14. Layla
LAYLA
M y hands shake as I pour the wine.
Not from nerves, but from leftover electricity. The kind that comes from spending an entire evening pretending you don't want to climb across a dinner table and into someone's lap while your father calls him Satan's accountant.
I kick off my heels with more force than necessary. One hits the coffee table, sending my laptop charger skittering across the hardwood. Good. Everything should be unsettled right now. At least my apartment matches my internal state.
The wine—a decent Pinot Grigio that normally tastes like relaxation—goes down like liquid courage I didn't know I needed. Three sips in, and I'm already reaching for my phone.
Shit. I only have his work number. I can’t text that.
Or can I?
While I contemplate how risky it would be to message Bennett on his work cell at ten p.m. I change into my softest pajamas and drop onto the couch, Pinot in hand and hair pulled into a haphazard knot on top of my head.
I open up my laptop, trying to shift my focus to work instead of how badly I wanted Bennett to also insist on walking me upstairs to my apartment, pushing me against the wall of the elevator, pinning my wrists and telling me exactly what he planned to do to me.
No. Bad Layla.
Instead, I click open the NeuraTech project folder and quickly lose myself in the thicket of technical reports and team updates.
Audrey's latest email is enthusiastic, bordering on manic: Good news, the external response time is down to 0.
4 seconds (!!!) and we did not set anything on fire today. Do you realize how historic this is??
My mouth twitches. I picture her, bun askew, caffeinated to the edge of cardiac arrest, wiring up the world’s most expensive mannequin.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number
Safe?
My stupid heart does a backflip. I set my laptop aside and curl deeper into the couch, phone cradled in my hands like something precious.
Me:
How'd you get my personal number?
Him:
Flipped the last two digits of your mom's. That doesn’t answer my question.
A laugh escapes. Of course he did.
Me:
I only have your work cell. I didn’t think it was appropriate.
Him:
Now you have my personal cell.
Me:
In that case, yes, I’m safe in my apartment.
Him:
Is it too late to apologize for what happened tonight?
Me:
Which part?
Him:
All of it.
My grip on the phone tightens. His willingness to take the blame wraps around my ribs in the most uncomfortable way.
Me:
Even your offer to follow me home?
Him:
Especially that. I should’ve driven you.
Me:
And break your professional boundaries?
Him:
They’re hanging by a thread. The polite thing would’ve been to drive you.
The polite thing. Everything about this man is tight control and restraint, and now he's telling me his boundaries are fraying? Oh god.
Me:
Can we talk instead of texting?
The phone rings immediately.
“Hi,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around breathless.
“You sound tired.” His voice is different on the phone. Lower. More intimate. Like he's right beside me.
“Long day.”
“How's the wine?”
I glance at my glass, startled. “How did you?—”
“You always mention wine on difficult days. Bad day, wine. Good day, tea.”
“You've been cataloging my beverage choices?”
“I've been cataloging everything about you.” The admission hangs between us. “That's the problem.”
“Why is it a problem?”
“Because I'm supposed to be focused on the acquisition. Not on how you take your coffee or the way you tap your pen when you're thinking.”
“How do I take my coffee?”
“One sugar, splash of cream. Unless you’re tired, then it's two sugars.”
“OK, that's actually disturbing.”
His laugh is rich, warming me from the inside. “I can't help it. You're... distracting.”
“I'm distracting? You're the one who shows up to meetings looking like you stepped out of a magazine.”
“You think I look good?”
“You know you look good. ”
“I know you think I do,” he corrects. “That's different. Better.”
We're quiet for a moment. I hear ice clink. He's drinking too.
“Scotch?” I guess.
“Bourbon tonight.”
“Rough day?”
“Getting better.” His voice drops. “Tell me about yours. Before dinner.”
“You want to hear about my thrilling afternoon of spreadsheets?”
“I want to hear your voice,” he says simply. “Tell me anything.”
So I do. I tell him about the morning meeting where Audrey accidentally called someone the wrong name for an hour. About my assistant's ongoing war with the printer. About the little victories and frustrations that make up a day I'd normally forget.
He listens. Laughs in the right places. Asks questions that show he's paying attention.
“Your turn,” I say eventually. “Tell me something about your day I wouldn't know from meetings.”
There's a long pause. “I split my lunch break between reading the Tokyo merger documents and listening to Caleb tell me why he thinks I’m emotionally stunted.”
“Is he wrong?”
Another pause. “Maybe not always. But in this case, I think he misunderstands the situation.”
“And what situation is that?”
“You,” Bennett says, quietly. Like he's admitting to something shameful and thrilling at once. “You're the exception to almost every rule I've made for myself. ”
My mouth goes dry. I'm not sure what to say to that, so I let the silence stretch, picking at the label on my wine bottle.
“Layla?”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t control myself around you anymore.”
The words hit like lightning. I can't breathe.
“You can't say things like that.”
“Why not? We're already crossing every line. Might as well be honest about it.”
“Being honest makes it real.”
“It's already real, Layla.” His voice is rough now. “It's been real since you walked up to me with shaking hands and told me I had a symmetrical face.”
“I was nervous!”
“You were perfect.” The raw honesty in his voice undoes me. “And every day since has been an exercise in torture. Sitting across from you in meetings. Watching you fight for your people. Seeing your brilliant mind work. And not being able to touch you.”
“Bennett—”
“Do you know what you wore to the meeting last Tuesday?”
My mind scrambles. “The navy dress?”
“The navy dress with the buttons.” His voice drops. “The third button kept straining when you leaned forward to make a point. I spent the entire meeting fantasizing about it popping open.”
Heat floods through me. “You were discussing quarterly projections.”
“I was discussing quarterly projections while imagining undressing you on the conference table. ”
“Oh God.” I press my thighs together, already aching.
“Too much?” he asks, but there's a smile in his voice.
“No.” The word escapes before I can stop it. “Not enough.”
His sharp intake of breath makes me braver.
“I think about you too,” I admit. “During meetings. After meetings. That day you rolled up your sleeves while reviewing contracts? I had to excuse myself.”
“Why?”
“Because all I could think about was your hands. What they'd feel like on me. In me.”
“Fuck, Layla.”
“And last Thursday, when you loosened your tie during the budget review? I lost track of the conversation completely. Just stared at your throat and imagined…” I stop, face flaming.
“Tell me.” His voice is commanding now. “Tell me what you imagined.”
“Kissing you there. Right where your pulse beats. Feeling it race under my lips.”
“I'm touching myself,” he says roughly. “Is that what you want to hear? That I'm so fucking hard just from your voice that I can't help it?”
The confession shoots straight between my legs. “Yes.”
“Your turn. Tell me what you're doing.”
“Nothing. Yet.”
“Touch yourself.” It's not a request. “I want to know you're as desperate as I am.”
I slide my hand into my shorts, finding myself already slick. “Oh God.”
“That's it.” His breathing is harsh now. “Are you wet for me? ”
“So wet.” I circle my clit, biting back a moan. “I've been wet since dinner. Since your leg brushed mine. I didn’t want you to say goodbye when you did.”
“I wanted to kiss you so badly. Pin you against the wall and show you exactly what you do to me.”
“Why didn't you?”
“Because once I start, I won't be able to stop.” His voice is strained. “And you deserve better than being fucked in a parking garage our first time.”
“How would you do it then?” I'm properly touching myself now, all shame abandoned. “Our first time?”
“Slowly.” I hear the heaviness of his breath, the thickness in his voice. “I'd undress you piece by piece. Kiss every inch of skin as I reveal it. Learn what makes you gasp, what makes you moan.”
“And then?”
“I'd taste you. Spread you out on my bed and use my tongue until you're begging. Until you can't remember anything but my name.”
“Bennett,” I whimper, circling faster.
“Just like that. I'd make you come on my tongue first. Then my fingers. Get you sensitive and shaking before I finally fuck you.”
“Please.”
“I'd go slow at first. Let you feel every inch as I push inside. Watch your face as you adjust to me.”
“I want it hard,” I confess, adding another finger. “Want you to lose control.”
“Careful what you wish for.” His voice is pure gravel now. “Once I'm inside you, all bets are off. I'd fuck you until you screamed. Until the whole building knows who you belong to. ”
“Yes.”
“Are you close?”
“So close.”
“Come for me, Layla. Let me hear it.”
His command tips me over. “Bennett!” I cry out, not caring if my neighbors hear, pleasure crashing through me in waves. Through the haze, I hear him groan my name, followed by harsh breathing as he follows me over.
For several long moments, there's only the sound of our breathing gradually slowing. Reality seeps back in like cold water, bringing with it the magnitude of what we've just done.
“Jesus,” I finally whisper.
“Yeah.” He sounds as wrecked as I feel. “That was...”
“Completely inappropriate?”
“I was going to say inevitable.” A pause. “But also that.”
A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles up. “We just had phone sex while you're actively acquiring my father's company.”
“When you put it like that, it sounds problematic.”
“You think?” But I'm smiling despite myself. There's something about his dry delivery that makes even this insanity seem manageable.
“For what it's worth,” he says, “I haven't come that hard in... a very long time.”
“Glad I could help.” I press my palm to my forehead, wishing I could erase the blush I'm sure is painting my cheeks. “This changes things, Bennett.”
“Everything,” he agrees. “The question is what we do about it.”
“What do you want to do about it?”
A long pause. I hear him shift, maybe sitting up. When he speaks again, his voice carries a weight that makes my chest tight.
“I want to see you. Not in a boardroom. Not surrounded by lawyers and spreadsheets. Just you.”
“Bennett…”
“I know it's complicated. I know your father would lose his mind. I know there are a thousand reasons this is a bad idea.”
“But?”
“But I can't pretend anymore. Can't sit across from you in meetings and act like I don't know how you sound when you come. Can't maintain professional distance when all I want is to be close to you.”
My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it through the phone. “What are you saying?”
“I'm saying I want to try. Whatever this is between us, I want to see where it goes.”
“Despite the acquisition? Despite my father? Despite everything?”
“Because of you,” he says simply. “The rest we'll figure out.”
I close my eyes, torn between elation and terror. “I don't know if I can keep this secret. I'm terrible at hiding my feelings.”
“Then don't hide them. At least not from me.”
“You know what I mean. At work. In meetings.”
“Considering there are already rumors going around about us, then we’ll just continue as we have been. Professional in public.” His voice drops. “But in private...”
“Yeah?”
“In private, you're mine. ”
The possessiveness should bother me. Instead, it sends a fresh wave of heat through my body.
“Yours,” I agree softly.
“Can I see you tomorrow? Outside of work?”
“I have the integration meeting at nine. Then the budget review at two.”
“Dinner?” he suggests. “Somewhere discrete. Where we can actually talk without your father throwing salmon at me.”
A laugh escapes. “He wasn't throwing it.”
“He was considering it. I saw the look in his eyes.”
“Dinner sounds good,” I say, choosing to ignore the thousand complications this creates. “Somewhere with good wine. I have a feeling I'll need it.”
“I'll take care of it.” Of course he will. The man who plans everything. “And Layla?”
“Mm?”
“Wear the navy dress. The one with the buttons.”
“Bennett!”
“What? I've been fantasizing about it for a week. Might as well lean into it.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You're incredible.” The shift from teasing to sincere catches me off guard. “I know this is messy. I know we're doing everything backwards. But I haven't felt this way about anyone... ever.”
My throat tightens. “Me either.”
“So we try?”
“We try.”
“Good.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Now get some sleep.”
After we hang up, I lie there staring at my ceiling, body still humming with aftershocks, mind racing with the implications of what we've just agreed to.
I'm dating Bennett Mercer. Sort of. Secretly. While he's taking over my father's company.
What could possibly go wrong?
My phone buzzes with a text.
Him:
For the record, you're wearing entirely too many clothes in my fantasies. Might want to fix that.
Another text follows immediately.
Him:
That was supposed to say “sweet dreams” but autocorrect had other ideas.
Actually, no. That was me. Autocorrect is innocent.
I'm laughing now, tension breaking.
Me:
Smooth. Very CEO of you.
Him:
I'm better in person. You'll see tomorrow.
Me:
Promises, promises.
Him:
Oh, I always keep my promises. Especially the dirty ones.
Me:
Goodnight, Bennett.
Him:
Goodnight, beautiful.
I set the phone aside, still smiling. Tomorrow I'll have to face him in that integration meeting. Sit across a conference table and discuss logistics while knowing exactly what his voice sounds like when he jerking off to the sound of mine. That I don’t want to do it again.
It should terrify me. The complications. The secrets. The inevitable explosion when people find out.
Instead, I feel more alive than I have in years.
I close my eyes, and he's there immediately. Those intense eyes. That controlled exterior hiding so much heat underneath. The way he said my name like a prayer and a possession all at once.
My father is going to kill us both.
But right now, I can't bring myself to care.
Tomorrow, everything gets complicated.
Tonight, I’m just a woman falling for a man who sees all of me. And wants me anyway.