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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 fa
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 co
“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 a
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 co
“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.”