Incentive (Infidelity Universe)

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 enlarged 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.