Incentive (Infidelity Universe)

“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.”

“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.”