“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.”