Decker Page 6

  When I raise my gaze, his brows are pinched, his eyes filled with apology.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

  “Don’t apologize.” I rub my nose to fight the lingering tingle. “It’s all in the past.”

  He grabs the bottle and rounds the counter, turning off the light before he leads the way to the sofa. “You’ve forgiven him?”

  I follow, this time sipping the alcohol instead of trying to drown myself in it. “He’s my brother,” I hedge.

  He eyes me as he places the vodka on the coffee table and slumps onto the sofa. The analysis is unnerving, his stare telling me he’s well aware I didn’t answer his question.

  He pats the space beside him, offering me a seat so close and personal my skin already tingles. I hesitate, my gaze drifting to the recliner a few feet away, then returning to the tempting position fraught with danger.

  “I won’t bite.” He winks. “I prefer to lick.”

  “There you go again with the wisecracks.” I take a seat at the far end of the sofa and turn to him, curling my legs beneath my bottom. “You’re uncomfortable being serious, aren’t you?”

  He ponders the question, his expression exaggerated. “Maybe.”

  “I guess you already know it’s endearing in a really unsettling kind of way.”

  He chuckles. “I can’t help being irresistible. It’s been a problem since birth.”

  We sit for a while, the silence comfortable as the glow from the television flickers over his face like a kaleidoscope.

  “Have you and Cole ever been close?” He stretches his arm over the head rest, his strong hand within reach.

  “Define close.” I don’t like this subject. It’s too personal. Entirely intrusive. “You’ve already seen us at our worst.”

  “He was worried you were going to do something stupid. I don’t think he knew any other way to make you listen.” He speaks without emotion, as if we’re discussing the weather instead of a physical assault.

  “You’re defending him now?”

  “Fuck no. What he did was unforgivable. I’m just really shitty when it comes to consoling women.”

  Warmth enters my chest, the happy tingle taking its time to reach my face and pull at my lips. “Thank you.”

  He frowns. “For what? The shitty attempt at comfort?”

  “No. I’m not talking about the conversation. I mean everything—for shielding me in the restaurant, for handling my meltdown, for literally taking the shirt off your back.”

  He shrugs. “The shirt looks better on you anyway.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  His eyes narrow on mine the slightest bit. Then slowly his gaze lowers, trekking my body, over the material of his shirt right to the edge of my exposed thighs curled at my side.

  He has the strangest way of manipulating me. Of making me relaxed and ready to verbally spar, then stealing away the fun to replace it with palpable anticipation.

  I don’t just watch him taking me in, I feel it. The attraction shivers down my spine. The lust coils in my belly.

  “Are you ready to go to bed yet?” he murmurs.

  I stiffen, unsure of the meaning behind his question.

  “Alone, Keira. I think we need to cut and run before this conversation takes us somewhere we’ll regret.”

  I agree, but the thought of the dark bedroom on the other side of the house strips me of any warm and fuzzies.

  “I don’t want to go back down there.” I turn to the television, hoping my diverted gaze will lessen the vulnerability of my admission. “I’d like to stay here with you. If that’s okay.”

  I see him watching me through my peripheral vision. I can’t escape it. His attention wraps around me, adding to the warmth ignited by the vodka.

  “If you’re staying, you should at least catch some zs.” He pushes to his feet, grabs a cushion from the closest recliner, then sits back down. “Here.” He pats the makeshift pillow on his lap. “Lie down.”

  “No, I’m good. Honest.” I finish the last of the vodka in one gulp and place the glass on the coffee table.

  “Please, Keira. At some point tomorrow I’ll have to sleep, and I need to know you’re going to be able to stay awake while I’m out of it.” He pats the cushion again. “Come on. Trust me.”

  It’s not merely a case of dominating the exhausting T-word I can’t seem to wrangle. There’s more. So much more. And I can’t share a single word of it with him.

  “It’s only for a few hours,” he whispers. “You’ll feel better once the sun comes up.”

  It’s ridiculous how long I remain silent pretending contemplation when my mind is already made up.

  “I’ll just rest for a little while.” I stretch out, slowly inching myself closer to press my head on the cushion.

  He peers down at me, dark and intense. I can’t look away. I don’t want to. There are answers in those soulful eyes, and I need to hear them all.

  “Sleep, sunshine.”

  “With you staring at me?” I purr.

  He grabs a remote from the armrest and switches off the television, plunging the room into darkness. “That better?”

  No, it’s not. Not even close.

  I can still see him. Can still feel his severity bearing down on me through the shadows, inching its way under my skin.

  6

  Decker

  I watch her for too damn long, attempting to get into her head. To figure her out.

  Instead, I get caught up noticing the different stages of her sleep.

  I see everything. Every twitch, every breath.

  I become fascinated with her intricacies as the hours pass. The thick eyelashes that flutter, the ones in the middle longer than those on the outer edges. Her smooth skin, with the tiniest scar above her chin. The perfectly sculpted eyebrows. Her soft hair. The flawless braid.

  She makes noises. The sweetest whimpers.

  I find myself tensing, waiting for the next murmur of sound, not wanting the scrape of my own inhale to disrupt the experience.

  This stupidity is commonly known as sleep deprivation.

  She could be confused for someone weak and defenseless in this moment. She could… But she isn’t.

  I know better.

  This woman is strong and smart. And so fucking beautiful it’s hard not to become wrapped up in the thought of tasting her.

  Fuck. I need to wake the hell up.

  I’ve earned a modicum of her trust, and now I have to be careful how I treat it. I can’t be reckless. I’ve gotta keep my mind on the task at hand, and I definitely have to ignore the way my shirt creeps up her thigh every time she moves.

  I have to… And I’m fucking struggling.

  Between the hours of five and six, I place bets on how much skin will be exposed. By the time the sun rises, I have the slightest glimpse of white lace at her hip, the sight of the skimpy material the sweetest torture against a sleep-starved man.

  At eight, she starts to stir, her brow furrowing, nose scrunching.

  I slide my hand from her hair and the other from her shoulder, placing one on the arm rest, the other at my side. Casual as fuck. Then I close my eyes and rest my head back, feigning unconsciousness as she shifts, wakes, then gently creeps off my lap.

  I should let her walk away. She would need to decompress after greeting the day with a bird’s-eye view of my crotch. But as soon as her warmth leaves me, my pulse rises and lust claws deep.

  I catch her tiptoeing around the sofa, her hair a mess, her face pale.

  “Did you sleep well?” I ask.

  “Jesus, Decker,” she gasps, her hand shooting to her throat. “Can you stop pretending you’re asleep? That’s the second time you’ve scared the crap out of me.”

  I grin. “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.” She finger combs her hair behind her ears, the long, wavy lengths fanning her shoulders. She looks different this morning, the gentleness of sleep still evident in her fe
atures.

  She isn’t a member of a crime-riddled family at the moment. She’s a normal woman. A gorgeous woman. With my fucking shirt hanging from her thighs like a pinup model.

  Her gaze scours the floor, her teeth digging into her lower lip. “You haven’t seen a hair tie floating around, have you?” She waves a hand in a circular motion, indicating my crotch. “It would’ve fallen out while I slept.”

  It fell… Or someone pulled it out in an attempt to play with her hair.

  “I haven’t seen it.” Not in a few hours, anyway. “Do you need to search?” I raise the cushion from my lap and hold my arms wide, ready for her to mount a full-scale search around my dick.

  She throws her head back and laughs. “You’re a troublemaker when you haven’t slept, do you know that?”

  She’s right. I’m stirring trouble where trouble shouldn’t be stirred. I can’t help it. Those ocean eyes of hers are fucking with my mind, making me crazy.

  I drop the cushion to the sofa and stand, the thin black tie falling out from somewhere between my legs.

  “Here.” I hand it over, our fingers brushing for brief seconds.

  The touch is more than a scrape of skin against skin. The contact brings a jolt of awareness, her sultry mouth hypnotizing as her tongue snakes out to moisten her lower lip.

  She swallows and takes the offering, her gaze holding mine for long, drawn-out seconds. The connection feels like a test. A game of chicken I have no plan to lose.

  “You should leave it out,” I murmur. “It looks nice.”

  She hesitates. Unmoving. For a second, I think she might humor me. Or maybe try to impress me. Then something shifts in her features.

  Her chin rises, her eyes harden. She ties her hair back in quick, efficient movements and reclaims the control I can’t seem to find. “It’s too annoying to keep out.”

  I nod. Shrug. Act unfazed even though the slight change in her demeanor has woken me up to the reality of my thread-bare restraint.

  She’s not someone I can mess around with—physically or emotionally. She’s not even someone I should be attracted to. There’s a heap of can’ts, shouldn’ts, and what-the-fucks surrounding Keira, and it needs to stay that way.

  “What are we going to do about breakfast?” She runs her hands down the material of the shirt, trying to straighten the wrinkles.

  “I’m more focused on what you’re going to do about clothes.” Every time she moves, she gets closer and closer to showing off that lace thong.

  “Why is that?” she teases, glancing down at herself. “Don’t you think I look good in your shirt anymore?”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “Who’s the troublemaker now?”

  She chuckles, the flash of her easy smile making me question if she was adopted at birth. She’s nothing like her brother. Nothing like her father or uncle, either.

  “I actually think those few hours sleep made things worse. My head is pounding like I’ve got a hangover from hell.” She rubs her temples. “Coffee and a deliriously unhealthy breakfast is the only thing likely to save my soul today.”

  “Okay.” I rub my hands together. Getting out of here is a good distraction. “Let me take a quick shower to wake up, then we can hit the road.”

  * * *

  I drive out of Westport and along the highway for roughly ten miles to the closest town. It’s nothing special. Just a tiny little place with enough amenities to handle what we need.

  Keira is still bare-legged, dressed in nothing but my shirt, while my chest is exposed beneath my suit jacket. Not the best attire when we want to lay low, which means clothing is higher on the agenda than food.

  “I’m buying you a skirt and blouse, right?” I park in front of a women’s clothing store and cut the engine.

  “Yes, please. Anything with an elastic waistband will help, seeing as though I can’t try it on.”

  “Well, you can. It’s your decision to hide in the car.”

  She glowers. “I’m wearing a men’s dress shirt and nothing else.”

  I slide from the car then lean down to meet her gaze. “And I look like a fucking gigolo with my abs on display.”

  Her eyes fill with mirth. “But they’re such pretty abs.”

  It’s not a compliment. There’s too much humor in her tone. It doesn’t stop her words from packing a punch, though. The dreamy bat of her lashes is just another conniving taunt.

  “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t go anywhere.” I scan the street, triple checking nobody is paying us attention. It’s early on Saturday morning, and the only people around are oldies or mothers with young children. But we’re still driving around the middle of nowhere in a Porsche, which means the occasional stare is unavoidable.

  After a flirtatious fifteen minutes with the young blonde shop assistant, I leave the store, my hands full of shopping bags as I slide back into the sports car.

  “That looks like a lot more than a skirt and blouse.” Her eyes bug as I hand over the purchases.

  “The woman in there had the gift of the gab. I ended up giving her your sizes, and in return she set out a heap of clothes. I wasn’t going to stick around and coordinate ensembles, so I bought them all.”

  “And I see you earned her phone number in the process.”

  “You were watching me, baby doll?” I retrieve the business card the woman gave me and hand that over, too. “This is in case you have any problems with the sizes.”

  “Sure it is.” She eyes me with derision, before opening the first bag to glance inside. “There has to be enough clothes here to last a week.”

  “Good.” I start the engine and pull from the curb. “I’m not sure how long we’re going to be hanging out together, so at least this gives you some options.”

  She leans down, toeing her feet into a white skirt, then dragging it up her legs to shimmy it over her ass.

  It’s an impressive show I pretend not to watch from the corner of my eye. “We passed a diner on the way in, is that good enough for breakfast?”

  “You don’t want to get a shirt first?”

  Shit. My stomach rumbles in protest. “I’ll have to leave the shopping spree until later. I’m too hungry.”

  “Thank God. I don’t think I can last much longer without sustenance.” She tugs the hem down her thighs, covering perfect skin before she moves her attention to the buttons of my dress shirt.

  “Do you want me to pull into an alley to give you privacy?” I drag my gaze over the passing cars, willing the passengers not to pay her attention.

  “It’s not like you haven’t seen it all before.”

  I may have seen it, enjoyed it, and committed it to memory, but that doesn’t mean I’m comfortable with her sharing the goods with any Tom, Dick, or buck-tooth Bill in the vicinity.

  “It’s not me I’m worried about.” The thought of someone else looking at her makes me edgy. Goddamn twitchy.

  I tighten my fingers around the steering wheel and pull up to a set of traffic lights. My jaw locks while I glare at the approaching Chevy in my rear-view that stops in the lane beside us.

  The male driver is young, with shaggy hair and a flannelette shirt. For a second, I think Keira is going to skip his attention. Then he lazily glances our way and does a double-take when he notices her gaping shirt as she works at unclasping the last of her buttons.

  “You’ve got an audience.” I inch forward to meet the asshole’s gaze, shooting him a look so scathing a smart man would contemplate his mortality.

  He doesn’t take my expression for the warning it is. Instead, he grins like he’s about to blow in his pants.

  “Keira,” I growl, “you might want to cover up until the light changes.”

  She ignores me. The peeping tom, too.

  She doesn’t care at all. Not about the perfect chest she has on display or the smooth stomach as she shimmies out of my shirt and reaches down to pull out a light pink blouse from one of the shopping bags.

  My palms sweat. My pulse fucking pou
nds.

  I don’t know why I give a shit, but I do. The anger coursing through me is unwarranted and fucking toxic.

  To make matters worse, she struggles to maneuver her arm into the sleeve, her cleavage gaping as she bends forward.

  “Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

  The shaggy fucker is practically laughing at his good fortune while my skin crawls.

  “I’ve got something else you can look at, asshole.” I reach for my gun.

  “Don’t you dare,” she warns, finally working one arm into the sleeve. “Just ignore him.”

  Ignore him?

  Ignore him.

  I can’t fucking breathe through the need to kill him.

  I check the lights. Still red. Then I glance around the intersection.

  “For fuck’s sake. What is taking so long?” Apart from Grandpa Joe driving his white van past at five miles an hour, nobody else is on the road. The universe is mocking me with this bullshit. “Fuck this.”

  I press my foot on the accelerator. Hard. The tires screech as we surge forward. At this point, a ticket is better than a murder charge.

  “What the hell, Decker?” Keira scrambles to clutch her belt and the door handle for support.

  “The guy beside us was practically jerking off at your strip tease,” I snarl.

  “And running a red light and potentially smashing my brother’s car is worth stopping the five second thrill of some random stranger?”

  “Fuck yes.” I ease off the pedal and cut down a side-street, not willing to trust my waning restraint if Chevy Boy decides to follow. “Somehow I think your brother would approve of my actions.”

  “I think he’d be more likely to kill you for endangering the Porsche.” She wiggles, repositioning herself in the seat as she fixes the first button, her gaze heating the side of my face. “And besides, it’s my modesty to protect. Not his. I’ve got more concerning things to worry about at the moment.”

  “You could’ve figured that out before I pimp-walked through the clothing store on your behalf. Minutes ago, you were all shy and innocent, not wanting anyone to misinterpret your lack of clothing as a walk of shame. Now you’ve got it all hanging out, practically screaming ‘have at it, boys.’”