by Pam Godwin
The position lowers him into a slight recline, making his mouth easier to reach. With my hips in the V of his legs, I don’t know where to put my hands. But I don’t want to break the kiss. I’m too hungry and worked up. My breasts feel heavy, and the throb in my pussy pulses greedily as I suck and lick his tongue while blindly reaching for the railing.
He catches my wrist and guides my palm beneath his shirt. The hot hard surface of his abs startles me. I look down, pulling my mouth from his, to watch my fingers move beneath the black cotton.
The heave of our breaths charge the air between us as I trace steep rows of indentations between bricks of muscle. Firmly holding my neck, he lifts the hem of his shirt, revealing a sculpted torso, smooth skin, and a mouth-watering trail of sparse hair that vanishes beneath the low waist of his jeans. Jeans that strain across his thick swollen length.
Heat spreads between my legs and soaks my panties. My fingers shake, and my pulse thrums. I ache to lick every ridge, sink my teeth into his flesh, and suck all his hard edges.
Holy shit, what has he done to me? His kiss turned me into a panting hot mess, and now I’m drooling over his sexy-as-fuck body. I bet the bastard’s gloating.
I peer up at him through my lashes, but instead of a cocky smirk, I find his lips swollen and parted, eyes molten, and expression dazed.
“Fuck, Laynee.” He blinks. “Give me your mouth.”
His words… That raw look…
My brain short circuits, and I launch at him, fusing our lips and roaming my hands. Every muscled hill and valley is a playground for my fingers. There isn’t a squishy spot on his body, not a single ounce of fat. It’s not fair. I work my ass off in the gym and still have bits that jiggle and droop.
He chuckles against my mouth and grabs my wrists. “What’s with the claws?”
Oh. Oops. I glance at my trimmed fingernails and relax my hands. “I’m cursing the injustice in…” Sliding my palms up his defined chest, I lift the shirt to expose tight, dark nipples and chiseled pecs. “All of this.”
He glances down at his perfect body, his brows knitting together. “Injustice? I work hard—”
“While you’re living with me, you will not slack on your workouts.”
He laughs. “Is that an order?”
“Yes.” I bite down on my smile. “I have an extensive home gym. If you need weights or equipment added, let Reese know.”
“I don’t take orders, Laynee, but I’ll make a deal with you.” He guides my fingers across his washboard abs. “Touch me like this every day, and I’ll keep myself fit.”
“Deal.” Now I have a legitimate reason to grope him, one that has nothing to do with my self-destructive addiction to dominant men.
Leaning against the banister, he rests his hands on his spread thighs and watches me caress the warm marbled terrace of his torso. I don’t stare at the erection straining his jeans, but I’m painfully aware of its presence.
This man is a paradox. The feral fire burning in his eyes says he wants to explore my body the way I’m exploring his. He could tackle me to the floor this very instant, use his strength and size to force my legs open, and take what he wants. Yet he hasn’t touched me below the neck.
“We need to talk about rules.” With great effort, I pull my hands away and step back.
“Yes. Tell me about the rules you’re going to set, and I’ll tell you how I’m going to ignore them.”
“Decker—”
“Or we can make more deals. That approach seems to work with you.”
“What do you mean?” My hackles bristle.
“I give an inch. You give an inch. Let’s start with our sleeping arrangements.” He bends down and grabs his duffel bag. “Which room is yours?”
I’m still burning up from that kiss, and he wants to discuss sharing a bed? I shake my head, arms crossing defensively.
“You’re going to give on this.” He towers over me, the force of his gaze punctuating the command in his voice. “Tell me what I need to give in return.”
He’s smart, manipulative, and arrestingly handsome—a menacing combination for a man who kisses with unholy passion. He arouses me as much as he scares the crap out of me. I need to put space between us before I let him stomp all over my life.
“All right.” I raise my chin and meet his eyes. “You can sleep in my room—”
“In your bed.”
“Fine. In my bed, sleeping only, if you comply with my demand.”
His eyebrows pull together.
“You and Reese.” My voice grows husky just thinking about it. “I want to watch him suck your cock.”
“No.” His shoulders snap back. “Something else.”
“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
“My answer isn’t going to change.” He grinds his teeth.
“Then your room is this way.” I pivot and head toward the guest rooms at the end of the catwalk.
“He’s your buffer.” His voice whispers with realization, stopping my feet. “You use him as a barrier between you and whatever this thing is that scares you.”
A swallow lodges in my throat, and I force myself to turn around and face him. “Seeing two men together turns me on, Decker. That’s all it is.”
“No, this goes beyond a simple kink.” He rubs a hand across his stubble, studying me. “You’re afraid of intimacy. Maybe not sex, but the deeper feelings, like trust, dependency… Love. Tell me why. What happened?”
His gaze is too perceptive, absorbing every tic in my expression as I gulp down my weaknesses and try to look tough. But I’m not tough, and if I give him a bullshit answer, he’ll see right through it.
“I’ve known you less than a day.” I plead with my eyes. Stop pushing so hard. “You’re demanding trust that you haven’t earned.”
He pulls in a breath and releases it. “You’re right.”
That’s it? His easy acceptance leaves me stuttering.
With his duffel bag in hand, he turns away and strides back toward the stairway. Not in the direction of the guest rooms.
“Where are you going?” I hurry after him. “Your room’s the other way.”
He veers toward the alcove off the landing.
My pulse leaps to my throat. “You can’t go in there.”
Reaching the only door on this end of the upper floor, he barges into my bedroom. After a quick scan of the large suite, he drops his bag, kicks off his Converse, and stretches out on the king-size mattress. “Why does a tiny woman need such a big bed?”
The pound of my heart roars in my ears. This is my safe space, my sanctuary. Other than Reese, I’ve never let a man in my room. “I’m not comfortable with you being in here, Decker.”
“I know you’re not,” he says gently and pats the space beside him. “Come here.”
The wood floorboards turn into quicksand.
“Look.” He laces his fingers behind his head. “My hands will stay here.”
Our eyes lock, and I know I should tell him to go play his games on some other gullible woman. But the thought of him looking at someone else the way he looks at me makes my fingernails dig into my palms.
The petrified excitement he instills in me makes my thighs wet. The deep confidence in his timbre tempts me to beg to be used and owned. His mere presence urges me to rush toward the same snare that has caught me again and again. Even as I know it’s a trap, one that will eventually hurt me, I gravitate toward it. Toward him.
Sliding off my heels, I wipe my palms on my jeans. My breathing quickens as I cross the room and lie on my back beside him, with a foot of space between us.
“Did you decorate the room yourself?” He glances around the suite.
“That’s what you want to talk about?”
“If it sheds light on the woman I’m living with.”
Fair enough. “I do my own decorating, if you can call it that. When I moved back here two years ago, I added the French doors and the screened room and had the bathroom and closet enl
arged and modernized.”
Other than that, it’s rather unexceptional for celebrity standards. The furniture is mismatched. Classic pieces leftover from my parents intermix with contemporary armchairs and modern art. The variety of color and style is haphazard. Lots of soft fabrics and vivid shades of turquoise and yellow. I wanted warmth and comfort and didn’t give much thought to design.
“Tell me about your schedule.” Reclined on his back, he angles his neck to look at me.
“When I’m not traveling or on a movie set?”
He nods.
“Well…” I roll to my side and lean up on an elbow, facing him. “I work out two hours every morning. My days are dedicated to whatever I’m involved in at the time, whether it’s reading scripts, practicing lines, interviewing, or dealing with my agent, publicist, or whoever is nagging me for something.”
“Are your evenings open?”
“Generally.”
“I have a counteroffer on our sleeping arrangements.” He licks his lips. “Share your bed with me, and in exchange, I’ll teach you self-defense.”
“I can hire a professional instructor if I want—”
“I was one of the best combat sports instructors in the business.” His jaw flexes. “I can teach you how to overpower men bigger and stronger than me, and that skill will go a long way in annihilating your fears.” He hardens his eyes. “I’m going to sleep beside you, Laynee, but I want you to want me here. Training with you every day will give me an opportunity to earn your trust.”
What woman wouldn’t want him in her bed? Hell, what woman wouldn’t want to get sweaty with him on wrestling mats? I let myself imagine him in nothing but thin shorts hanging low on his hips, his muscles bunching and straining as he twists that magnificent physique through grappling techniques.
My core spasms hard and deep. “Will you be shirtless during these training sessions?”
He winks at me with a cocky nod of his head. “You betcha.”
CHAPTER 11
DECKER
I spend the next month settling into a surreal reality, one that centers all my focus on a single woman, tests the limits of my patience, and compels me to search for random distractions. Like baking a peach pie.
Leaning over the kitchen island, I poke at the flaky crust. Juice bubbles through the slits in the top, fuming the air with the syrupy aroma of awesomeness. It looks pretty badass for a guy who used to live on instant noodles and frozen meals.
“It’s ready.” I grab a pie cutter.
“I can’t eat that, Decker.” Laynee stands on the other side of the island, dead-eying the pie with murderous longing.
“You can, and you will.” I cut a huge slice and set it on the plate in front of her.
“Is it sugar-free, gluten-free, fat-free, and guilt-free?” She nudges the dish away.
“Fuck no. It’s pie, not toilet paper.” I push it back toward her.
“I’ll take her piece…and mine.” Reese glances up from his laptop at the kitchen table and grins.
“I made this for you.” I give her the look, the one that quickens her breaths and flushes her cheeks.
“Don’t do that.” She points at my face. “Those sleepy eyes might work on Reese, but I’m immune.”
“I don’t give Reese any kind of goddamn look,” I growl. “And just because you’re stubborn as hell, doesn’t mean I don’t affect you. Admit it.”
She drops her gaze and pinches her cupid lips between her teeth.
“I make your heart race.” I lean in.
“Decker…”
“I make your thighs tremble.” Heat pulses along the length of my shaft.
She inhales sharply.
“Is your pussy wet?” I whisper.
Her eyes flutter closed. Behind her, Reese ducks his head and focuses on the laptop.
“I want to fuck you.” I lift her chin with the tip of my finger. “And you want that so badly it consumes you.”
She opens her eyes. “I offered you a deal, and you turned it down.”
I yank my hand back and shove it through my hair.
We’ve made three deals since I moved in.
One, I keep myself fit by working out with her every morning in exchange for her frequent and agonizing caresses. Caresses she refuses to extend below my belt.
Two, I teach her self-defense in the evenings, and she lets me sleep beside her every night. With a foot of don’t-touch-me space between us.
Three, I prepare her food, and she eats all her meals with me. If I follow her ridiculous dietary restrictions.
The woman has more money than God, yet she doesn’t employ housekeepers, butlers, chefs, or anyone outside of Reese and her security personnel. Locked in her office all day with a phone at her ear and her nose buried in contracts and screenplays, she needs a full staff. But she doesn’t trust people in her home. I admire her prudence and tenacity, but watching her scramble to throw meals together or skip them completely pisses me off. So I took over the cooking.
Reese runs her errands, does her shopping, and manages her schedule. While he’s available to her around the clock, he usually only comes by during the day and spends his evenings doing hell knows what at his loft in downtown Savannah.
Her lack of live-in employees is both a blessing and a torture. Other than Reese’s daily visits, I’m alone with her most of the time.
And all I think about is sex.
Every morning, I run with her on the trails and imagine tossing her to the ground and fucking her beautiful mouth. Every evening, I roll around with her on the gym floor, training her how to fight comfortably on her back while thinking about pounding my cock deep inside her.
Bedtime is the worst. When I lie beside her, I curse the deal she won’t back down from, the one where she’ll have sex with me, if I let Reese suck my cock.
My hands fist. She knows I want her. I tell her as often as she sees the evidence in my pants. But she has this regal, untouchable air about her. She sleeps in head-to-toe silk, wears body-covering workout gear like a shield, and locks the door when she showers and changes clothes. I share a room with the woman and haven’t seen so much as her naked stomach.
To think I was worried about how I would get it up for some repulsive cunt in a strap-on. Instead, I’m endlessly horny, celibate, and lured to utter torment by Laynee’s seductive kisses. She might button herself up like a nun, but she licks my mouth like a greedy, slutty sex-kitten. I steal those hot kisses countless times a day, but when it gets too heated or my hands grow too bold, she pushes me away. Every. Fucking. Time.
She’s stuck on this concept that Reese is a fail-safe, as if his participation in her sex life protects her physically and emotionally. I know I scare her, and her bullshit offer is her way of unmanning me. What’s more emasculating than ordering a straight man to submit to another man’s mouth?
Someone hurt her. I just don’t know who, when, or how badly. Every time I breach the conversation, she refuses to talk.
Just like she refuses to eat the damn pie.
I grab a fork and shovel a bite into my mouth. Flavor explodes on my tongue, the taste of summertime and temptation, just like her lips.
“It’s warm and wet and sinful.” I pin her with a simmering look. “Reminds me of something else, though I can’t be sure, because I’m in the longest dry spell of my life.”
“Oh?” She narrows her eyes. “How long?”
“What?”
“Your dry spell. How long has it been?”
“Four fucking weeks.”
Her face reddens. “Y—You’ve been here for four weeks. Did you have sex with someone the night you met me?”
“No.” I think it was the night before I was fired from Blue Dixie. “There’s been no one since you.” I seem to have forgotten every woman prior to Laynee Somerset.
“You poor thing. You must really be suffering.” She grimaces with half of her mouth, and that down-turned corner tilts away from me, as if she’s trying to hide her jea
lous reaction.
I scoop another bite and hold it toward her lips. “Open.”
“No.” She faces me head-on and flattens her palms on the counter.
“Now.”
“I said no.”
“But you mean yes.” I harden my tone.
“I saw someone wearing a t-shirt the other day that said, No means the gag isn’t tight enough.”
What the fuck? Has she been gagged? Forced against her will? A wave of rage crashes through me. Her expression is blank, a little tight around her eyes. It tells me nothing.
I hold the fork in front of her, refusing to back down but at the same time needing her to understand. “I’m not that guy.”
“Oh, so this whole do-what-I-say, harass, and intimidate thing you’re doing is…what? An unfortunate mistake?” A playful gleam flashes in her eyes.
She’s fucking with me?
“Just put the pie in your pie hole and shut up.” I shove the drippy bite against her lips.
Her mouth pops open and in goes the fork. Making her eat this is about me taking some damn control over this relationship. But as I slide the tines free and devour every twitch in her face while she chews, I find that her reaction means more to me than my victory. I want her to enjoy the treat simply because I want her to be happy.
She closes her eyes, swallows, and moans with her fingers against her mouth. The sound reverberates along my cock.
“Jesus, Decker.” Her gaze locks with mine. “That’s unbelievable. Were you lying when you said you never cooked in New York?”
“No.” I lift another bite toward her tantalizing mouth. “It’s no wonder why I never get this reaction from the tasteless shit you demand I make.” I touch the forkful of pie against her lips. “You can bet your sweet ass there’ll be more where this came from.” Just to see that blissful look on her face.
“I have an audition next month for a lead role.” She leans back and stares at the hovering fork. “I really can’t eat…another… Okay, maybe just one more bite.”
Her sexy doll-like lips wrap around the tines and slide off the morsel. Another sinful expression of pleasure, more moans, and now I know the true meaning of hell. She’s killing me slowly and mercilessly.
