Once we drove through the gate of the Laurel Canyon house, Deacon took my face and pulled me toward him. He kissed me in the way only Deacon did, owning me, sending a message that my mouth was his. I gave in to it, letting his tongue flick against mine, letting his lips guide mine in a dance of ownership. Even his hand was part of the kiss, pressing my jaw open. I breathed him in. 

“Welcome back,” he said.