Chapter 6
Layla
The sense of falling startles me awake, and Russell’s handsome face fills my vision as he lays me down on something soft. Confused about where I am and how we got here, I try to sit up, but he presses against my shoulder to lay me back down.
Russell keeps his voice low when he says, “Go back to sleep, darlin’.”
My jaw drops when I see we’re in my apartment and not at the diner, where I should be if I want to make the tips I need to afford my next student loan payment. It remains open when Russell trails his hand down my legs to untie and pull off my sneakers and socks. And even though his rough hands on my skin makes me want to curl my toes and rub my thighs together, I remain still, watching him draw my comforter up over my body.
“Did you get my bike?”
He’s just this side of grumpy when he says, “I’ll get you a new one.”
I sigh, too tired to get into an argument about my bicycle right now.
Russell braces a hand on the mattress beside me, reaches for my teddy bear in the corner, and lays it on my chest, covering my cleavage before tucking the comforter up further at my neck. Still leaning halfway over me, he murmurs, “Sleep well.”
I give in and close my eyes when he kisses my forehead since it’s probably useless trying to argue with him about that either. “I have to be up at four-thirty to get ready for my shift at the boutique.” When he grunts, I ask, “Promise you’ll wake me up?”
Reluctantly, he agrees.
My eyelids flutter slightly when the microwave beeps, then again when the comforter is lifted at the side, something heavy placed on my lower belly. The heat from the rice pad finishes the job, lulling me back into a deep sleep, safe under Russell’s watchful eye.
* * *
Russell
I’ve spent hours outside Layla’s various residences and jobs, but I’ve never had the pleasure of watching her sleep up close. Nor the exquisite torture that comes from refusing to touch her skin again after trailing my hands down her legs when I took her shoes and socks off.
Eventually, after dragging one of the kitchen table chairs to the side of Layla’s bed, I give in. Just a little at first, finding contentment in wrapping a hand around her left ankle, my thumb skimming slowly along her skin. But even that becomes torturous because now I’m addicted and need more.
Just a little higher… I rub the side of her calf with my thumb. Then higher again a few minutes later after dragging my chair closer, my hand on her knee.
I’m sickened but wholly unable to stop when I keep going, pushing my hand up beneath her dress and between her parted legs to palm her inner thigh. I stop at the hem of her tight shorts, scared of myself and what I would do if she weren’t wearing them beneath her uniform.
I’m already being more than inappropriate, and it shakes me to my core that I could be the kind of man who wouldn’t be able to stop from cupping her pussy over her panties. Worried even that wouldn’t be enough. That I’d push the fabric out of the way so I could intimately touch her bare skin, slide my middle finger between her pussy lips to part them, then dip my tip in. And if she didn’t wake, would I keep going? Deeper? Would I climb on the bed and kiss her there when simply touching her wasn’t enough?
“Layla,” I breathe out on a soft moan, watching her sleep peacefully with her head turned toward me.
I have to protect her, which means I have to leave. Now.
I remove her spare key from her key ring so I can lock her door behind me. But I don’t even get the door open, much less leave the apartment, before I’m sitting at her side again, my hand beneath the comforter, even higher this time, splaying across her stomach.
“Wake up, darlin’, and tell me to stop,” I whisper a few inches from her face. When she doesn’t, I play with the fourth button on her dress below the top three that keep coming undone on their own. “Stop me,” I mouth, slowly sliding my hand under the fabric to cup her bare ribs beneath her bra. “ Tell me to go to hell. Call the Sheriff,” I continue mouthing.
Why can’t I stop?
When did I become this man?
This monster?
That’s what I am. A monstrous beast who barely resists pushing Layla’s bra up with my thumb so I can caress the bottom of her breast when she doesn’t react. Her dad wouldn’t love me. He’d be enraged and kill me if he were alive and could see me struggling not to assault his daughter in her sleep. He’d strip the skin off my back if he knew I was unbuckling my belt and rolling my zipper down so I can fist my cock, my lips an inch away from Layla’s so I can breathe in her air as I stroke her ribs and my thick shaft.
“Stop me, darlin’.”
I go ice cold all over when she shifts in her sleep, curling toward me, her lips unintentionally brushing mine. Our first kiss, and she’s not even awake. I weep inside at how far I’ve fallen from grace even as I slant my head to press my lips more firmly against hers. Not enough to wake her. But enough to taste her, daring to lick her bottom lip, panting into her mouth as I jerk my cock.
And when I cum into my palm, then return to her side after washing my hands in the bathroom, I rebutton her top. Dragging the chair back to the kitchen, I sit and watch her, all the while hating myself, praying she’ll forgive me if she ever finds out what I’ve done.
* * *
I hate that I have to wake Layla an hour later, when what I really want is to let her be a no-call-no-show at work so she can sleep as long as she needs. I’d pay her double whatever she makes at the bridal store to make up for it. If only she would accept it without thinking she has to earn it by cleaning the warehouse.
Layla rolls further onto her side toward me when I gently tap her cheek. “Time to get up, darlin’.”
She snuggles deeper under the comforter with an adorable scowl. But then a whimper cuts short my answering grin in an instant. Her shoulders start to shake, and when her eyes open, they meet my worried ones. “It hurts,” she says in the smallest voice.
I wish I could take every ounce of her pain away just as I wipe away the tear on her cheek with my thumb. “What can I do, darlin’? Would a hot bath help?” She nods, and I drop a kiss to her temple before moving into her bathroom to plug the tub and turn on the faucet. The bathtub-shower combo is much smaller than the garden tub I have in my primary bathroom at home, where she would be so much more comfortable.
Maybe one day, she’ll get to try it out.
Wishful thinking .
Once the tub is full, I step out of the bathroom to find Layla sitting on the edge of the bed, the comforter wrapped around her shoulders. We make brief eye contact before she looks off to the side, biting the corner of her lip.
That one moment shakes me up further. She knows what I’ve done . She must. The urge to run out of the apartment, find the nearest railroad, and lay down on the tracks is overwhelming.
“Layla…”
She slowly stands and approaches me, and I freeze like a deer caught in headlights. I stop breathing, bracing myself to be obliterated by her hate and condemnation .
“Thank you for bringing me home and staying with me.”
Fresh air saws into my lungs when she grabs and squeezes my hand, then swerves around me, closing herself into the bathroom instead of eviscerating me where I stand. And stand there, I do, near the door, listening as she takes her bath until I can gather the strength needed to walk away and cook her up something to eat on the way to work.
“Russell?” Layla shouts my name through the door just as I’m boxing the oven-roasted sausage, mixed sweet potatoes, broccoli, and cauliflower into a reusable to-go container.
I swing open the door before thinking it through, and she squeaks, crossing her arms over her chest to cover herself approximately point-three seconds before I can see her breasts, though I do get the blessed flash of her naked shoulders and the top of her belly—a memory that will live forever in the forefront of my mind.
I yank the door closed. “Sorry. I uh…” I clear my throat, banging my forehead against the door frame. “Did you need something?”
After a pause, she asks, “Can you get me the bottle of pain meds from my bag?”
I nod, though she can’t see, and dig through her packed tote bag that I had left on the kitchen counter. Emptying the contents out, I find her meds and am disappointed she’s holding her hand through the crack in the door, waiting for the bottle, instead of still in the bath, giving me an excuse to go inside and see her beautiful, half-naked form again.
That doesn’t stop me from rubbing my thumb across the delicate skin of her inner wrist when I hand her the bottle.
Putting everything back in her bag afterward, I almost skip right over the little rectangular purple business card, thinking it’s one of Violet’s. The shade isn’t quite right, though, and neither is the fact that there’s a woman’s curvy silhouette on one side holding a mop and bucket in her hands next to MAID SERVICE printed in a curly gold font. The other side is blank save for Layla’s phone number and CASH ONLY.
It’s unlike any business card I’ve ever seen—one that makes something low in my gut tighten. The tightening doubles when I unzip Layla’s wallet, discovering a few more of the questionable business cards.
Hearing Layla shuffling inside the bathroom, the plug pulled to drain the bath, I zip up her wallet but keep one of the cards for myself, shoving it in my back pocket where it burns a hole as I finish cleaning the kitchen while she gets dressed.