by Pam Godwin
CHAPTER 13
DECKER
My usual approach with women could be simplified with words such as chase and catch, hard and fast, in and out. But as I follow Laynee up the stairs and into the bedroom, the urge to grab her hair and drag her to the bed is overshadowed by the reason I’m chasing her.
For the first time in my life, I’m going to beguile a woman into removing her clothes to help her, rather than help myself. Though I’m not a fucking saint. I will most certainly enjoy the view.
“You have two options.” I prowl behind her, eying her luscious ass.
She stops in the center of the bedroom but doesn’t turn around.
“Option one. Keep your shirt on and tell me about the scar.” I pace a circle around her, my posture relaxed and casual. “Option two. Remove the shirt and keep your secrets tonight.”
Her eyes leap to mine, and I can’t read anything in her expression beyond the deer-in-headlights look.
“If you choose to go to bed without explaining the scar…” I ghost my fingertips along her jawline. “You’ll sleep without a shirt. Every night. In my arms.”
She turns her head away from my touch. “I get that what happened with those kids made you overly concerned and paranoid. I’m sorry for that. I really am.” With a deep breath, she steps back. “But you can take your controlling, high-handed ultimatums and shove them up your ass.” She stands taller, eyes blazing. “Let me remind you that you accepted this job for money. You’re getting paid to look pretty on my arm and keep your mouth shut. That does not include prying into my business. Whatever your incentive is—”
“You.” I shove my face in hers. “Your smile. Your body. Rigorous, mutually-pleasurable, savage sex. You are my incentive.” I prowl around her, gliding a knuckle along the curves of her shoulders and raising goosebumps on her arms. “I think Infidelity knew exactly what they were doing when they paired us together. You don’t need a submissive man who will conform to your orders and enable your misery. You need a man who will erase your insecurities, protect you from the shit that haunts you, and fight for and with you every time you push him away.”
Her chest heaves. Her chin juts out, and her fingers curl at her sides.
“You want to treat me like a hired escort?” I stop in front of her and hold my hands loosely behind my back. “Remove your clothes and get your ass on the bed. I’ll make you come for hours with my fingers, my mouth, and my cock. You won’t even have to talk to me. You’ll get what you paid for, and I’ll get my money. Because that’s all I am to you.”
Her nostrils flare, and her eyes turn to slits.
“You don’t like that?” Frustration vibrates through my voice. “Too fucking bad. Unlike the last two men you let into your body, I’m not going anywhere. When I fuck you, you’ll beg me to stay. You’ll beg every fucking night. If all I am is a whore for you to prance around in front of the cameras, I’m going to be a whore in every sense of the word.”
“You’re not a whore.” A sheen of wetness glazes her eyes. “You don’t understand how difficult this is for me.”
“Then help me understand.”
She stares at my chest, and her entire body begins to shake. I’m tempted to back down, because goddammit, I want to shelter and comfort her, not tear her apart. But she needs to push past this paralyzing apprehension, an effort that may unleash some painful emotions. I can’t protect her from that, but I’ll help her through it.
I gave her a choice. She’ll either tell me about the scar tonight, or she’ll show it to me. I’ve already seen it, so I’m not surprised when she reaches for the hem of her shirt and lifts it upward.
It’s an agonizingly slow reveal. Her arms tremble, and her breathing quickens with each inch of bared skin. I ache to remove her hands and complete the task for her. But this is her milestone, a significant one if she hasn’t shown her body to another man in two years.
When the shirt clears her head and drops to the floor, I’m gifted with an arresting view of creamy flawless skin and full globes of flesh overflowing from a pink lace bra. Her tiny waist curves in like an hourglass, the jeans low and snug on her narrow hips.
Expressionless, she gathers her hair over one shoulder and twists it into a golden rope down her chest.
“You’re exquisite,” I say in a guttural voice.
Her face falls. She closes her eyes, covers her quivering lips, and shakes her head. I don’t understand her reaction until she pivots and gives me her back.
A shocked sound claws up my throat, and I snap my mouth shut before it escapes. I don’t see the scar near her tailbone, not amid the war zone of welted flesh.
I can’t even begin to count how many puckered white marks riddle her shoulder blades and both sides of her spine. Her back is a soul-gutting battlefield of brutality, and low on her waist is the outlier, the scar I spotted in the kitchen. It’s separated from the rest as if whatever marred her back swung wide and wildly off to the side.
I have to remind myself to breathe. My vision blurs, and my head pounds with questions. Her injuries were neither accidental nor methodical. Someone punctured her over and over, viciously, intently, with a rancor and vehemence of passion.
My hands shake violently, and my gut coils with anguish. I need to say something, but I’m at a loss for words. She won’t want my pity, and by removing her shirt, she chose the option that frees her from answering my questions.
Then I’m hit with dumb realization. Someone attacked her back, and here I am, towering over her, behind her, more than twice her size, needlessly putting her in a vulnerable position.
With deep, even breaths, I slowly lower to my knees. A tremor skates up her spine. She wraps her arms around her torso and stands still. I hate the silence between us, but I keep my mouth shut, afraid I’ll spook her.
On my knees and eye-level with the lower points of her shoulder blades, I’m in arm’s reach of every part of her body. I start at her feet, lightly curling my fingers around her ankles.
She shifts slightly and tips her head forward, watching my hands. I glide them up the fronts of her legs, feathering my fingers over the denim as I touch my forehead to her back. She pulls in a ragged breath, holds it, and releases it with a gentle sigh.
An exhilarating rush of warmth fills my chest. She’s not running away, not shoving at my hands. This is the most I’ve ever touched her, and I don’t want to stop.
When my caresses reach the bare skin above her waistband, she shivers. I keep going, leaning back to skim my palms across her back. Some of the scars bump against my fingers, but most are smooth and soft to the touch. Her chest heaves faster, harder, as I stroke each wound. I’m so fucking proud of her for not jerking away.
I’m also insanely and inappropriately aroused. I can’t help it. She feels so damn warm and feminine and small in my hands. The impulse to trap her in my arms and fuck her to orgasm heats my muscles and fires my pulse. I want this woman at a primitive, carnal level, but I’m overcome with another stronger sensation, an emotion that goes so much deeper than sex. Possessiveness? Loyalty? Admiration? I feel all those things and more.
My fingers bump against the bra strap. I raise my head to watch the tension in her shoulders as I undo the hooks.
She doesn’t jerk when I slide the straps off her arms. Doesn’t flinch when I rub my hands up and down her back. Doesn’t so much as breathe when I caress each and every scar, trying and failing to count them all. There’s at least fifteen…twenty… I give up as my blood pressure rises with the need to avenge every strike that impaled her beautiful body.
Sliding my knees against the backs of her feet, I press against her tiny frame and wrap my hands around her hips. She’s so small my fingers meet at her navel. I could crush her without effort, and I know she knows this, which makes her cooperation profoundly significant.
“Thank you.” I touch my lips to her spine. “For giving this to me. I can’t imagine what it’s cost you, but it’s a gift I won’t take for granted.”<
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“Twenty-six.” She grips my fingers, holding them against the hollow of her belly. “Twenty-six stab wounds.”
My throat closes up, and my heart slams against my ribs.
Someone stabbed her twenty-six times. Someone she trusted. Is the motherfucker running free? In prison? Dead?
Red clouds my vision, and adrenaline swamps through my veins.
“No questions,” she whispers. “Not tonight.”
“Right.” I swallow, breathe, and curse my stupidity in giving her that option. “No questions.”
“But you’ll hold me?” Hope threads through her voice. “I can sleep in your arms?”
Everything inside me reacts. The bones in my fingers, the blood beneath my skin, the air in my lungs, the beat of my heart—all of it stretches, lifts, and reaches for her.
Her walls might not have fallen, but they’re bending. She’s bending. Everything has changed.
I hook my arms around her hips and breathe against her back, “I want that more than anything.”
CHAPTER 14
LAYNEE
My heart hurtles on a loop of whatamIdoing-whatamIdoing-whatamIdoing? I force down the panic, because deep down, I know Decker’s intent is to help me, not hurt me.
But his concern is what scares me the most. He’s gorgeous and commanding and confident. Add magnanimous into the mix and I don’t trust myself around him. I have an addiction, and he’s my poison. Once I sample him, I’ll keep going back until my need becomes compulsive and interferes with my life, my job, and my well-being.
But he’s not going to let my protests against sex slide much longer. He can have any woman he wants, and apparently, he doesn’t go without. Not if a month is his longest dry spell.
I hate the possessive ferocity that bubbles inside me when I think about him with other women. It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind him he signed an agreement that made him mine for a year. But that would sound desperate and crazy. Because it is. Especially when I won’t let him fuck me.
I want him to fuck me. I want it so badly I think of nothing else. It’s been too long, and to say I enjoy sex is an understatement. I crave it. Too much. Watching Reese with other men gives me vicarious pleasure, but it’s not the same as being held in strong arms, trembling beneath adoring lips, and fusing with another body, heart, and soul.
And this is the problem. I can’t fuck without pouring my emotions into it. When I’m with a man, he’s my everything. His opinions, his desires, his every wish means the world to me. I want to please him and make him happy. But it’s too much power to give a person. I learned that the hard, painful way.
Reese was the solution for this, and it worked fine with the last two men I had sex with. They were submissive and nonthreatening. Reese never left the room, and I kept my clothes on. The temptation to make it more than a physical act didn’t materialize. I intended to treat whoever Infidelity paired me with the same way.
But they sent me Decker Gabrielli.
Kneeling behind me, he uses his grip on my waist to turn me to face him. I’m tempted to cover myself, but he saw my scars. Showing him my bare chest pales in comparison.
Or so I thought.
He lifts his eyes, and his hands tighten on my hips. His pupils dilate, and a slow smile builds on his beautiful mouth. He’s so much taller than me that even on his knees, his face is right there, level with my boobs, his breath warm and tantalizing against my skin.
My nipples harden, and he growls low and deep, like an animal. A hungry, sexy, top-of-the-food-chain animal. He might be on his knees, but he’s the one in control, orchestrating every move, and making me wait for whatever comes next. Hell, he manipulates the speed of my pulse, the throb between my legs, and every damn breath I take.
I’m in trouble. I recognize all the warning signs—the flutter in my belly, the wetness between my legs, the overwhelming need to curl up in his arms—yet I can’t stop the words from shooting past my lips. “If I’m sleeping without a shirt, so are you.”
“I’ve never slept with a shirt on.” He raises a hand to run the backs of his fingers across my collarbone, the hollow of my throat, and down my breastbone, making me shiver. “I know you’ve noticed.”
Of course, I notice. It was a stupid thing to say, but I’m standing here topless while he’s fully dressed. “It’s late. I need to get ready for bed.”
“You’re skipping your ridiculous ritual tonight.”
“No, I have to—”
“You’re fucking gorgeous, Laynee.” He stands, reaches behind his head, and yanks off his shirt. “And it has nothing to do with that shit you put on your face.”
His hands drop to the button on his jeans, drawing my attention to the taut abs on display. He unzips, shoves down the denim, and kicks it away. The tight black briefs leave little to the imagination, and his unruly hair looks sexier now than it did when he styled it this morning.
I have to avert my eyes to focus on what he said. “I’m forty years old, Decker. If I skip my beauty regime—”
“You’ll still be the second hottest woman in existence.”
The second? A smile pulls at my lips. “Who’s the first?”
“Megan Fox,” he says in a tone that blows past of course and goes straight to facepalm.
“Yeah, Megan’s a sweetheart. She’s also married. They’ve been together since she was eighteen.” I sigh. “When he’s not riding her coattails, he’s holding her back from her career. It’s a shame.”
“You don’t have a very high opinion of men.”
“There’s a lot of assholes in my industry.”
“You know…” His fingers curl around mine. “I was teasing you about Megan Fox.”
“You don’t have to say that. I’m not—”
“I mean it. You have a classy, vivacious kind of beauty that no one can mimic. The kind of beauty that turns me into an idiot every time I look at you.”
His compliment hits me in the knees. Why does he have to be so nice? He’s thoughtful and charming and impossible to resist.
So was Blake. Until he got what he wanted from me—a successful career. What’s Decker’s motivation?
Your smile. Your body. Rigorous, mutually-pleasurable, savage sex.
If sex with me is his incentive, what will he do after he gets it?
The scars on my back twinge at the thought.
He circles behind me and rests his hands on my hips. “I’m going to remove your jeans.” Hovering his mouth over my shoulder, he breathes against my neck. “I’ll let you keep the panties on…tonight.”
Goosebumps race up my spine, and I grab the hands inching toward my fly. “Wait.”
“Laynee.” His voice is deep and measured, stroking all my pleasure centers. “I know I said no questions, but I need to ask.” He presses a kiss to my shoulder. “Were you attacked from the front or the back?”
I close my eyes, grateful he can’t see the shame contorting my face. “The front.”
“So when I’m facing you and wrapping my arms around your back…”
“It can be a trigger. Sometimes.” I stare at my feet, breathing through the crushing handicap of my emotions. “Not always.”
“Okay.” Remaining behind me, he unbuttons my fly and hooks his thumbs beneath the waistband.
My pulse quickens. “I need to at least moisturize my face.”
I need to escape the seductive heat of his chest against my back, the drugging scent of his masculinity, and the confident fingers dipping into my pants. But when I pull away, he yanks me right back.
“If you go in that bathroom, you won’t come out for an hour. I’ll get the fucking lotion.” He wriggles my jeans down my hips and stops to spread his hands over my lace-covered butt cheeks. “Jesus, your ass is incredible. Standing here in your panties and all those scars, you look like a badass warrior princess.”
I laugh, because it’s just so…unexpected. He is unexpected.
After he removes my jeans, he drops a kiss on my
neck and heads to the bathroom with a gait that’s so fundamentally male and powerful. He’s impeccably built, from the breadth of his shoulders and the inverted V of his back to his tight ass and sinewy calves. After training with him for a month on the wrestling mats, I’ve become achingly familiar with every muscular inch of his body.
When he disappears beyond the doorway, I sit cross-legged on my side of the bed and hold the covers against my chest. He returns a moment later, carrying a bottle of body lotion.
“That’s not facial moisturizer.” I tuck the sheet beneath my arms, wearing it like a bath towel.
He stares at the label in confusion. “It’s lotion.”
For dry elbows. It’ll probably clog my pores and give me acne, but whatever. He fetched it for me when he could’ve been a dick about it. I hold out my hand, silently asking for the bottle.
“Lie back.” He kneels on the mattress beside me and squirts a dollop on his fingers.
“You’re going to do it?” Another laugh escapes my lips. When was the last time I laughed this much?
“Yes. Why is that so funny?”
“I don’t know.” Grinning, I lower to my back and hold the sheet to my chest. “Have you ever done this before?”
“Can’t be any different than applying sun lotion.” He catches the grimace on my face. “I’ve never put any kind of lotion on a woman.” He leans over me, straddles one of my thighs, and smears the cream across my forehead, down the bridge of my nose, and on my cheeks. “Your jealousy turns me on.”
“I’m not jealous.”
With a smirk, he wipes the lotion across my lips. When the chemical taste hits my tongue, I spit it out and burst into laughter because he’s laughing, and holy hell, I love that deep rumbling sound. We continue to laugh for no reason at all, and eventually drift into shared smiles and heavy breaths. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the knee denting the mattress between my legs.
The air around us stirs as the mood changes and intensifies. His rapt attention on my face dries my throat. His unwavering attention holds me in place, and his body, while unnaturally still, seems to be sinking on top of me, his weight growing heavier by the second.