Chapter 12 Layla
Layla
On one hand, I want him to kiss me.
On the other hand, I’m terrified he will.
I’m a literal mess.
A functioning adult woman with a job and a retirement account and the ability to parallel park on the first try like a boss. I can run a festival against my will and tell corporate sponsors no while smiling like I just said yes.
I walk with my head held high, can look my dirtbag ex-boyfriend in the eye . . .
But I have never stayed in a house with a man built like a cathedral.
I mean—look at him!
No, don’t look at him, Layla. That’s the damn problem. The looking.
He is way too fucking sexy, and listen to me cursing. Ugh!
None of this is like me. I Do Not Do Things Like This! I do color-coded calendars and comfortable shoes. I am plain. Basic. I drink pumpkin-spice lattes and wear puffer coats and rain boots when it rains and enjoy grocery shopping.
I do not hop on planes and fly to other states to see a man I’ve known for, what, one hot minute and a half?
So why am I here?
I was fooling myself, telling myself this trip was about his daughter; the truth is . . .
I find him so unbelievably attractive it’s kept me awake since the day we met. He makes my heart race and my cheeks flush and my pussy wet.
I wonder how long it’s been since he’s kissed anyone.
I wonder what’s going on in that beautiful brain of his.
The water glides over my stomach; nerves skitter under my skin like minnows. I’m not even cold—I’m just that keyed up.
Say something, Layla.
“I’m glad you’re relaxing. When’s the last time you did that?”
It takes him several seconds to think. “Usually only when I’m home.”
My head bobs up and down. “I like being home too.”
His thumb presses on my pulse point; I hold myself steady against the tiled wall of the pool, feet suspended in the water, kicking lightly below. Getting tired.
I wonder if he’d mind . . .
“I’m losing the battle with gravity,” I say, breathless for no good reason other than my raging hormones. “Don’t let me drown. It would be embarrassing.”
My hands grip his shoulders. His hands slide to my waist without hurry, like he’s done this a thousand times with care and never once with me. “I’ve got you.”
He certainly does.
I shiver.
“Layla,” he says, and I love my name in his mouth. Intoxicating. Low. Deep.
“Hmm?”
“Tell me what you want.”
What I want? Is this a trap or an invitation?
My senses halt, nerves on high alert. Skin prickling. “What do you mean? Be more specific.”
“What do you want from me?”
The question gives me pause. I pull back so I can look him in the eye, the pool lights and porch lights casting a glow across his face. “Nothing.”
His brows pull together, the barest crease.
“From you,” I clarify, and hear my own heartbeat in my ears. “I don’t want anything from you.”
Relief loosens something in his shoulders, and I can see the wheels turning in his head as he formulates his own reply.
His nostrils flare. His gaze drops to my mouth. “Well, I want things from you.”
Oh . . .
Oh Jesus.
“Like what?” I lick my lips, hands sliding around his neck as he moves us, pressing my back against the cool tile wall. Pressing his body into mine. Wide chest. Palms bracket my hips as the water slides between us and nowhere at all. Nose slides along my jaw.
“That kiss I gave you at Fall Fest was the first kiss I’ve had in a really long time.”
His voice is low against my ear, the vibration zapping my insides with pleasure when his thighs slide between mine, pulling my legs around him; the new anchor drags a sound from my throat I’ve never heard leave my body before.
“Are you implying that you want to kiss me again?”
He chuckles.
Kisses my neck, losing his battle with data and science and his rules.
Kisses my jaw. The corner of my mouth.
Lips press gently against mine, heat wrapped in self-control. Patient. Tasting without taking, ruining me more than hunger ever could. I open to him and his hot tongue slides against mine in a slow, devastating stroke that steals my breath.
My God, how the hell am I supposed to date after this? What man could ever compare?
So good.
The kiss burns.
Stubble rasps my skin; the small sound I make disappears into his mouth. He answers with a low noise that vibrates through his chest into mine, and the pool seems to tilt, water lapping at our shoulders while he kisses me like Benny isn’t in the kitchen beyond and could bust us at any second.
My lips feel swollen already.
One of his large palms moves from where they grip my ass, and glides up my torso, splaying on my ribs, fingers brushing the underside of my triangle top.
Brushing against my boob.
He cups it then, thumb stroking my nipple through the fabric, and I could literally die . . .
I moan.
Somewhere, in the back of my brain, I hear a door open.
“Dad? Layla?” Benny’s squeaky little voice rockets into the night. “Are you drowning? We’re out of chips!”
We jolt apart, breathless, foreheads still nearly touching like we forgot how far to go. He shifts, broad back angling instinctively in front of me as I get to work fixing my bikini. Steady my breath.
“One sec, Ben!” he calls back. “Be right there!”
The slider thunks shut again.
Silence.
Our eyes meet.
His mouth curves—apologetic, amused.
“She’s out of chips.” I giggle uneasily, nerves shot.
“Horrible timing,” he murmurs, dipping into the water, hands going back to my waist. “I’m so hard.”
I can feel it.
He lowers his forehead to mine for one last stolen second, breathing me in, hands warm and possessive at my waist. “Layla.”
“Mmm?”
“I don’t want you to feel like you’re being steered anywhere you don’t want to go.”
My breath shivers against his. “I’m not.”
I wasn’t expecting to make out with him while I was here, but I also love that I made out with him while I was here. This man with powerful arms and abs like steel and wide shoulders and nipples I want to suck on.
“Good.”
He helps me out of the pool, big hand splayed at the small of my back like a claim. At the towel rack, he drapes one over my shoulders, fingers lingering a beat too long on my flesh, eyes flicking to my mouth like he’s cataloging it for later.
Once inside, I go straight to my room, absolutely no idea where to put the feelings that are dripping off me along with the pool water.
I shut the door. Lean on it. Stare at the ceiling fan as if it can circulate common sense.
Who can I talk to about this? Not my mother, unless I want a lecture on jetting off with strange men who could be axe murderers. Not my siblings—they would tell my mother. Not my group of friends—it would require too many details I don’t have the time to tell.
Annabelle.
We aren’t friends, and I barely know her. But she is in a relationship with a football player and her best friend is married to one, so who better to give me advice?
I find a robe hanging behind the bathroom door and slip it on so I can settle onto the bed without getting the duvet cover damp. I flop down. Find our last few messages from last week, leading up to the festival.
My thumbs hover. I type, delete, type again.
Me:
Hey there. Do you have a second?
Annabelle:
Sure do, what’s up? Is everything okay?
Me:
This is going to sound crazy so I’m just going to say it.
Me:
I’m in Arizona with Hayes Fielder. At his house. With his daughter. And he just kissed me.
There. I did it.
Let her sit with a million questions before she has a chance to process what I’ve just told her.
Annabelle:
I’m sorry, what? I had to read that to make sure my eyes were reading what I thought I read.
Me:
No, you read that right. And I’m hiding in the bedroom—Not His Bedroom, the guest bedroom—because we just had a sexy kiss in the pool and now I have no idea what to do next. Like. Wht the Hell Do I Do???
Annabelle:
You kissed Hayes Fielder. The guy who never smiles.
Me:
Oh, he smiles alright . . .
Annabelle:
Oh my god. Are You Fucking Serious?? Pardon my language but Holy Shit.
This is exactly the response I was expecting.
Annabelle:
I’m sorry—that wasn’t helpful, I know. Okay. PHEW! Deep breath. Are you safe? Do you feel good about this?
Me:
Yes and yes. Too good. Like feral-good.
I want to climb him like a tree. Lick him all over.
But I don’t want a broken heart. Do not want to feel discarded once I arrive home in a few days.
Annabelle:
Quick, without thinking, what do you want? Go.
Me:
To kiss him again. To not overthink it. To not make it weird for his daughter.
Annabelle:
Boundaries, then. No PDA in front of his kid, no common spaces, yes to kissing, yes to screwing your brains out, yes to open communication.
Annabelle:
Like I said, don’t over think it. I know it’s easy for me to say, but have F U N!!!! Have fun. But also, don’t do what I did and get so drunk you get married, then have a baby nine months later Hahahahaha.
Oh shit, I’d forgotten about that, suddenly feeling like a total shit for not asking about her cute little family.
Annabelle fires off another message before I can type.
Annabelle:
I didn’t mean to phrase it like that LOL. We’d do it again, with less alcohol. Go have fun. Shower, put on something soft, and enjoy yourself. Text me in the morning, I want details.
Me:
I owe you a full debrief. Kiss your hubby and baby for me.
Annabelle:
Will do. Go be kissed.
When I pad into the kitchen an hour later, the house is quiet in that soft end-of-day way.
Benny is perched on a stool in her jammies, swinging her feet and munching on the last slice of an apple. Hayes stands at the sink, filling a glass. Bright-white T-shirt, damp hair, gray sweatpants.
Ugh! Not the gray sweatpants!
I do my best not to allow my eyes to drag down the front of them in search of a dick stamp, and pat myself on the back for being successful.
He nods at me pleasantly as I approach, leaning across the counter to address his daughter. “Bedtime in five.” He slides her water glass across the counter like a bartender. “Deal?”
She considers, glances at me standing in the doorway, then plops her chin in her hand. “Can we make spice-pumpkin muffins first? So I can have them for breakfast?”
A girl after my own heart . . .
Hayes’s brows jump. “Right now? No.”
“Please, Dad?”
He shakes his head but offers her a compromise. “What if Layla and I bake you muffins instead, once you hit the sack? Would you like that?”
“Deal,” she says, already sliding off the stool. “The giant kind?”
“Sure.” He scoops her up, kisses her temple. “Brush teeth. Bed. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Little feet patter away, then pad up the stairs.
“I’ll help her,” Hayes says, already moving. “Back in a few.”
The house is quiet, and I glance around, taking it all in, the way I wasn’t able to when we arrived, since we went straight to the pool.
The oven looks like it could land a plane—sleek steel, red knobs, shiny patina.
Next to it? A narrow glass-front fridge hums, rows of wine labels lined up like yummy, delicious soldiers.
I roll my sleeves and get to work like I live here.
Big mixing bowl—top drawer left of the range. Smaller nesting bowls? Island cabinet. Measuring cups and spoons? Drawer with a soft-close I daydream about having in my kitchen someday but probably never will.
I root around some more and find cinnamon and nutmeg and vanilla in the baking cupboard.
By the time his voice drifts down the hall, I have most of the ingredients laid on the counter. His perfect little sous chef.
The kitchen is ready.
So am I.