Devoted to Pleasure

by Shayla Black

  He didn’t deny her accusation.

  “You read the texts from my blackmailer.” She crossed her arms over her chest and fought tears. “Oh, my god. You w-watched . . .”

  She ran out of air and courage to finish that sentence and cringed into her seat.

  “I did.” A pained frown crossed his features. “I’m sorry I had to disregard your wishes. I’m sorry you’re upset.”

  “But you’re not sorry you did it.” She wanted to scream at him. Instead, the words came out barely loud enough to hear.

  “No. Your safety is more important than your embarrassment or my jealousy. So if I had to make that choice again, I would.”

  “Embarrassment is nothing. I’m humiliated! You saw what happened when I made one of the worst mistakes of my life. You watched another man fu—”

  “Don’t finish that sentence,” he warned. “What I watched was another man take what he wanted and not give a shit about you or your pleasure. I watched a player who should be strung up by his balls. What’s worse is that you’ve taken all the blame because he made you feel like a piece of ass.”

  He saw right through her.

  “I felt as if it was all my fault,” she murmured. “I was the one who broke down and needed comfort.”

  “But you needed a friend and he gave you an opportunist. This isn’t all on you, sweetheart. And everyone makes mistakes. Hell, I’ve made plenty of them.”

  On the one hand, she appreciated him trying to make her feel better. On the other . . . Shealyn had a hard time letting go of the guilt and shame.

  Curling her arms around herself, she wished she could snap her fingers and wake to find this whole evening had been a nightmare. “Did you watch all of the video?”

  With a resigned sigh, he nodded. “In order to get a shot of his face to send off for identification, I had to.”

  She’d feared that, but knowing that for a fact filled her with a gut-sick sensation. “How did that make you feel?”

  “Are you asking if I enjoyed it?” He shot her an incredulous stare. “I would have rather gouged my eyes out with hot pokers. I don’t know what conversation came before the sex, but I know you. You didn’t go into the dressing room with the intent to screw him for some cheap thrill.”

  She shook her head. “Other people might be equipped to handle casual sex and would think what happened was no big deal. I know some people even seek out the ‘thrill’ of semi-public sex because they find it exciting to go at it where they might be caught. But I went in upset. I got behind the door and started crying. He talked fast. He touched me a lot.” She hesitated to admit this, but Cutter knew pretty much everything now. “No one had even hugged me for months, much less desired me—except what was scripted in front of a camera. I was lonely. I was happy my sister had found someone she cared enough about to marry . . . but the news made me feel more alone. The guilt for that was tremendous. I don’t begrudge her happiness.”

  “You wanted some of your own,” he finished for her. “You don’t owe anyone an apology. Not me, not your fans, not your friends or family or the busybodies back home. You had a weak moment. It’s over. Make peace with it.”

  “I’ve tried to take responsibility for what I’ve done.”

  “To the point that you won’t let it go and won’t let anyone else help you,” he pointed out.

  “You’re right,” she admitted in defeat. “I guess what I’m most upset about is that I trusted Foster. I thought we were . . . friends, that he had my best interests at heart. I’m so afraid to put my trust in the wrong person again. Knowing you betrayed my privacy, fair or not, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve done it again.”

  “I didn’t do it to exploit you,” he growled. “I want to help you.”

  “I’m pretty sure if I had asked Foster, he would have said he was helping me, too.”

  He sent her an incredulous stare. “Are you comparing me to him?”

  “Maybe,” Shealyn barked back, then slinked deeper into her seat. “I don’t know. I don’t want to.”

  But she didn’t know how to stop the feeling of betrayal. She was a confused, swirling jumble of emotional mess—and she hated every minute of it. One of the worst realities? She’d awakened this morning believing that nothing could shake her faith in Cutter. She knew he’d do anything to keep her safe, but she was no longer sure if she should trust him with her heart.

  “If we both wanted to take the worst possible interpretation of events, I could be angry that you’ve had two bodyguards and you’ve slept with them both.”

  She gaped at him, ready to rail that his accusation was unfair. She didn’t have some hot bodyguard fetish that she’d gone out of her way to satisfy. Then she pondered how the situation must look to Cutter. How it must feel. He could have jumped to that terrible conclusion . . . but he hadn’t. In fact, he wasn’t sitting in judgment of her at all and he was encouraging her not to do the same. He might have wronged her by poking into her private life, but she’d been withholding a truth that affected his job and their safety from the moment they met. What would have happened if the guilt of her stupidity with Foster had prevented Cutter from learning about her former bodyguard’s death? What if that had allowed danger to creep closer to them? What if he’d lost his life protecting her because she’d been too ashamed to be honest?

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I was being unfair.”

  “I’d never intentionally hurt you or lie to you or sweet-talk you into something for my own selfish reasons.” He reached across the console of the SUV and took her hand as they approached Thousand Oaks. “I think you can guess how I feel about you.”

  She had a good suspicion because they were the same feelings she had for him. Their unspoken devotion was suddenly the two-ton weight crushing her anger. Foster had never professed to love her. Hell, even her own mother had never said those words that she could recall.

  What were she and Cutter supposed to do about the fact that their lives had intersected for what would be only a brief moment in time? Shealyn didn’t see how they could ever get on the same road. Despite that, what they had felt real. No, it was real.

  She’d been easy prey for Foster because she’d been in a dark place. She’d closed herself off from everyone for so long. Because she’d always been too afraid to believe in love and too cynical to have faith that it could last. If she was ever going to be truly happy, she was going to have to stop believing that everyone would choose everything else above her—the way her mother had chosen drugs, the way Foster had apparently chosen money. She was going to have to believe that people could love her for her.

  She just wished that someone could be Cutter. Being with him felt natural. She could be herself when she was with him. He didn’t expect her to be a starlet or some picture-perfect woman who didn’t really exist. She could be the girl from Comfort who loved ranching and missed the open Texas plains, along with its big sky. With him, she could hold out her trembling hand and believe that he both accepted and understood her—and that he would take her hand in return.

  Maybe someday she’d find all that again with someone else. Or maybe not. Who else did she know that was as honest and noble and selfless as him? No one. And even if her feelings were futile, Shealyn suspected she would always regret it if she didn’t find the courage to tell him how she felt right now.

  “I love you,” she admitted softly, then bit her lip. “I’ve never said that to any man.”

  He whipped his gaze to her, his face full of shock. And need. He wanted to pull over and take her in his arms, kiss her. That undeniable fact dominated his expression. But he couldn’t do that on the busy Ventura Freeway.

  Instead, he tugged her hand up to his lips and laid a reverent kiss on her knuckles, seeming to breathe her in. “I love you, too. I’ve never said that to another woman. Ever.”

  “Then please don’t betray my confid
ence again.”

  His stare penetrated her soul, eyes burning her. “You can trust me.”

  “I do.”

  He squeezed her hand again, then concentrated on driving. “I’ve been thinking . . . If Foster had an accomplice and he’s dead, was the sister’s Facebook account and the group to monitor his medical progress all a hoax? Is it possible she’s in on it?”

  Shealyn hadn’t considered that. “I don’t know. He never talked to me about his sister, but he also didn’t say much about his family in general.” In fact, they’d hardly talked at all—nothing like she and Cutter had. “Let me see if she’s posted to the group about his death and read how she spun that.”

  She fumbled in her purse for her phone, ignored the slew of voice mails and texts, and launched Facebook. Lots of pictures of her date with Tower appeared in her feed. Already, that seemed like forever ago, as if so much time had passed since then that protecting her public persona no longer felt truly relevant.

  Was her career really worth giving up Cutter forever? Did she love Hot Southern Nights more than him?

  It wasn’t an easy question with an easy answer. Her head told her one thing, her heart another. She shoved the tumult aside for now, vowing to ponder that answer when she was alone and calm and focused. For now, she opened the group called “Foster’s Progress” and scanned the page.

  “Nothing has been posted in three days, except that Jessica found an article this morning about a medical miracle in the UK. A woman woke up from a coma after nearly a decade.” Shealyn shrugged. “She can be random that way, but she means well.”

  “But nothing from Foster’s supposed sister?”

  “Not a word. So either Faith doesn’t know he’s dead—”

  “She must know. Which makes me think the whole coma was a sham. If he had awakened in Montana and had time to leave town—hell, the state—she should have been shouting her excitement. She definitely should have updated the people she thought he most wanted apprised of his progress. The fact that she didn’t and his body was found in L.A. just makes my bullshit meter ping like a Geiger counter in a slew of radiation.”

  Faith had been so good about keeping the group updated with every smidgen of progress or news—until this week. Shealyn might have understood Faith failing to post about his death because the loss was too fresh. But he would have had to reach Southern California first. The man being able to get up, walk out, and travel more than twelve hundred miles should have been majorly newsworthy.

  “You’re right. Do you think Faith is—was—Foster’s accomplice? And would she have killed him? Oh, goodness.” The thought was horrifying. “What do we do next?”

  “We get you someplace safe. I need to make some phone calls. I have a bad feeling things are about to get way more dangerous.”

  CHAPTER 15

  It was nearly one in the morning when they arrived at the safe house. Along the way, Cutter stopped at a twenty-four-hour Walmart and picked up some essentials. Shealyn had given him a list of must-haves to hide out for a few days—mostly T-shirts, yoga pants, instant coffee, and wine. He’d grabbed a few things for himself, including a stash of condoms and some groceries.

  When they reached the house, nestled in an inlet called Pirate’s Cove, he inched the SUV up the driveway, which ascended the side of a hill and tucked behind a huge, stunning house. At the top, he climbed out of the car and walked around the side to catch a glimpse of the ocean. The view of the rocky, windswept coast bathed in gauzy moonlight was stunning enough to make him whistle.

  Shealyn, groggy after drifting off for the last forty miles of the trip, turned her bleary eyes to the deep blue mystery of the starkly beautiful Pacific. “This is the place?”

  “This is the address Logan gave me.”

  The neighborhood was beyond ritzy. The nearest house, directly south, was already lights out. The fact that he didn’t see a hint of a car or people—or trouble—from next door was definitely a relief. So was the empty oceanfront lot to the north.

  The SUV wasn’t visible from the street, and as soon as they were settled in the house, he’d pull it into one of the hopefully empty spots in the four-car garage.

  During the trip, Logan had sent Cutter a code to disarm the security system, as well as the location of a hidden key inside a magnetic box attached to a kitschy WELCOME sign, which hung from one of the eaves. Two minutes later, he was in the house, alarm disengaged, and standing in the middle of a freaking mansion that, even darkened in shadow, was worthy of awe.

  “Who does this place belong to?” Shealyn breathed as he flipped on a few lights. “It’s beautiful.”

  It was. Her Bel-Air ranch was homey and warm and lovely—perfect for her. This wide-open space was filled with luxury. Neither completely masculine nor feminine, the house looked somehow clean and relaxed and plush all at once. Everywhere he looked, high-tech gadgets with LED lights gleamed some neon hue through the darkness. He spotted a gaming system that would make any nerd green with envy. Staying here wouldn’t be a hardship.

  “He didn’t say, but if I had to guess I’d bet it belongs to Logan’s buddies Javier and Xander Santiago. They’re big defense contractors, and they spend most of their time commuting between their jobs in D.C. and their home base in Lafayette because their wife, London—yes, they share her—has family in town. But the Santiagos are originally from Los Angeles, and Xander loves having gorgeous places stashed everywhere.”

  “Oh.” Shealyn blinked. “She’s with . . . two men? Brothers?”

  He rubbed at the back of his neck, wondering how small-town-at-heart Shealyn would digest that information. “In their eyes, they’re both her husbands. They have a baby girl now. I think if Javier gets his way, London will be pregnant again soon. Look, they’re good people and—”

  “You don’t have to explain anything to me. Love is love. If they’re happy, that’s all that matters.”

  “Yeah. They are.” Cutter was glad she didn’t disapprove of the people in his life. He shouldn’t have worried; she didn’t have a hateful bone in her body.

  Not that her opinion of the Santiagos truly mattered. Shealyn West would never come home with him to Lafayette. She’d never meet Logan or Hunter or the Santiago family. Not Joaquin or his ballerina bride, Bailey. Not any of the people he’d been getting to know and growing attached to since Caleb Edgington retired. Not Mama or Cage . . . or Brea. So it shouldn’t matter to Cutter what she thought of his friends or family. But irrationally, it mattered a lot. Shealyn said she loved him, and now, damn it, he wanted her to somehow fit into that empty space beside him in life.

  Yeah, and where would that leave Brea?

  Cutter sighed and bowed his head. Reckless or not, he intended to enjoy every moment he had with Shealyn. He would drink her in, savor her taste, eat her up like a favorite dessert, and treasure her. Reality would hit soon enough. So would the future. He refused to focus on what he dreaded and forget to enjoy the gift in front of him right now. Love would probably never come his way again.

  “Wait here,” he murmured to her. When she nodded, he withdrew his Sig and did a quick check of the house, then returned to her side. “It’s clear. I need to get the car in the garage. I’ll grab our things, too. It’s stuffy inside. Why don’t you set the thermostat, then poke around this big place and figure out the bedroom situation? I’ll be back.”

  He hoped like hell she chose to sleep beside him.

  By admitting that he’d hacked her phone to watch the video of her with Foster, he’d finally come clean about something that had been nagging his conscience. Damn it, he’d never wanted to go behind her back, but continuing to keep a secret that affected her so deeply had bothered him even more, probably because he had feelings for her he hadn’t fathomed possible four days ago. He hadn’t invaded her privacy to upset or disillusion her, but even so, he owed her the power to decide what happened between them n
ext.

  “Sure.” She nodded.

  He headed out to the car to stash it in the garage. On the way, he dashed off a text to Logan and asked him to look into Foster’s sister, Faith, see if he could find out where she was and what she might know. Cutter didn’t like not knowing who Foster’s accomplice in this blackmail scheme was. It would have to be someone he trusted, and his sister would fit the bill. Logan hit him back immediately and said he was already on it.

  Car stowed away, Cutter brought their purchases inside the house, separating food from clothes and toiletries. Once he finished, he set the house alarm and shoved the car keys into his jeans with an exhausted sigh and headed down the hall, plastic sacks dangling from one hand. “Sweetheart?”

  “In here,” she called from a room at the end of the main hallway, off to the left.

  Slipping inside the bedroom, he found the low glow of an overhead chandelier beaming down on the white sheets and comforter, which she’d turned down invitingly.

  Under the light, she lay stark naked and spread across the bed for him.

  At the sight of her, Cutter stopped short and dropped the bags where he stood. Hell, he stopped breathing. She looked stunning, the desire on her face so obvious and honest.

  Right now, goddamn it, she looked like his.

  “Sweetheart . . .”

  She crooked her finger at him. “Come here.”

  Cutter stepped closer, feeling almost as if he floated on air. He wasn’t sure where to look next. At the tempting, hard-tipped sweetness of her blushing nipples? At the peachy hue of her luminous skin, gleaming under the muted golden light? At the slender thighs she softly spread as she offered him her slick, swollen pussy? All of that, yes. But ultimately, he found his gaze straying back up to her smile, which welcomed him with a feminine flirtation that had him hard as steel. He ached to bury himself inside her and get lost in her mossy-green eyes . . . like he was now. Usually her expressions were guarded, but tonight the shutters closing off the windows to her soul were wide open to him.