A/N: Happy birthday, L; It's still your birthday in LA.

October 31st, 1988

The room was eerily silent given the party happening through paper-thin walls and one flimsy door; the deep bass tones filtered through, some vaguely recognizable song playing in the background. Deacon tuned it out, focusing instead on the sound of their breathing—his and Rayna's breaths were coming shallow as they stared at each other; this felt like a big moment. Sex, for Deacon Claybourne, in any incarnation, had never been a big moment—but things, he was learning, were different with Rayna.

Seeing the look on her face, the desire raw and unfiltered, Deacon felt the wood of the door against his back and he was convinced that was the only thing holding him up. Deacon Claybourne, weak in the knees; the though should have unnerved him, should have made him stop this in its tracks, no matter where it was going. But instead, it comforted him. He wanted to be vulnerable with no one but Rayna.

"Rayna," He stared at her, unblinking, convinced that if he broke eye contact the moment would be gone, convinced that the desire in her eyes would be replaced by the anger and shame he had expected—or worse, fear. He didn't trust his voice to say anything but her name, wasn't sure he'd be able to speak.

Rayna held his gaze, staring at him intently, the blue of her eyes suddenly dark and curious; they were a deep shade he'd never seen them before. "Show me, Deacon," Rayna whispered, her voice raw and gritty; she'd never sounded like that before, and if she hadn't been completely sure that she and Deacon were alone in this small room, she may have turned to try to search for the speaker, because it surely couldn't be her, two glasses of Boone's Farm or not. "Show me what you do to yourself when you think of me." Rayna's voice was breathy, deep, and smoky—a word from eleventh grade English popped into her head: wanton. She sounded wanton.

She felt like she should feel embarrassed, but there was a hot flame coursing itself through her body, and it felt at once unfamiliar and like it had been a part of her forever. The flame licked at any embarrassment until every corner of her body felt alight. She wanted this, she wanted to see him like this—for him to let her see him like this, even if it meant she would never be the same again. The thought scared her; but more than that, it exhilarated her.

Deacon's mouth dropped open, and he felt his jeans tightening as the blood rushed through his veins despite his best efforts to keep it in place—he'd never seen Rayna like this. He'd never even dared to imagine her like this. "Rayna, you don't have to…" He started, but stopped short when she took a step towards him. He moved to back up, but his back pressed into the door.

"I know," Rayna whispered, her voice gentle as she closed the gap between them. She reached out and touched the back of his hand lightly as she rose up on her toes to plant a soft kiss to his lips, "Show me."

She stepped back, and Deacon moved from the door, watching in awe as Rayna settled herself on the end of his bed. "Rayna, I…" He tried to protest one more time; it sounded weak even to his ears. The pressure was building in him, spurred on by every fantasy he'd ever had about her playing in succession in his head.

"It's okay," She said, quietly, "I want to see." When he didn't move, she started to second-guess herself—maybe she was being too bold, maybe this was something she shouldn't ask of him, maybe this is something she shouldn't want to see. But just as quickly as the doubts came into her mind, they vanished. In this moment, there was nothing she had ever wanted to see more. And there was nothing between she and Deacon that could ever be wrong, far as she could see. "Please?"

His promise to Watty cracked like lightning in his mind, but it was gone just as fast. Promises be damned, he'd never felt about anyone the way he felt about Rayna. His decision made, he walked slowly across his room. The room was dark, but there was moonlight mixed with porch-light pouring itself through the closed blinds and their eyes had fully adjusted to the half-dark. He settled himself into a chair in the corner of his room, moonlight dancing across his lap.

Deacon watched Rayna as her chest rose and fell, a strip of moonlight painted perfectly across her chest as she perched on the edge of his bed, watching him carefully. Her eyes widened as she realized his answer.

Deacon brought his hand to the button on his jeans, his fingers idly playing with the gold button for a moment. "I don't want to scare you." He said it simply, watching her face as his finger traced the outline of his button. He didn't want to ruin anything between them, he needed to not ruin anything between them.

"Do I look scared?" Rayna asked, her voice dropping lower than he'd ever heard it before.

Deacon looked at her, took in her parted lips, her red skin, her hooded eyes. She didn't look scared at all, she looked the exact opposite—she looked turned on. Still, he had to be sure; it was too important. His eyebrows shot up in question, "Are you sure about this, baby?" He asked, his voice echoing in the tiny room despite the softness with which he asked the question.

Rayna's tongue darted out and slid across her lips. She stared at him, unblinking, "Yes," she cleared her throat, "I'm sure, Deacon."

Stifling a groan as he watched her tongue move across her lips again, Deacon popped the button open on his fly and slid the zipper down, the noise loud in the otherwise quiet room. He lifted his hips and slid his jeans down over them, his plaid boxers tented by his obvious arousal. He glanced at Rayna, watching her face for any signs of apprehension. Finding none, he hooked his thumbs into his boxers and worked them down over his hips, never taking his eyes from Rayna's.

She was still looking at his face, watching his muscles twitch and move until her eyes finally snapped down; her eyes widened slightly as she looked at him, exposed. She'd had health class and had seen the occasional jock streaker at the private school she attended, but she'd never seen this. She couldn't take her eyes away from him, and her mouth was suddenly dry, every ounce of moisture leeched from her body… except—she licked her lips and swallowed hard, watching as he curled his hand around his base.

She watched his hand slide up himself, tan skin over tan skin, and Rayna shifted against the bed, the fire in her blood spreading without rhyme or reason until she felt her entire body flush. Deacon's hand moved slowly, up and down, then back up again, and Rayna suddenly wished it was her hand moving against him. She wondered what he would feel like in her palm, how her hand would feel to him. She didn't dare move, though, for fear he would misinterpret and stop.

"God, Deacon," She breathed, but she couldn't find the words for much else as she watched him guide his hand over himself and back again, his pace alternately speeding up and then slowing down again. It was sensual; she wasn't sure what she had expected, but she found herself drawn in to his fluid movements. There was something so forbidden about what she was witnessing—something he'd done privately for so long, but it didn't feel taboo to her. It felt beautiful. "I've never seen anything so…" She trailed off, unable to find the exact right word to finish her sentence. It was on the tip of her tongue, but she lost it.

She chanced a glance at his face and he was watching her intently; his blue eyes were dark and hooded, and the look in them sent a deep stab of something directly into her stomach. It made her feel out of control in a way she never had before. It radiated out and down, and she shifted her position, trying to alleviate any of the pressure building within her. Suddenly, Deacon closed his eyes, and Rayna dropped her gaze back to his lap, watched his hand move in slow, steady strokes.

"What do you think about, Deacon, when you do this?" She asked, suddenly curious.

Deacon's eyes snapped open and his hand stilled, his thumb moving in lazy circles against himself. The trepidation on his face was clear—he watched Rayna for a moment, watched for any sign she might be scared, that this might not be what she wanted, that she was in too deep and wanted out. But all he saw was pure lust rolling off her in waves, "You." He whispered, his voice strained as he moved his hand again. "I think about you."

"What am I doing when you imagine me?" Rayna asked, wondering if it was the desire coursing through her or the Boone's Farm that gave her so much courage. Wanton the word came again and she nearly smiled.

"God, Ray," Deacon breathed, "Not this." He said, chuckling a little. At her look, he rushed to correct himself, "I just meant… I wouldn't have imagined you liking something like… this."

Rayna let a slow smile flit across her face as she shifted in her seat, "I do," She said, a bit of shyness creeping back into her voice, "I do like it." Rayna considered him, watched his hand moving quicker now than it had before; she glanced up at his eyes and felt momentarily stunned. No one had ever looked at her the way he was looking at her now—it was intoxicating, more than any of the apple wine she'd had tonight. "Do we have sex in your fantasies?" Her voice was quiet, tentative, and she dropped her eyes back down to his lap.

Deacon let out a small grunt, "Sometimes." He admitted, too far gone and too close to even consider being cautious, to consider not telling the truth.

Rayna looked at his face again. His eyes were closed now and he had a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. He looked beautiful—there was no other word to describe him in that moment. She had wondered what her first sexual experience would be like in the same way all girls do—in the abstract. But she never could have imagined it would be this, that it would feel like this—it felt so personal, so intimate, so unabashedly tender that her heard swelled.

"What do you think about most often?" Rayna asked, watching the muscles on his face twitch a little as his hand continued its motions.

Deacon's eyes opened again, and they made eye contact. He watched her drink him in, watched as her eyes skated down his neck, his chest, his torso, until they landed on his hand. Rayna licked her lips and he damn near lost it—then her eyes snapped back up to his.

"Tell me." She whispered, her voice barely carrying over the extraneous noise coming into the room from outside.

"I think about…" Deacon started, wondering how to phrase it. He thought about Rayna a lot, always in different ways, but there was one that he had to admit came more frequently than most, "My mouth… on you," Deacon said, working his hand faster. "I want to know how you taste."

Rayna's eyes widened, and her mouth formed into a little 'o.' She breathed out heavy and hard and her skin flushed a deep shade of crimson. Rayna let out a little whimper, and then a moan as the graphic images of Deacon flashed in her mind.

The sounds she made were Deacon's undoing, and his hand worked faster and faster until his eyes slammed shut and his release overtook him, a groan falling from his lips as he whispered her name. He could hear a humming in his ears, his blood rushing through his veins as his body trembled. When his pulse finally began to slow, he opened his eyes cautiously, worried about what he might find on Rayna's face. Worried that he might have just ruined everything between them.

She was staring at him, a small smile forming on her lips, "That was…" She started, shaking her head. Her smile grew, "The hottest thing I've ever seen," She finished, her throat still dry.

Deacon chuckled and then grabbed a clean hand towel from the bookshelf next to the chair, "Only because you couldn't see yourself watching me." Deacon said, cleaning himself off. He slipped his boxers back up over his hips and tossed the towel in the hamper.

Deacon moved closer to Rayna, and then gently sat down next to her on his bed. He slipped his hand into her hair, his thumb caressing her cheekbone softly. "You," he said, his voice slow and sweet, "Are something else, Rayna Jaymes." He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers, his tongue sliding slowly into her mouth. Rayna relaxed into him and Deacon marveled at the feel of her soft lips against his. He deepened the kiss, his hand tangling further into her hair—he pulled back and bit on her lip, gently.

Rayna rested her forehead against his, her breathing heavy, her mind racing.

"What do you want, baby?" There was no mistaking the tenderness in his voice when he spoke to her. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out, "You can tell me," He whispered softly.

"I want… you to hold me. I want to sleep here tonight, Deacon." Rayna whispered, then leaned in to kiss him.

Deacon smiled against her mouth, "Of course. You sleepy, baby?" He asked. At her nod, he moved to his dresser and pulled out a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt. He turned his back as she brought her hands to the button of her skirt, and he tried to think about anything other than the sound of Rayna's clothes rustling, being stripped from her body his room.

"Okay," She said softly, and Deacon turned back around. She was wearing the shirt he'd given her, but little else. The sight sent the blood rushing through his body again.

"Let me see you in that," Deacon breathed as his eyes drank in the sight of her in his t-shirt. The shirt was dark black, a beautiful contrast with her creamy skin, evident even in the near-dark. A silver square was printed on the front with text stretched across her breasts: Johnny Cash Silver. His favorite shirt had never looked better.

Rayna smiled, then crawled into his bed like she'd been sleeping there for years. The thought made Deacon smile and he crawled in next to her. She curled into his chest as he brought the blankets up around them. The scent of laundry detergent and aftershave wafted up around them and Rayna snuggled into him tighter letting out a small contented sigh. Deacon wrapped his arm around her, enjoying the warmth of her body against his.

The music filtering in from outside was quieter now, slower; the chorus of Cheap Trick's The Flame made it's way through the thin walls and Deacon charted out the chords against Rayna's slender bicep. The voices of stragglers from the party were quieter now, too, soft murmurs barely heard through the windows. It was growing late, nearly midnight now.

Deacon's thumb switched from chords and started drawing lazy circles on Rayna's shoulder. "You know," Deacon's voice was quiet, reverent, "I'd never…" He tipped her chin up to him with his thumb so she was looking at him, "I'd never done that… in front of someone before."

Rayna smiled, "Really?" She wasn't stupid. She knew Deacon had been with women before, probably lots of them—she'd never allowed herself to think she might be the first of anything for him. The thought pleased her—that no one had ever seen what she just saw sent a tight coil directly into her belly.

He nodded, "Really." Deacon dipped his head and kissed her tenderly. She tasted of Boone's Farm and something he'd come to describe as purely Rayna, unlike anything he'd ever tasted before—equal parts sweet and salty. It was a heady combination, and he deepened the kiss, exploring her mouth with his tongue. She kissed him back with fervor, matching his passion and making little noises at the back of her throat as she clutched at his back, his hair.

She was coming undone, the fire stoked in her belly yet again. She pulled away from him, "I want…" She whispered against his lips, her breath sweet, "Deacon, I want to…" She said, shifting her legs against him, writhing. She whimpered a little as Deacon pulled his head back from her slightly, watching her face.

Rayna pressed her eyes closed, and suddenly Deacon understood her meaning.

"Do it, baby," He whispered, his voice heavy.

Rayna's eyes opened and she bit her lip, then uncurled her hand from his bicep and rolled onto her back. Deacon nuzzled into her side, planting kisses along her jawline. He watched as her hand dipped underneath the covers and disappeared. A moment later, her head was back and her eyes were closed, the sheets softly rustling.

Deacon concentrated on her face, watching as her eyes fluttered open and closed. He was transfixed by her; even though he couldn't see it, he was transfixed by her hand between her legs. He kissed her neck, then traveled upward, leaving open-mouthed kisses everywhere he went until he finally landed on her ear.

He traced the shell with his tongue, "You're so beautiful, Rayna," He whispered, then he bit her ear gently, "This is the sexiest thing I've ever seen," He said, his voice dropping even lower. "You're the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

At his words, at the feel of his warm breath against her ear, she felt herself going over the edge—the shudders wracked her body and she bit back a moan, still conscious of the murmuring voices just outside his window. When the wave finished, washing over her, she lazily opened her eyes and stared at Deacon.

"Wow," She grinned, then yawned.

"My thoughts exactly," Deacon said, nuzzling against her neck. He placed a soft kiss on her pulse point, enjoying the rapid beat of her heart under his lips.

"Deacon, I…" She stopped, unsure, "I…" She tried again, but the words wouldn't come.

Deacon propped his head up on his arm and looked at her, "What, baby?"

Rayna saw the concern clouding his face, and she knew it was true—what she'd felt growing since that day on those winding trails behind Watty's house. "Never mind," She said, she'd been brave enough tonight. She smiled at him, then kissed his cheek, "Tell you later," She said, her eyelids growing impossibly heavy.

Deacon dropped his head back down to the pillow, "Alright," He agreed, then kissed her temple. He glanced at the clock, "Happy All Saints Day, baby." He whispered, pulling her tighter against him.

"Mm," She agreed, wiggling into him, enjoying how safe she felt in his arms; the warmth emanated from him and she drew zig-zagged lines on the back of his hand, his steady breathing comforting her.

And then sleep came for her, one final thought leading her directly to her dreams: Deacon Claybourne was going to be her first, and he was going to be her last.