31. Thank You
31
THANK YOU
Layla
In the half-light of the dawn peeking through my window, I rustle, shifting in the bed, wearing only a tank top and panties. I brushed my teeth in the middle of the night. Nick did too. Then we fell back in bed, only with fewer clothes on.
Nick stirs then blinks his eyes open. “Hi,” he whispers, voice rusty.
“Hi,” I murmur.
He’s behind me, spooning me, wearing his boxer briefs. He kisses my hair lightly then grazes his hand up my left arm, traveling higher, closer to the flower. “Can I touch you here?”
I didn’t want him to touch my tattoo in Miami. Or to find the scar it covers. Now, I do.
“Yes,” I say, granting permission I’ve never given anyone.
“Thank you,” he says, then drops the gentlest kiss to my flesh, dusting—I think—the petal of the blue daisy tattoo. I shiver at the zing of pleasure.
He pulls back, tracing his finger along the jagged cut, then down the stem to the musical notes at the base. “Why a daisy to cover up the scar? And musical notes?”
“Gerbera daisies are Harlow’s favorite flower. And the notes are for Ethan since he’s a musician.”
Nick hums softly, kissing the back of my neck with a new kind of reverence. “The ink is for them. Because they helped you through it,” he says.
I smile from the comfort of his answer and the peace of his understanding. “Without my friends, I’d be lost.”
He strokes my sleep-mussed hair, brushing it behind my ear, tucking it there. “I’m so glad you have them,” he says, and his voice is trembling now, like he’s on the verge of saying something else.
Something bigger.
I’m not sure I could handle anything bigger right now. Last night was intense. “I’ve never told that story to anyone but a therapist and those two friends. Even Jules and Camden don’t know the details, and they go with me to Krav Maga.”
“Thank you for trusting me,” he says, kissing the tattoo again. Then again. Then once more, with an urgency now—an urgency that’s both sexual and also emotional. He kisses my shoulder with a fresh passion, murmuring as he goes, like he’s uttering an adoring thank you to my friends, to my father.
To me.
For being alive.
I feel alive in other ways, too, thanks to his kisses, to his hands.
Tingles race down my skin, skating over my flesh, sliding between my thighs. He journeys from petal to petal. I can’t see him kiss me, but I can feel him moving around the art while he traces the musical notes with his finger.
By the time he’s circled the flower, I’m a puddle of need and desire—but it’s deeper than before. This is something more. “Nick,” I moan.
He grabs my face, turns me toward him. “You,” he utters, then he shifts me fully, tugging me against him. We’re side by side, and he reaches for my thigh, hooking my leg over his hip.
He runs his forefinger over my top lip. Then the bottom one. He’s memorizing me with his touch, and I don’t ever want to be forgotten. I want to be more than remembered. I want to be his present.
I rope my arms around his neck and tug him close. “I want you. So much,” I say, trembling everywhere, my voice, my body, my heart.
“Want you too,” he answers.
The rest of our clothes vanish in a flurry, then I find a condom in the nightstand drawer. “Bought these for you. When you were coming to meet me at Hugo’s,” I tell him.
“I did the same. You’re the only one I’ve been with in a long time,” he says, then he takes a beat. “But first, let me fulfill a promise.”
After he sets the condom on the sheets, he moves down the bed, settling between my legs.
I ache for him. But he doesn’t make me wait this time. He doesn’t tease. He French kisses me, his beard deliciously scraping my thigh.
“Oh god,” I gasp, as he spreads me open, licking me, moaning obscenely.
In no time, it seems, I’m arching against him, gasping out, then coming.
I’m still panting when I open my eyes to find him kneeling, rolling on the protection. “I couldn’t help myself,” he says in a wholly unnecessary apology.
“You’re forgiven,” I say.
He notches the head of his cock against me.
For a second or two, I feel caught once again. Caught by his gaze, by his heart, by his big emotions.
They scare me, but I also don’t want to deny them anymore. “This time is different,” I whisper.
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
I shudder out a breath as he enters me.
I’ve missed him so much.
When he’s all the way in, he lets out a long, sensual groan. “My brave, bold Layla,” he says. Braced on his palms, he eases out then thrusts back in. “My Layla. My Lola.”
I’m both to him now. He’s telling me he sees all of me. Wants all of me.
As he rocks in and out with a new passion, the moment is almost too much. Almost too intense. But I stay in it. I loop my hands around his neck, wrap my legs tighter around him. “Deeper,” I urge.
He nods savagely.
My heart beats harder. Louder. Our gazes lock for several seconds, the connection burning bright and powerfully.
Then, he complies, driving into me. “Yes,” he mutters, swiveling his hips. I rise up, meeting him thrust for thrust, grabbing his ass.
He watches me as he fucks me. Watches me with an adoration that’s rich with possession. That’s brimming with emotion.
My heart gallops faster, my skin tingling everywhere from the sheer pleasure but also from the intimacy. True and real.
If something happened to him, I would hurt. But I want him anyway. Desperately, recklessly, and truly.
I try to tell him that with my body, moving to greet his mouth with a passionate kiss.
He takes my kiss and matches it with a heated one of his own, like he’s telling me the same thing.
He wants this.
He wants us .
He wants more than these stolen moments.
We kiss and fuck and consume each other. Soon, my world narrows to the slap of sweat-slicked skin, to the grunts and groans of a race to the end, then to the cries of bliss coming from deep within me.
I surrender to an orgasm that’s as lustful as it is emotional.
It crashes into my body, radiating through me to my fingers, my toes, my hair. Seconds later, he’s falling under too, shuddering then stilling as he groans, a long, deep rumble.
Then, we’re quiet, tangled together as we come down.
Soon, he’ll have to go.
But after we straighten up, he tugs me back to bed and brings me close to him once again. Strong arms wrap around me. Warm breath tickles my neck. “I don’t want to leave you,” he rasps out.
It sounds like a confession.
“I don’t want you to go,” I say.
We stay like that, together and quiet, until he breaks the silence. “Layla,” he says, importantly.
I tense, but then he soothes my worries with his words. “I want to stay. I do.”
I take his hand, wrap his arm tightly around me.
But eventually, the sun rises, and he leaves.