Incentive (Infidelity Universe)

Except I’ve been dragging my feet on that last part. I despise putting on a Hollywood smile for the cameras. I just want to be left alone. But at my age, it’s hard to land leading roles in major motion pictures. I have to keep my name on top of the latest news. Without a prominent, desirable public image, I’m out of work.

“So I’m here to solve your negative press.” His hard brown eyes lock on me with caustic focus. “Explain how you see our private relationship playing out.”

I share a look with Reese. When I agreed to hire Infidelity, the purpose was twofold. I need a stable companion to eventually accompany me at award shows and red-carpet appearances. But the deeper, more vulnerable reason is I ache for a lover I can trust.

I’m under no illusions that a dependable relationship will grow from a contractual agreement, but I’m tired of all the men shuffling in and out of my bedroom. I don’t even have sex with most of them. They’re too googly-eyed and overeager. I need a companion, not a fanboy. But more than that, I need a submissive man who won’t walk all over me.

The fact that Decker Gabrielli isn’t drooling at my feet and obsessing over my stardom is a breath of fresh air. But there isn’t a servile bone in his rock-hard body.

“What’s your relationship with him?” Decker nods at Reese.

“He’s my personal assistant.”

“Laynee.” The reprimanding sound of my name on his lips makes me tremble.

“I don’t like your tone.” I set my jaw. “Questioning me isn’t in your job description.”

“Let me lay this out for you.” He looks me directly in the eye. “I’ll do whatever you ask in public. The fancy parties, the photo opportunities… I’ll hold your arm and play the part of the smiling mindless escort. But in private, I will not be your whipping boy. Nor will I stand aside while you fuck other men and make a fool of me. I will be in your bed, and I do not share.”

“What?” My blood boils. “I never said—”

“I’m not finished.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but he doesn’t need to. His sheer presence demands compliance. “Whatever you’re doing with him behind closed doors”—he thrusts a thumb at Reese—“it ends now.”

My mouth hangs open.

“Tell me.” He reclines in the chair and drapes his arms over the armrests. “How does Laynee Somerset entertain the men her assistant chooses for her?”

His condescending attitude makes me seethe from every pore in my body. Those men entertain me, not the other way around.

Christ, this is so outside my normal mode of operation. Yeah, Reese selects my companions and arranges the liaisons in hotel rooms like this one. Nine times out of ten, the guy is hard the instant he recognizes me. They get off on the idea of sharing a night with a celebrity. But I’m the one who controls the pleasure.

While Decker’s question feels like a prompt for me to take the reins, it’s just an illusion. I know his kind. I was married to a domineering piece of shit.

With a deep breath, I strengthen my spine and remind myself why he’s here. “I restrain them.”

“That so?” He arches a brow. “Show me.”

CHAPTER 8

LAYNEE

With a belly full of butterflies, I rise to my feet like the empowered woman I strive to be and stride across the room. Holding my shoulders in perfect alignment, I keep my chin high and my gait slow and confident.

“Does your assistant always sit in on your play dates?” Decker reclines in the desk chair.

“I have a name, you know.” Reese shifts to the edge of the loveseat.

“Yes.” I dig the cuffs out of my suitcase. “He stays with me.”

“Why?” Decker asks.

“It pleases me.” I return to the sitting area, holding his gaze.

He plucks one of the cuffs from my hand and scrutinizes it with a smirk on his face.

“What?” I ask.

“I expected it to be lined with pink fur.”

The muscles in my neck go taut. I had these shackles custom-made with thick black leather and heavy-duty metal buckles. They’re my favorite cuffs.

“Are you mocking me?” I snatch it back.

“No. I approve.” His smile seems genuine. “Carry on.”

Arrgh. I’m holding the restraints, yet he’s the one calling the shots? This is one of the million reasons I avoid men like him.

When I peek at Reese behind me, he rests a hand against his mouth. He thinks he’s hiding his expression, but amusement gleams in his eyes. Damn him.

I turn back to Decker. “Arms on the armrests.”

He sits taller in the chair and follows my order. His gaze kisses a trail of heat across my face, and when I bend down to buckle his wrist to the wooden arm, the warm whiskey scent of his breath saturates my senses. Each time my fingers graze his forearm—the sparse hair, smooth skin, and flexed muscle beneath—I fumble with the buckle.