27. Layla
LAYLA
T he restaurant is only a short walk away.
It's an exclusive French place with a months-long waiting list that Bennett obviously had no trouble getting into on short notice.
The ma?tre d' greets him by name and leads us to a secluded corner table, partially shielded from the rest of the dining room by an elegant arrangement of plants.
“This is beautiful,” I say once we're seated, taking in the understated classiness of the space with its soft lighting, crisp white linens and the quiet murmur of conversation.
“They're known for their privacy,” Bennett says, reaching for my hand across the table. His fingers intertwine with mine, thumb stroking across my knuckles in a way that sends heat spiraling up my arm. “And their wines.”
As if on cue, a sommelier appears to discuss options. Bennett defers to me, another small gesture that shouldn't surprise me anymore but still does. I select a Bordeaux that earns an approving nod from both men, though I'm barely paying attention to their exchange about tannins and terroir.
All my focus is on Bennett's thumb tracing circles on my palm, the simple touch sending electricity straight to my core. I shift in my seat, hyperaware of how the silk of my dress slides against my sensitized skin.
Once we're alone again, Bennett's eyes find mine, his gaze more intense than usual. There's something predatory in the way he's looking at me, like he's already undressing me in his mind.
“What?” I ask, suddenly breathless.
“Nothing,” he says, though his expression says otherwise. “I just like looking at you. Especially when you're getting that flush across your chest. Thinking about my fingers again?”
“Maybe.” I glance down, realizing my skin has indeed pinked above the neckline of my dress. “You're being unusually forward tonight.”
“Am I?” His thumb continues its maddening circles. “Maybe I'm just done pretending I don't want to bend you over this table right now.”
Heat floods my body, pooling low in my belly. “Bennett.”
“I've been thinking about you all day,” he continues, voice dropping to that low register that makes my pulse race. “About getting you alone. About being inside you. About making you come so hard you do that thing where you start talking in tongues.”
My breath catches, the restaurant suddenly too warm. I press my thighs together under the table, already aching for his touch. “I don't talk in tongues. ”
“You do.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a wicked smile. “And I love it. I've been fantasizing since I walked into that bar and saw you laughing with your friends. About taking you home and fucking you until you can't think straight.”
“Jesus,” I whisper, glancing around to make sure no one can hear us. “Did Bennett Mercer just tell me he's going to fuck me senseless in a Michelin-starred restaurant? While the sommelier is probably still within earshot?”
His laugh is low. “I did. And I'm going to do exactly that.” His fingers tighten on mine. “I'm going to make you come apart in my hands. Make you scream my name until the neighbors in the building over complain.”
Desire pools between my thighs, heady and urgent. If we weren't in such an upscale establishment, I might be tempted to drag him into the bathroom right now.
“We should probably look at the menu,” I manage, voice slightly strangled.
His smile turns knowing. “If you insist. But I already know what I want for dessert.”
The way he looks at me when he says it makes my core clench with need.
Dinner consists of course after course of delicately prepared French cuisine paired with exceptional wines.
Throughout the meal, we talk about everything and nothing—work developments carefully phrased for public consumption, a book I've been reading, his thoughts on an art exhibition opening next month. Normal couple conversation.
But underneath runs a current of pure sexual tension. His foot finds mine under the table, sliding up my calf with deliberate slowness. When I reach for my wine glass, his fingers brush along my thigh with obvious intent. Every casual touch feels like foreplay.
By the time dessert arrives, my panties are soaked through. Bennett seems to know exactly what he's doing to me, his eyes dark with promise every time our gazes meet.
“Shall we?” Bennett asks finally, signing the bill without even glancing at the total.
“Please,” I breathe, practically vibrating with need.
The ride back to his penthouse—our penthouse?—is torture. In the back of the town car, his hand rests on my thigh, gradually inching higher under the hem of my dress. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound when his fingers brush against the lace edge of my underwear.
“Fuck, you're already soaked,” he murmurs against my ear, fingertips tracing the damp fabric. “I can feel how bad you want me through your panties.”
I stifle a moan, acutely aware of the driver mere feet away. “Bennett…”
“I want to taste you,” he whispers, breath hot against my neck. “Want to make you come on my tongue until you're shaking.”
“Holy hell, Bennett,” I whisper back, my body trembling with the effort of staying quiet. “You have definitely ruined me for anyone else.”
“Good. Because you're mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice sends a thrill through me, and I drag his mouth to mine.
Waiting for the elevator to the penthouse feels endless, even though it's express.
The moment the doors close, Bennett has me pressed against the wall, his mouth claiming mine in a hungry kiss that has me moaning into his mouth.
His hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my waist, sliding under my dress to cup my ass and pull me against the hard length of his erection.
“I need to feel you,” he growls against my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point. “Right fucking now.”
Before I can respond, his hand is sliding up my thigh, pushing my dress higher. “Bennett. Oh my god!”
I cry out as he pushes my panties aside, stroking me directly. “Christ, you're dripping,” he breathes, sliding two fingers inside me without warning. “I can't wait to be buried inside your sweet pussy.”
“Yes,” I gasp, my hips bucking against his hand as he pumps his fingers deep. The elevator continues its smooth ascent while his thumb finds my clit, making me see stars.
“That's it,” he murmurs, watching my face as I fall apart against the wall. “Let go for me before we even get upstairs.”
The combination of his fingers inside me and the knowledge that we're suspended between floors sends me over the edge embarrassingly fast. I bite down on his shoulder to muffle my scream as the climax crashes through me.
The elevator dings softly as we reach the penthouse, and Bennett withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his mouth with a wicked smile. “Perfect timing.”
We barely make it into the foyer before clothes start coming off. My dress drops to the floor in the entryway, followed by his suit jacket and tie. His shirt buttons scatter across the marble when I tug too hard, impatient to feel his skin against mine.
“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes, eyes raking over my body clad only in black lace lingerie. “Always so gorgeous. ”
I sink to my knees in front of him, looking up through my lashes as I finish unbuckling his belt. His eyes darken, pupils blown wide with desire as he watches me work his pants open. When I free his cock—thick, hard, already leaking—he hisses through his teeth.
“Layla,” he groans when I take him in my mouth, his fingers threading through my hair. “Christ, your mouth feels amazing.”
I lose myself in the taste of him, the weight of him on my tongue, the sounds he makes as I take him deeper. His restraint is evident in the tension in his thighs, the careful way he holds himself back, the way he lets me set the pace.
“That's it, baby,” he breathes. “Take me deeper. Show me how much you want my cock.”
I hollow my cheeks, taking him as deep as I can, until he hits the back of my throat. The sound he makes sends heat flooding between my thighs, a half groan, half curse. My clit jolts.
When his breathing grows ragged and his grip in my hair tightens, he gently pulls me away. “Not like this,” he says, voice rough with need. “I want to be inside you when I come.”
He lifts me to my feet in one smooth motion, capturing my mouth in a kiss that tastes of wine and desperation. Then he's lifting me onto the kitchen island, working my bra off and tossing it aside before guiding me to lie back on the cool marble.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they harden into tight peaks. “I will never get tired of looking at these gorgeous tits.”
I arch into his touch, desperate for more. The marble is cold against my back, making my heated skin even more sensitive. “Bennett, please.”
“Please what?” He smirks, pinching my nipples just hard enough to make me cry out. “Tell me what you want.”
“Please touch me,” I breathe, hips rolling against nothing. “I need your mouth. Your fingers. I'm so wet for you.”
His eyes flash with heat at my words. He reaches between us, fingers hooking in the sides of my panties, and drags them down my legs with torturous slowness. When they're gone, he pushes my thighs apart, eyes fixed on my exposed center with an intensity that makes me shiver.
“Look at this pretty cunt,” he says, voice husky with desire as he drops to his knees. “So wet and ready for me. I'm going to eat you until you scream.”
His mouth is on me before I can respond, his tongue finding my clit with devastating precision. I cry out, back arching as sensation surges through me. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open as he devours me.
“Bennett,” I gasp, fingers tangling in his hair, hips moving against his mouth. “Oh fuck! That feels so good.”