Incendiary (37 page)

My arrival at LAX is a nightmarish madhouse. Sweet baby Jesus, if Kiln and Pres and the other security guys didn’t barrel us through the photographers, we’d be mauled. I’d like to believe they’re here because of Sloane, but he isn’t anywhere in sight. The minute I get off the escalator and descend into the public area of the airport, the cameras go wild.

Abby tucks me close to her. Bryn is in her sling and bounces against me in contentment, but I still wrap my arms around her. Kiln keeps a firm grip on my elbow while Pres and five additional bodyguards create a human wall for us.

“Get in, Georgie,” Abby says, when we reach the SUV, although her words aren’t necessary since Kiln shoves me in.

An hour later, we arrive at the house Sloane is staying at. In the grand scheme of Sloane’s life, it’s a plain, yellow stucco place with white trimmings and tall palm trees.

I unhook Bryn and wait for Kiln to adjust the seat so I can get from the third row.

“Get Abby in,” Kiln instructs from outside, pulling his weapon and signaling to a cute bodyguard named Jason, before speaking into his headpiece. “Trouble1 on site. Confirm security. Subject will be moved as soon as Shopper is safely inside.”

Five minutes pass before Kiln holds out his hand and assists me out. Once I’m steady with Bryn, he keeps his gun poised and leads me toward the front door.

“I’m Trouble1 and Abby is Shopper?” I ask, nervous at the plain view of the weapon.

“Yes,” he grunts.

“Why’s your gun out?”

“No leads on whoever went after you. It’s been quiet, but Sloane ordered me to shoot to kill at the first sign of anything amiss.”

“Oh,” I squeak, relieved when we get inside and he holsters his firearm.

The outside of the house is misleading. I thought the place would be small and cozy, but the open floor plan is huge with living room, dining room, den and kitchen all exposed. There’s enough room to comfortably fit five hundred people.
They
don’t concern me, however. Not even all the bodyguards, Adam, Quint, and Maitland are a priority. Only Sloane is.

He stands across the room, dressed in jeans and a band T-shirt, all of his attention on me.

“Hey,” he says.

My pulse flutters at his nearness and the look in his bloodshot eyes…holy fuck.

“Sloane, are you using again?”

He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “No. I have been drinking like fuck, though.”

His words conjure other activities I believe he’s been engaged in. I narrow my eyes. “You’ve also been fucking like fuck.”

“I haven’t touched another woman. Unlike
you
, who went out on a fucking date with Abby’s male counterpart in sleeping around.”

“I resent that coming from you, asshole,” Abby snaps.

“Is that why I’m here? Because of my date with Emory? I thought you summoned me to get me pregnant again.”

“Not this time,” he fumes. “You’re here because I don’t like seeing my fucking wife out on a date with another fucker.”

I snort a laugh. “Because you took the time from all
your
dates to give a fuck about mine.”

“Shut the fuck up, Georgiana.”

“Kiss my ass, Sloane.”

He turns his anger to Abby. “I should fire you,” he snarls.

“Then I’ll become a permanent visitor, instead of hired help.”

“How dare you set up Georgie with Emory Lawson? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Sloane, I have a mouth,” I argue, going to the sofa and sitting, before unstrapping Bryn from me. “If I didn’t want to go, I would’ve told Abby no.”

I thought moving would get me out of Sloane’s proximity, but no. He stalks to me. “Where did you go after you left the restaurant?”

“Our house,” I answer with a frown. “Where’d you think I’d go?”

He shrugs, but some of his anger slips away.

“Oh my God, dickhead, don’t judge me by what the fuck you’ve been doing.”

Crouching down, he shoves his face into mine. We’re almost nose-to-nose. “I fucking told you I haven’t stuck my dick in another woman.”

“Fuck you. You have a tongue and ten fucking fingers, so get the fuck away from me.”

Of course, he doesn’t move. “Let’s get to the real damn problem.”

“Fucking asshole.” I shoot daggers at him, and his face darkens. “You hid me away until you were fucked out, then brought me to LA with you. So you see? Your roaming dick is my problem,” I snarl, around a sob, despite myself.

Abby shoves Sloane aside and scoops Bryn out of my arms.

Instead of returning to his crouch, Sloane sits on the floor, hands resting on his knees in a casual pose. “What can I do for you to believe that I haven’t slept with anyone since before my arrest?”

“Georgiana?”

“Shut. Up,” I snarl to Kiln, the last person I want to hear from right now.

“For what it’s worth,” he continues in spite of my words and Sloane’s warning glare, “he hasn’t slept with anyone else. Has he been tempted? Yes. With all the willing pussy around, he can’t help it. Let me tell you why it’s riskier having you with him now. Because you’re his fucking wife and still under eighteen. The world is watching. The cops are watching. I’ve taken you for a lot of things, but never fucking stupid. You’re a dense little cunt if you can’t understand how different the dynamics are.”

Until Kiln’s last line, Sloane looked slightly relieved and entirely surprised at the words. I’m shocked, too. He isn’t defending Sloane. He’s just stating truths.

Sloane jumps to his feet and I jump to mine, grabbing his arm to stop him from rushing Kiln. “You know what?” I say softly. “Kiln’s words have more weight to them because he’s the one person who’d never cover for you.” Lowering my lashes, I wonder what I’m looking for. What I want. “What does that say about our relationship?”

Am I blinded with jealousy and creating problems? It shouldn’t matter how I discovered the truth, as long as I have it. Instead of answering, Sloane grabs my hand.

“Abby, one of the guys will show you to your room. Bryn’s nursery is nearby. Georgie, we’ll finish this conversation in private, in our bedroom.”

“I’m not sleeping in your room,” I counter. “And Bryn isn’t sleeping away from me.”

He lifts a brow. “All the rooms are in the same wing. The nursery is in the middle of ours and Abby’s. Cameras are everywhere and feed into our phones. She’ll be fine. As for you, you’re sleeping in
our
room. That’s not up for negotiation.”

I don’t want to share a bed with him, knowing what’ll happen. We’ll make love. No,
I’ll
make love. He’ll fuck. But none of my protests stop our forward motion.

In the room, he slams and locks the door, then releases me and removes his shirt.

I take a step back. “I’m tired from the flight,” I protest. “I want to sleep.”

He doesn’t answer me but stalks closer, the lion closing upon his prey. Before I wedge myself between him and the bed, I halt, intending to scoot around him. He’s too fast, catching me before I’ve moved an inch.

His mouth swoops over mine and my resistance crumbles immediately. Growling in frustration, I shove against his shoulders, but he deepens our kiss.

“Georgie, I’ve missed you,” he whispers, cradling my face between his hands.

My body melts into his. I stand on my tiptoes and wrap my arms around his neck, lost in his clean smell and minty taste. He lifts me off my feet.

“Let’s finish talking,” I murmur, doubts and insecurities plaguing me.

“No. After we fuck,” he amends when I stiffen.

“Sloane—” His name is lost against his lips.

He releases me and I land on the bed, where he quickly follows, covering me with his body. The weight of him presses against mine and I open my legs, tilting my hips up, logic and desire warring with each other.

Lifting my skirt, he slides his hand into my panties, teases my hairless mound before finding my clit and caressing it with the lightest touch. Goose bumps travel along my skin, and I shudder. His cock is big and hard, rising between us.

I want him, and he wants me. Fucking each other is inevitable. This is where everything is right between us. I can freely express the passion and love I have for him, with my hands, mouth, and pussy.

He leans back on his haunches long enough to free his dick and remove my underwear, then hovers over me again, guiding his cock to my entrance.

Little by little, he inches into me until he’s completely buried inside of me. Having him inside of me now hurts worse than the night he took my virginity.

“Fuck.” He’s still, and the tension in my body now radiates from his. He knows the reason. “You’ll be fine. You’re sore because of the baby.”

Shyness hits me hard and I turn my head away, relieved when he pulls out of me and lays beside me.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He moves and I can’t resist my curiosity, so I look in his direction. He’s sitting up, his head hung.

“What now?”

“I don’t know,” he admits with a sigh.

I search for answers, hating this impasse. I decide to open our communication. It worked before. Even if Sloane, or I, didn’t want to hear a topic we still talked about it.

“Emory was nice,” I start off hesitantly, and he stiffens. “I was bored and lonely, missing you and so hurt. We went to dinner. At first, I paid little attention to him. All I could think about was you. Then, he asked me my favorite horror movie. Whatever site he read up on me had a bunch of bullshit. Nothing he said about me was true.” I bite my lip, allowing a heartbeat to pass. “Remember how I was with you? When Emory and I were talking, I couldn’t believe the same thing was happening to me.”

He’s silent for a moment. “You went on your first date with him.” His tone is accusatory and he doesn’t address any of what I shared with him.

“Yes. If I’d had friends before we met, chances are high I would’ve been on a first date long ago.
And
Crowell took me lots of places.”

“To fuck you and to get you high,” he snaps. “Not on a date.”

“Right. We just went on appointments.”

He sidles an evil glance to me.

I stare at the ceiling. “What do you want from me?”

“Fidelity! Honesty! Not seeing you out with another motherfucker.”

“You have a lot of nerve,” I snort with resentment.

“I want understanding.”

“Those things works both ways, Sloane,” I say quietly.

He growls but lays next to me and yanks me into his arms, kissing me harshly and leaving me breathless.

“Has your doctor okayed you for sex?”

I roll my eyes. “Fine time to ask.”

Relaxing, he gives me a half-smile, his eyes twinkling, then he nuzzles my neck. “I’ve counted the days,” he admits. “It’s been seven weeks since Bryn’s birth.”

“Yes.”

“But is it okay?”

“It is.”

“Would you be willing to use something to make it more comfortable for you?”

“Such as?”

“For the time being, baby oil. It’s all I have.”