. All she had to compare him to were the models and actors in magazines and movies, but real-life flesh and blood was better. Way, way better. He undid the top button of his fly and unzipped. Kicking off his shoes, he stepped out of his socks and then his jeans. Her heart raced with possibility, and all he had done was undress…and give her a promise. We’re not coming out until morning.
