“Just like that?” I say, my voice wavering. “Just because I asked?”
“Yes.”
“Right. With what catch, Linc?”
He lets out a deep sigh. “Not everyone has an ulterior motive. I’d have done it.”
“Why?”
His mouth sets into a hard line, and for a moment, he only watches me. Eventually, he says, “I don’t know.”
I roll my eyes. “Bullshit.”
With a frustrated breath, he runs a hand over his face. “Fine. Maybe to protect you. Maybe… as my way of paying penance for what my father did to you.” When I rear back, frowning, he clarifies. “WhatRickdid to you. And to your mom. That a good enough answer?”
I bite down on my lip, my stomach swirling again, and this time not just because of the tequila. “Look,” I start. “I’m?—”
“Just go to bed, Grace, all right? I’ll find you something to sleep in.” He stalks off.
Ten minutes later, I’m stretched out on Decker’s sagging couch, wearing an oversized grey Blue Jays T-shirt. He didn’t say another word to me, and I didn’t speak to him either. Now, in the dark, in the quiet, I wish I had. It never occurred to me that he might feel guilt about what his father forced me to endure, and worse, what he did to my mom.
I stare at my phone, at the clock. When I’m still wide awake rather than in a sleepy, booze-laced coma half an hour later, Ikick off the blankets with a huff and head to the dark kitchen for a glass of water.
I’m leaning against the countertop, drink in hand, when Decker pads in. Fucking shirtless. Plaid cotton pants sitting low on his hips. Hair a little messy, like he’s been tossing and turning.
He assesses me, focus dropping to my bare legs and drifting up to the edge of the T-shirt that stops high on my thighs.
“Can’t sleep?”
I take a long, deep drink of water, surveying him over the rim. “No. You?”
“I don’t sleep all that well.” He shuffles closer and reaches for a glass in the cupboard behind me.
I don’t move, and he works around me, his naked torso brushing against my arm, the heat of his body soaking into my skin.
“Ever?”
“No. Not ever.” He fills his glass, but rather than drink, he steps closer to me.
I crane my neck, taking in all those features I like so much. “I’m… sorry I trashed your house,” I say to him.
Linc sets down his glass and his hand flutters to my waist. The move is casual. Like he’s done it a thousand times. Like maybe this is how we make up after a fight. His hand slinking lower. Lower. Until it finds skin, runs up my thigh and under the T-shirt. Rests on my hip, toying with the lace of my panties.
My stomach tightens, and without meaning to, I inch closer to him. I rest my hand on his hard, bare chest, dragging my fingers over the expanse of his skin, tracing down the raised, puckered line of the scar slicing up his torso.
He clears his throat, his posture straightening a little. “I’m sorry about. You know… that shit with Allen. Shouldn’t have put my hands on you like that.”
I keep exploring. He lets me, his eyes locked on mine. I ghost my fingers lower, over the tight ripples of his stomach. When I tease at his waistband, a shuddering breath escapes his lips.
“Are we even now?” I ask.
He grips my ass and squeezes. Then he lifts me and deposits me on the counter. And god, those hands. They run over my skin, open my legs. He steps between them, pulling me tight to him, nuzzling my neck. He doesn’t hide it, the hardness pressing into my centre.
“Depends on what you mean byeven,” he murmurs against my skin. “If you’re asking if I’ve had my fill of you, then no, Gracie, not even close.”
A pulse shudders its way to my pussy, my breath catching. I wrap my legs around him and tug him closer.
He’s all hands. They move under my shirt, clutching at my hips and waist. Treading up to my breasts. Calloused palms scratch my skin as his teeth graze the sensitive flesh of my throat.
