by Pam Godwin
He stares at the ground, slips the key into his pocket, and nods. “I don’t know how to thank you, Decker.”
“Get your son back, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I clap him on the back and walk toward the parking lot. Reese falls in step beside me, hands clasped behind him, and I welcome his silence.
We climb into the SUV and head back to the Upper East Side before he asks, “What’s his story?”
“His wife cheated on him, wiped out his bank account, and took his kid. The little money he earns is wrapped up in a hellacious custody battle. A battle he’ll never win if he doesn’t have a place to live.”
“Damn.” He watches the traffic flickering by, head tilted against the window. “Who knew you were a softy?”
“If I was a softy, I would’ve let him move in with me months ago. Sharing a studio apartment with another guy exceeds my generosity.”
“That would exceed anyone’s generosity.”
I’ve felt bad about Dan’s situation for a long time. Giving him a place to live is a huge weight off my shoulders.
Pay it forward. I smile at Evan’s motto. Maybe he’s on to something.
When we reach the penthouse, I make my way toward the master suite.
“Your room is back there.” Reese chases after me. “Where are you going?”
“Goodnight, Reese.” I approach the closed door.
With a soundless twist of the handle, I confirm it’s locked. From my wallet, I remove the credit-card-sized lock pick set.
“What’re you doing?” Reese whispers behind me.
I slide one of the picks into the keyhole, and it unlocks with a click.
“Why are you carrying a lock pick set in your wallet?” He glares at me.
I’ve had it since I owned my store fronts. Didn’t want to chance getting locked out.
“I wouldn’t go in there,” Reese says. “This is a bad idea.”
I open the door and shut it behind me, locking Reese out. As my eyes adjust to the shadows, I trace the path of moonlight from the windows to the bed and find Laynee kneeling on the mattress.
“Don’t come any closer.” With her arms stretched out in front of her, she points a handgun at my chest.
Startled, I plant my feet on the floor, hands at my sides, and narrow my eyes. I can’t tell if she’s bluffing. Is the weapon even loaded?
Her finger moves to the trigger, and my pulse quickens.
“Lower the gun, Laynee.” I keep my voice quiet yet stern. “Odds are you’ll send a bullet through the wall and hit your assistant in the next room.”
“I learned how to shoot on the set of Angel of Fear. Did you see that movie? That wasn’t special effects. I’m a damn good shot.”
I believe her, and fuck if my cock doesn’t harden. Seeing her in cotton panties, a tiny tank-top, and confidently aiming a gun sets my body on fire. I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone or anything in a long fucking time.
“I take it your conversation with Infidelity didn’t go well.” I resist the urge to adjust my boner.
“I’m stuck with you, but the agreement doesn’t require you to be in my bed. We’ll stick to the script.” She shifts toward the end of the mattress on her knees, training the gun on my torso. “You’ll be my boyfriend in public only. No sex. No touching when the cameras aren’t around.”
“Do you believe your own bullshit?” I laugh. “No sex for a year? Do I look like a goddamn monk?”
She sucks in a sharp breath. “You signed an agreement to be monogamous.”
“Monogamous. Not celibate.” I take a cautious step toward her. “I enjoy sex, Laynee. I intend to enjoy it every day and in every way with my companion.”
“Not another step.” She stiffens her arms, the gun steady in her hands.
“Shooting me might get you out of the agreement, but the best publicist in the business can’t explain away a dead body in your hotel room.”
“Don’t do this.” The plea cracking her voice feels like a fist in my chest.
“All right.” Backing down goes against every aggressive cell in my body, but I’m pushing too hard, too soon. “I’ll give you tonight to—”
“You don’t get to—”
“—sleep alone. In Savannah, we do this my way.”
I slip out of the room, without giving her a chance to argue. Bracing my arms on the door frame, I listen for her muffled footsteps on the other side. When the lock clicks, I turn toward the sitting room.
As expected, Reese perches on the couch, wearing a smug expression. “Told you not to go in there.”
“She travels with ten bodyguards. Why does she need a gun?”
“Makes her feel safer.” He stands and heads down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Safe from what?” I follow on his heels, my mind racing in a million directions. “Does she have a stalker?”
“Several.” He opens the fridge and pulls out a dark beer. “Want one?”
“No. Have they breached security? Are they threatening her life?”
“No one gets past her security.” He pulls a long draw from the beer, watching my face turn rigid with tension. “Don’t get all worked up about this, Decker. There will always be stalkers. We find one, and a new one pops up. It’s just the way it is.”
“Unacceptable.” I thrust a finger toward the master suite. “If she’s scared enough to travel with a gun, her guards aren’t doing their jobs.”
His gaze drops to the floor.
“There’s something else.” My nostrils flare. “What is it?”
His silence incenses me. There’s so much I don’t know about this woman, and I’m about to be deeply entangled in her life. Is there a connection between her intimacy issues and her need to sleep with a gun?
“Did someone hurt her?” I flex my hands.
A muscle jumps in his cheek, and he tries to hide the reflex behind a swallow of beer.
“Who?” I crowd him, putting my face in his. “The ex-husband?”
He presses his back against the fridge, glaring at me. “You need to talk to her about this.”
“I intend to.” When she’s not aiming a gun at my chest. “Take me to her head of security.”
CHAPTER 10
LAYNEE
Decker’s been quiet since we left New York. But where he’s distant with words, he’s invasive in the sheer intensity of his eyes. He watches me from the back of my plane, while talking to my security detail on the flight to Savannah. He stares at me in the Range Rover as we ride to my home.
Now I feel his gaze caressing the ass of my jeans as I lead him up the stairs to the bedrooms.
Keeping my eyes forward, I cross the second-floor landing with a steady click-click-click of my heels. “Make arrangements with Reese to have your things brought here from New York.”
“That’s not necessary.” His deep voice rumbles closer than I expected.
Whirling around, I find him inches away and stumble back. “What about all your clothes and personal things?”
“Everything I need is here.” He backs me against the wall without touching me. How the fuck does he do that?
I crane my neck, searching for Reese. He was behind us a second ago. Dammit, where did he go?
The prickly chill of fear rises up the back of my neck. I told Reese on the flight home not to leave me alone with this man.
I angle my chin in the direction of the guest rooms. “Your room is—”
“Your room.” Decker drops his duffel bag on the floor and braces his arms on the wall above my head.
As he leans in, no part of him comes in contact with me, but I feel him…everywhere. The warmth of his breath, the potency of his effusive gaze, and the lazy confidence radiating from his posture—all of it is predatory, sexual, and dangerous.
“Step back.” I lock down the urge to scream for Reese, but I can’t control my runaway breaths or the thunder of my heart.
He takes in my heaving chest, lingers on my throat,
and returns to my eyes. “Focus on my voice, Laynee. Breathe when I breathe. In. Out…”
With each silken word, he sets a hypnotic pace. I concentrate on his timbre and the movement of his lips, breathing when he breathes. The heat emitting from his muscled body permeates my blouse and seeps into my skin, soothing me as much as it confuses me. For a fuzzy moment, I almost forget why I panicked.
“Do you have this reaction to every man you meet?” he asks quietly.
My eyes lock on the burnish of his. He’s so close I can see the gold flecks pulsing in the striations of his brown irises. I blink and look down, incidentally zooming in on his lickable mouth.
“Laynee?”
Shit, he asked me a question, and I don’t know how to answer it. Submissive men don’t scare me. But men like Decker? I fucking freeze up.
His scowl tells me my reaction annoys him. Well, fuck him, because it annoys me, too. I’ve spent a fortune on therapy, and while I’ve made huge progress over the years, I still hyperventilate in the presence of dominant personalities.
“I’ll give you a pass on that question for now.” He lowers an arm, allowing me a sliver of space to breathe. “Tell me about your home.”
Grateful for the reprieve, I stand taller and compose myself. “Reese can give you a tour—”
“I don’t want a tour. I want you to tell me what this place means to you.”
He’s probably wondering why an award-winning movie star lives in a quaint three-bedroom cottage in Savannah. I imagine he expected some lavish palace bustling with a full staff of servants. Most people do.
“This is the first home my parents bought together.” I slip around him and step onto the catwalk that separates the master suite from the two guest rooms.
Halfway across, I stop and rest my forearms on the railing that overlooks the vacant kitchen and hearth room below. Where the hell is Reese? He wouldn’t have gone home without checking in with me.
Decker joins me, mimicking my pose, his gaze on the emerald green view beyond the windows.
The open kitchen sits at the back of the house, veneered by a three-story wall of glass that overlooks the pool and the marshy woodland beyond.
“That’s the back half of the five-hundred-acre property.” I squint against the sunlight spilling through the windows across from us. “There’s a forty-acre lake there.” I point at the clearing near the tree line. “Two other lakes sit on the north side. Aside from regular maintenance on the running trails, I’ve kept the land and its wildlife habitats untouched. Do you like to fish?”
“I’ve never tried. Never been out of the city.” He laughs, his mouth hanging open as he stares at me. “Do you fish?”
“When I have time. I spent my childhood out there.” I nod at the landscape. “Fishing, exploring, chasing rodents, playing in the dirt.” They were the best years of my life.
“You have sentimental ties to this place.” He studies me for several heartbeats before turning back to the windows. “How do you secure five-hundred acres?”
“An impenetrable fence around the perimeter, a state of the art security system, and the largest team of private security personnel in the business.” I peek at his rugged profile. “I don’t have a multi-million-dollar mansion, but I spend that much and more on personal protection.”
Something moves across his expression. Appreciation? Curiosity? I don’t know him well enough to interpret the flickers in his eyes.
“We passed a building just inside the front gate,” he says. “Do the guards live there?”
“Some of them. The others rotate on a schedule and sleep there when needed.”
“But you don’t feel safe.”
“Why would you assume—?”
“You carry a gun.” He tips his head back and directs his gaze at my lower back.
My heart stutters, and I straighten from my lean against the railing. Apparently, I suck at concealing the tiny handgun beneath my shirt.
“What are you afraid of?” he asks.
You. I swallow the thought. “I saw you talking to my security team on the plane, and Reese told me you had a conversation with Elijah last night. Did you uncover anything juicy?”
“Your head of security wasn’t very forthcoming.” He casts me a disapproving look. “I’m not interested in gossip, Laynee. Just trying to understand the inner workings of your world and all possible threats to it.”
“None of that is your concern. I hire people to protect—”
“Why do you restrain men?”
He’s like a hound on a scent, sniffing the air around me, drilling into my eyes, and rummaging through my unspoken answers. Men like him are drawn to women like me. He’s attuned to my secrets and senses they’re right here, around, against, and within me, clinging to me and calling to him so keenly he can’t ignore his instinct to chase. He’ll hunt until he obtains what he wants. Until I have nothing left for him to take.
I clench my hands on the railing and give him the response no dominant man wants to hear. “It pleases me to see a man in shackles.”
The cords in his forearms flex. “You like the control.”
“Yes.”
“Makes you feel less vulnerable.”
“That’s not—”
“You’re afraid of me.” He holds up a hand, stalling my protest. “Your pretty little neck stiffens every time you look at me. Your breaths are raspy, and you’re holding that railing in a death grip.”
Fuck. I release the banister and try to relax. It would be easier to be around him if he weren’t so brutally gorgeous. The seductive rumble in his voice, the ruthless vibes he puts off, and the fact that he’s twelve years younger and stronger are all reminders that he can and will overpower me.
Dressed in ratty jeans and a thin black t-shirt, he exudes a cocky bad-boy edge, one that darkens his flawless beauty. He isn’t some vain prissy model like the men I ask for. He’s the epitome of a man’s man, trained in combat sports and undoubtedly well-versed in pleasuring women.
His dark brown hair looks soft and clean yet somehow stands up in tousled rebellion that make me want to grip and pull. He might’ve looked younger than twenty-eight if it weren’t for his chiseled jawline and day-old stubble. His golden skin glows in the sunlight from the windows, and those sexy hooded eyes, fringed in thick lashes, promise things. Dirty, painful things. I imagine it doesn’t take much to bring out the innate animal lurking behind that gaze. I tremble at the thought and hate myself for craving it.
“I know you need time to open up.” He leans a hip against the spindles, facing me. “But I’m going to be inflexible, aggressive, and stubborn as hell about eradicating this fear you have of me.”
My hands clench. “When are you not those things?”
“When a beautiful woman aims a gun at me.” His lips tilt into a half-grin.
“Does that happen often?”
“Only once.” His expression turns to stone. “It will never happen again.”
My throat seals up.
“Close your eyes.” He touches a knuckle beneath my chin.
I open my mouth to object, but his flinty glare steals my voice. He’s challenging me to do this, to prove I’m stronger than my fear.
The logical part of my brain knows he won’t cause me bodily harm. That would void the Infidelity agreement, and he needs the income. But there are worse ways to hurt a person. My heart’s been kicked, humiliated, and stabbed repeatedly, and I don’t trust it around a man like Decker Gabrielli. A man who gets what he wants with a sexy smile and a crook of his finger. He’s exactly the kind of man I fall for. And I fall hard. So hard it takes years of therapy to get my feet beneath me again.
But I’m stuck with him for a year, and I can’t keep my eyes open every second of every day. I need to trust myself. Trust that I won’t fall again.
With a steadying breath, I shut my eyes.
His fingers feather across my jaw, joined by his other hand as he cradles my face in the warmth of his touch. All m
y senses narrow to the shift of his feet, the proximity of his body moving closer, and the palms resting beneath my ears.
Eyes closed, I feel the air stir against my face. My lips part, and my pulse spikes. He’s going to kiss me.
Don’t freak out. It’s just an exchange of breaths. I’m not falling.
Except the instant his breath is replaced by strong lips, my nerve endings flare to life, and my insides burst into flames. His mouth is so warm, so firm and tenacious, gliding sensually, assertively against mine, sparking an electrical chain reaction through my body.
He licks once, twice, and groans, and the deep sound shivers across my skin. His fingers skim into my hair and tighten, holding me gently yet possessively. My knees weaken, and my lungs burn for air.
I gasp as the soft dips of his tongue become strong thrusts. Coaxing turns into claiming, and when I melt against the hard wall of his chest, the kiss is no longer a kiss. It’s a head-to-toe surrender. I’m not just letting it happen. I’m participating, chasing his tongue, pressing closer, deeper, and demanding more.
My grip on the railing tightens, because fuck me, I want to climb his huge frame, tangle my fingers in his hair, and wrench him against me. His breathing quickens, and urgency overrides technique. His tongue feverishly slides against mine, hot and wet and aggressive in a way that demands I keep up, but seductive enough to make me want to.
My God, the man knows how to kiss. Not just with his mouth, but with the rumbling sounds in his chest, the pressure of his fingers in my hair, and the desire fanning through his breaths. He tastes and nibbles and eats at my mouth with passion and commitment. But he doesn’t rush, doesn’t seem to be racing toward an end goal that involves me naked and pinned beneath him. He kisses me as if all he wants is to savor the taste of my mouth and the friction of our lips. He kisses me as if he could do it all day, a man confidently aware of his skill and its effect on me.
His hand curls around my nape. A massive hand. I try not to pull away, but it’s hard. He could snap my neck with a flick of his wrist. Instead, he uses his grip to keep my mouth against his as he turns us to lean his back against the banister.
