16. Layla
LAYLA
T he doorman's polite smile betrays nothing as he hands me the elevator key fob.
“Penthouse level, Ms. Carmichael. Mr. Mercer is expecting you.”
The navy dress—the one he specifically requested—suddenly feels like both armor and a target. My hands smooth over the fabric as the elevator glides upward. Third button still holding strong, despite his confession about watching it strain.
The doors slide open directly into his penthouse.
I step into stunning luxury with floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase Chicago's glittering skyline, modern furniture that probably costs more than my car, everything gleaming with expensive taste.
But there are surprising touches of warmth too.
A throw blanket draped over the leather couch.
Books scattered on the coffee table. Real books, not just decorative ones.
“Bennett?” I call out, clutching my portfolio like a shield .
“In here.”
I follow his voice to a sleek home office where he stands behind his desk, papers spread across the surface. He's still in his dressed like he just left the office, but the jacket's gone. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Tie loosened just enough to reveal the hollow of his throat.
The same throat I told him I wanted to kiss.
“Thank you for coming.” His voice carries an edge I can't identify as he gestures to the documents. “We need to review these projections before tomorrow's meeting.”
“Of course.” I move closer, setting my portfolio on the desk. “Although, judging by the chaos here, you've already pulled them off the system—and shuffled the order in the process.”
His hands still. A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I was... comparing timelines.”
“This timeline is from March.” I lean over to point, hyperaware when his breathing changes. “We updated it two weeks ago.”
“Right.” He shifts the papers unnecessarily, his shoulder brushing mine. The contact lasts a heartbeat before he steps back, fingers drumming against the desk. “The March version had more detail on the?—”
“Bennett.”
The drumming stops.
“Are we really here to discuss reports you've likely memorized?”
He looks at me then, and his careful control wavers. “We should be.”
“But we're not going to?”
“I'm trying to.” He runs a hand through his hair. “God knows I'm trying. Do you know what today was like? Six hours of crisis management meetings with Cruz Financial, and all I could think about was?—”
He cuts himself off.
“Was what?”
“It was you.” The words come out rough. “Every time Caleb spoke, every time Dominic made a joke, all I could think about was how much I wanted to be in that boardroom, across from you—watching you, listening to you, just... being near you.”
“I was distracted too.” The admission tumbles out.
“All day, I kept wondering if you canceled those meetings because of last night. If it was regret—or just business. I signed three documents with the wrong date. My assistant asked if I was sick because I kept staring at nothing. I was so focused on whether we were actually going to have that dinner you promised or…” I let the words hang.
“Caleb thinks you're affecting my judgment.” He moves around the desk, stopping just out of reach. “Making me sloppy.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “I missed a fifteen-million-dollar discrepancy in another deal. I've been calculating risks since I was twenty-two, and today I couldn't make basic numbers add up.”
“Because of me?”
“Because all I can think about is touching you.” His fingers flex at his sides. “Which is why we should probably maintain some distance. Be rational.”
“Right. Distance.” I turn back to the papers. “So the Q3 projections are forecasting a phased adoption strategy with?—”
“You wore the dress. ”
I freeze. “You asked me to.”
“I know.” He's closer now. “I've been staring at that third button for the last five minutes.”
“We're supposed to be reviewing reports.”
“We are.” But his hand reaches past me for a pen, his chest brushing my back. “This projection here—” He circles something, his other hand bracing on the desk beside me, effectively caging me in. “—assumes we maintain current staffing levels.”
“Bennett.”
“I'm just pointing out the numbers.” But his breath ghosts over my neck. “Is that the perfume from the festival?”
“Yes.”
“Vanilla and jasmine. After that night, I found myself searching for it everywhere. Hoping I'd catch a trace and it would be you. Drove me crazy for weeks.”
I turn in the cage of his arms. Bad idea. Now we're face to face, bodies touching.
“We agreed to try this,” I remind him. “Why does it feel like you're still fighting it?”
“I'm not fighting it.” His hands grip the desk on either side of me. “But I need you to understand something. I don't do halfway. If we cross this line?—”
“We already did.”
“That was different. That was fantasy. This is real.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because once I touch you, I won’t stop. Not tonight. Not tomorrow in that boardroom. Not ever.”
“Maybe I don't want you to stop.”
The last thread snaps.
But he doesn’t kiss me. Not yet .
Instead, his hand comes up slowly, fingers ghosting along my jaw. “Last chance to be rational.”
“I'm done being rational. I've been rational all day. Through meetings and calls and arguing with my father. I'm tired of rational.”
“Layla.”
“Touch me. Like you wanted to last night. Like you've been thinking about all day.”
His thumb traces my lower lip. I part them. His breathing goes ragged.
“I had plans. Wine. Conversation. Easing into this.”
“What happened to your plans?”
“You happened.” His other hand slides into my hair. “You always happen to my plans.”
He kisses me then, and it's not gentle. It's searing and unrelenting, like a dam breaking after too long under pressure.
His lips crash into mine with the hunger of every look, every touch we've denied.
His tongue demands entry, claiming me with a desperation that sends heat straight to my core.
I make a sound I don't recognize—part gasp, part surrender—because nothing could have prepared me for this.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. He responds by pressing me back against the desk, papers crinkling beneath me. His mouth travels to my jaw, my neck, finding that spot below my ear that makes me moan.
“Every meeting,” he murmurs against my skin. “Every fucking meeting, watching you across that table while all I could think about was this.”
“I know.” My hands find his hair, holding him against me. “I felt it too.”
He pulls back to look at me, and the hunger in his eyes steals my breath. “I need you to be sure. Because I meant what I said. I don't know how to want you just a little.”
Instead of answering, I reach for the first button of my dress. His eyes track the movement as I work it free, then the second.
“That's not...” His voice breaks when I reach the third button, the one he's been obsessing over. “That's not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
The button slips free. The dress parts slightly, revealing the lace beneath. His control visibly cracks.
“Fuck.” He catches my hands. “Not here. Not against a desk like some rushed...” He takes a breath. “Let me do this right.”
Before I can respond, he's leading me out of the office, through the living room with its spectacular view. His bedroom door opens to reveal a massive space dominated by a king bed and more windows overlooking the city.
“This is a room,” I say, glancing around at the understated luxury. Warm lighting, sleek lines, quiet wealth everywhere I look. “It's very you.”
“It's better now that you're in it.” He turns me to face the windows, the city lights sparkling below. His hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs tracing the neckline of my dress. “Do you know what you look like right now?”
“Tell me.”
“Like everything I've wanted and been too stubborn to admit.” His lips brush my ear. “Like the reason I can't focus. Can't think. Can't remember why keeping my distance seemed so important.”
I lean back against him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest. “Then stop keeping it. ”
His hands slide down my arms, then around my waist. “I want to see you. All of you. Will you let me?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He works the remaining buttons slowly, torturously. Each inch of revealed skin gets attention—a kiss to my shoulder, fingertips tracing my spine. By the time the dress pools at my feet, I'm trembling.
“Beautiful,” he breathes, taking in the matching lace I'd optimistically worn. “So fucking beautiful.”
I turn in his arms, reaching for his shirt buttons. “My turn.”
He lets me undress him, though my hands shake slightly when I push the shirt off his shoulders. The chest I've been imagining is better than my fantasies—lean muscle, a dusting of dark hair, a few scattered scars that speak to a life lived beyond boardrooms.
“You're staring,” he notes.
“You're worth staring at.” I trace a particularly interesting scar along his ribs. “What's this from?”
“Boxing. College.” His stomach muscles tense under my touch. “I was young and stupid and thought I was invincible.”
“And this one?” I find another on his shoulder.
“Sailing accident. Tried to impress a girl.” His hands span my waist. “Ended up with twelve stitches instead of a phone number.”
“Poor Bennett.” I press my lips to the scar. “All that effort wasted.”
His grip tightens. “Not wasted. Practice for finding the right girl.”
The words hang between us, heavier than they should be. This is supposed to be physical. A release of tension. But the way he's looking at me suggests something deeper.
“Bennett.”
He kisses me before I can finish, walking me backward until my knees hit the bed. We fall together, a tangle of limbs and desperate touches. His weight presses me into the mattress, and I arch against him, needing more contact.
“Slow down,” he murmurs, even as his own hands contradict the words. “We have all night.”