“I’m not jealous.”
With a smirk, he wipes the lotion across my lips. When the chemical taste hits my tongue, I spit it out and burst into laughter because he’s laughing, and holy hell, I love that deep rumbling sound. We continue to laugh for no reason at all, and eventually drift into shared smiles and heavy breaths. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the knee denting the mattress between my legs.
The air around us stirs as the mood changes and intensifies. His rapt attention on my face dries my throat. His unwavering attention holds me in place, and his body, while unnaturally still, seems to be sinking on top of me, his weight growing heavier by the second.
His gaze lifts to my forehead and returns to my eyes. I wet my lips. His face dips lower, his focus skipping to my cheeks, my nose, and back to my eyes. He’s staring but seems distracted by…
“The lotion isn’t rubbed in, is it?” I touch my brow.
“Not even a little.”
I don’t care, as long as he continues to look at me like this. Like I mean something beyond a paycheck or an orgasm.
He pushes my hand away and gently massages the cream into my skin, his fingers skimming around my eyes, along my jaw, and tracing my lips.
My eyes drift closed as I imagine doing normal things with him, such as shopping for groceries, going to a rock concert, and stealing kisses while waiting in line at a Starbucks.
I long for any of those scenarios. Could he be the one to share those things with? I feel myself latching on. Physically—with my fingers digging into his shoulders. Emotionally—with the every tha’thunk of my heart.
It’s happening. I’m already obsessing, and I haven’t even let him in. I can’t do this. Not again.
Uncontrollable fear swamps my chest, and I shove at him. When he doesn’t move, the sensation of smothering constricts my lungs and chokes my breaths.
He grabs my wrists. “What are you—?”
I go berserk, flailing and swinging and fighting for air. “Get off me!”
“Laynee, stop.” He releases my hands and straddles my hips, trapping me. “You’re reacting and not thinking.”
“Get off. Get off.” I wheeze and slap at his chest. “I can’t breathe.”
“Laynee, goddammit. Remember what I taught you.” He grips my jaw, forcing my gaze to his. “Make space, shrimp, bridge, and roll. We’ve done this a hundred times.”
Shit, he’s right. He fucking drilled it into my head for a month.
With a shredded breath, I lift my butt off the mattress and distribute my weight on the balls of my feet and my shoulders. Snapping my legs straight, I shoot out from beneath him. My body bends at the waist, and my rear end lands where my shoulders were.
I did it! I’m so ecstatic about escaping his weight, I forget to bridge and roll until it’s too late.
He grabs my leg and yanks me back under him. “You have to follow through. Do it again.”
Clenching my hands, I repeat the technique, and this time, when he reaches for me, I’ve rolled far enough away to make a run for it.
But I don’t have to run. He’s not the enemy.
“Good girl.” He sits back on his heels, looking way too naked and chiseled to be in my bed.
“I panicked.” I press my back against the headboard and drag the sheet over my chest. “I’ll never get that maneuver right in a real-life situation.”
“Yes, you will. The rule of thumb is it takes about sixty hours to learn basic self-defense. You’re not even halfway there.”
I nod, flushed, still panting, and avoid his stare. I can’t believe I freaked out like that. If there’s a meter for embarrassment, I’ve reached the ninth level of curl-up-in-a-hole-and-die.
“Look at me.” His gravelly timbre strokes across my skin.
I ball my hands in the bedding and lift my eyes to his.
He leans forward, resting forearms on his thighs, his shoulders broad and bare and distracting. “Tell me what I did to trigger your panic attack.”
“It’s not you.” I rub my forehead, frustrated and exhausted. “I mean, it’s you. You being here. But there’s something wrong with me.”
He watches me for a moment before moving into the space beside me. Lying on his back, he pulls the sheet over his lower body and pats his chest. “Come here.”
Against my better judgment, I long to sleep in his arms, against his warm skin, and he’s giving me that instead of demanding answers. Sliding down alongside him, I tuck in against his body with my cheek on his shoulder.
He reaches up and turns off the lamp. With his arm around my back, his fingers roam, seeking and massaging my scars. The gesture produces a burning sensation behind my eyes. Blake pretended my scars didn’t exist. I always try to ignore them, too. But I can’t. I feel them deep beneath the surface, and Decker’s acknowledging them in the best way possible.