“Oh?” She narrows her eyes. “How long?”
“What?”
“Your dry spell. How long has it been?”
“Four fucking weeks.”
Her face reddens. “Y—You’ve been here for four weeks. Did you have sex with someone the night you met me?”
“No.” I think it was the night before I was fired from Blue Dixie. “There’s been no one since you.” I seem to have forgotten every woman prior to Laynee Somerset.
“You poor thing. You must really be suffering.” She grimaces with half of her mouth, and that down-turned corner tilts away from me, as if she’s trying to hide her jealous reaction.
I scoop another bite and hold it toward her lips. “Open.”
“No.” She faces me head-on and flattens her palms on the counter.
“Now.”
“I said no.”
“But you mean yes.” I harden my tone.
“I saw someone wearing a t-shirt the other day that said, No means the gag isn’t tight enough.”
What the fuck? Has she been gagged? Forced against her will? A wave of rage crashes through me. Her expression is blank, a little tight around her eyes. It tells me nothing.
I hold the fork in front of her, refusing to back down but at the same time needing her to understand. “I’m not that guy.”
“Oh, so this whole do-what-I-say, harass, and intimidate thing you’re doing is…what? An unfortunate mistake?” A playful gleam flashes in her eyes.
She’s fucking with me?
“Just put the pie in your pie hole and shut up.” I shove the drippy bite against her lips.
Her mouth pops open and in goes the fork. Making her eat this is about me taking some damn control over this relationship. But as I slide the tines free and devour every twitch in her face while she chews, I find that her reaction means more to me than my victory. I want her to enjoy the treat simply because I want her to be happy.
She closes her eyes, swallows, and moans with her fingers against her mouth. The sound reverberates along my cock.
“Jesus, Decker.” Her gaze locks with mine. “That’s unbelievable. Were you lying when you said you never cooked in New York?”
“No.” I lift another bite toward her tantalizing mouth. “It’s no wonder why I never get this reaction from the tasteless shit you demand I make.” I touch the forkful of pie against her lips. “You can bet your sweet ass there’ll be more where this came from.” Just to see that blissful look on her face.
“I have an audition next month for a lead role.” She leans back and stares at the hovering fork. “I really can’t eat…another… Okay, maybe just one more bite.”
Her sexy doll-like lips wrap around the tines and slide off the morsel. Another sinful expression of pleasure, more moans, and now I know the true meaning of hell. She’s killing me slowly and mercilessly.
I go back for another scoop and pretend my swollen cock isn’t painfully throbbing against my zipper.
She holds her hand out, shaking her head. “I need to…” She darts to the fridge and rummages inside. “I need something filling and healthy or I’ll eat the whole pie. Where are my protein drinks?”
I could tell her I shoved them to the back, but I’m not saying shit while she’s bent over like that, with her fuckable ass filling my vision. Encased in denim, her cheeks are perfectly round and firm and molded in the exact size of my hands. Her waistband slides low, exposing a sliver of skin, Venusian dimples on either side of her tailbone, and…
What the hell is that?
Edging closer, I bend down, zeroing in on a faint white welt of twisted flesh. An inch in length, the scar is jagged and wide. Not something sustained on an operating table, but rather from sharp force trauma.
I reach for the hem of her shirt. “What happened—?”
Her head flies up, catches the glass shelving, and scatters condiments and produce. The collision sends her falling back on her butt. I grab her arm to catch her, but she jerks away, dropping a protein bottle and shoving down the back of her shirt.
“Shit, you startled me.” She climbs to her feet, tugging on that damn shirt.
“Turn around.” I make an impatient swirling gesture with my finger. “Show me your back.”
“Excuse me?” Her neck stiffens, and her eyes blink rapidly.
“You heard me.” My voice is low and sharp, brooking no argument. “While you’re lifting your shirt, you can tell me how you got the scar.”
CHAPTER 12
DECKER
Once again, I’m demanding answers, but this time, Laynee’s going to give me something. I don’t care if it takes all night. I’m finished with her secrets.
“I don’t have to tell you shit.” Her eyes spark with equal parts fury and fear.
“Laynee,” I say in a softer tone. “I’m not the enemy. I won’t hurt you.”
A chiming ringtone blares from the counter behind her.
She whirls toward the phone and connects the call. “Violet?”