Chapter 16 Layla
Layla
I end up with a cramp.
Halfway down the mountain, midway through bragging that hiking is easy—and stomping around in front of him—my calf seizes.
Karma has humbled me.
“OW.” I freeze, heel kicked forward, arms out like I’m stopping traffic. “Help.”
Hayes reaches me so fast you’d think I’d been sniped. “Where?”
“My entire leg,” I gasp. “From ankle to earlobe.”
His handsome face frowns. “That’s not an anatomical pathway.”
“It is now.”
He bites back a smile and moves in, all competent hands and calm voice as he bends to run his palm over my calf, massaging it gently until I yelp like a baby.
“Breathe. Toe up. Don’t fight it.” He braces me against his chest, one arm around my waist, the other guiding my foot like we’re slow dancing with gravity.
Despite my injury, I want to burrow myself inside of him; run my hands up his stomach, under his compression shirt. Even with a knot in my leg, Hayes is super delicious and I want to touch him.
“It’s—oh shit, it’s worse,” I announce dramatically. “I see a bright light. It’s shaped like a pool float. Tell my mother I love her.”
“Focus.” He straightens my leg, presses his thumb deep into the knotted muscle. I yelp again, then sag, because it’s awful and perfect and he knows exactly what he’s doing.
My mind goes to sex. His body over mine, moving in and out . . .
“Am I dying?”
“You’re dehydrated and stubborn,” he says, amused, reaching for the water bottle and holding it to my lips. “Sip.”
I sip.
He glances at the trail—narrow, with a lot of loose gravel. “You good to walk?”
“Absolutely.” I put weight on my calf, and it protests meanly. “Absolutely not.” Suddenly I am a Victorian heroine. Cue the fainting couch. “Fetch my smelling salts, I feel faint.”
He huffs a laugh, the fond kind that ruins me. “Okay, Duchess.”
Before I can protest, he slides an arm behind my knees, the other under my back, and lifts.
Effortless. Like I weigh the same as a stack of towels.
My breath catches as my world tilts into his chest—sun-warmed cotton, clean sweat, the steady drum of a heartbeat I absolutely should not be memorizing.
“Hayes,” I squeak, clutching his shoulders. “This is humiliating.”
“This is efficient,” he says, already stepping carefully around the loose gravel. “And a little fun.”
“For you?”
“For me,” he admits, mouth tipping. “You’re a sexy little thing.”
Sexy little thing? Okay. I’ll allow it.
I tuck closer, an arm around his neck, the other smoothing instinctively over the ridge of his collarbone. His head tips down; the look he gives me is soft and fierce and has no business being administered on a public trail.
“Comfortable?” he asks.
“Deeply unwell,” I murmur, nuzzling into the line where his jaw meets his ear. I give that spot a kiss. “But I’ll survive.”
“Careful,” he warns in a gravelly tone. “You’re playing with gravity here.”
“I trust you.” My fingers skim lower, tracing the line of his ribs. “And I need something to occupy myself while I’m recovering.”
He huffs a laugh. “You’re going to make me miss a step, then we’ll both end up on the ground.”
“Tragic.” I kiss his clavicle, above the collar of his shirt; his grip tightens under my thighs.
“Layla.” My name comes out a growl. “Keep that up and I might accidentally drop you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” He’s so big and strong. “When’s the last time you had a woman slide her hands all over your naked body.”
His brow furrows. “Knock it off.”
“It’s an innocent question. I’m trying to get to know you.”
He cuts me a look that’s half exasperation, half lust. “It’s been a while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?”
“Long enough that I don’t remember.”
My mouth pouts. “That’s so sad.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath under water and is just coming up for air. Two more careful steps. Three. I last exactly five before I can’t help myself and smooth my thumb behind his ear.
“Layla.”
I blink, all innocence. Seriously, What Has Come Over Me? Last week, I never would have had the guts or the lady balls to ask a man these questions—not a man I am not in a relationship with or even dating.
“Purely for science, do you make noise when someone’s mouth is sucking your—”
He stops dead, muscles going iron under my legs. “Enough.” His voice is a low, dangerous ribbon of desire. I can see it in his eyes; he’s as excited as I am. “Please. Let me concentrate on getting you down the hill.”
Ugh, fine.
I nod and settle in. He carries me the rest of the way like I’m the only thing on his list. At the wider stretch of trail, he sets me down, hands firmly gripping my hips, eyes searching mine.
“Tonight you can ask me anything, and I’ll answer. Hands and mouth included.”
Hands and mouth included?
Several minutes later, Hayes gets us to the parking lot. It’s mostly empty, his truck sitting at the end of the row in what little shade the lot offers, a cooler of water bottles and snacks waiting in the bed so we can hydrate on our way back to his house.
He deposits me next to the passenger-side door. Unloads our backpacks before returning to my side to help me up. I put a foot on the running board, reach for his forearm—and my calf gives the pettiest little zing.
Yikes. Don’t love that.
His hands catch my elbows. “Easy.”
Too easy . . .
I look up at him. Sun behind his back, square jaw shadowed. Massive. Broody. Solid.
“Are you okay?” He wants to know—I can’t see the expression on his face, but I imagine it’s concern, and that’s enough to turn me on the teeniest, tiniest bit.
“I am okay, actually.” So okay.
My eyes glance at the ground.
It’s dirt, not gravel, and looks soft enough . . .
No one can see.
No one is around.
The idea keeps tugging at me, even as he hoists me into the cab. The engine turns over, a low growl that vibrates through the seat. A rush of cold air spills from the vents and lifts the damp hairs at my nape.
Hayes tips his head back, jaw shadowed, eyes shut like he’s stealing two seconds of peace. My pulse flutters. My teeth find my lower lip. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this, but the timing feels reckless and perfect.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I unbuckle.
The center console isn’t wide enough to stop me; I slide over it on my knees, a hand braced on his thigh as my other fingers find the button on his pants.
His eyes fly open. Surprise.
Then something darker when he realizes what I’m doing.
I kiss the trail of skin exposed by his shirt riding up—the ridge of his abs, the hollow at his hip, the place that makes his breath hitch.
The truck hums as it idles.
Then.
One hand curves around the back of my neck, thumb stroking the sensitive spot under my ear, the other flattening on my hip like he needs to feel I’m real.
“Jesus.” He swallows. “You’re going to kill me.”
Yup, that is the plan . . .
I free him, and he groans, head thumping back against the headrest. His thighs go a fraction wider for me without me asking, like his body knows what to do even if his brain is shorting out.
He smells like sweat and soap and autumn and something purely male, the kind of scent that makes my mouth water.
“Oh fuck . . .”
His leg bounces as I wrap my fingers around him—learning what makes his breath drag, what tightens his grip on my shoulder. His dick is big and hot and heavy in my palm, and when my thumb slides over the tip, his knuckles go white on the handle above the door.
“Holy shit,” he gasps. “You’re—you—oh fuck.”
I lean in, tongue tasting, lips parting. Already intoxicated by the curses leaving his throat.
He’s watching me now, heavy lidded, chest lifting, like he can’t decide between looking and closing his eyes to survive it.
I suck.
Take him deeper, hand working in rhythm, stroking his balls and his shaft, sucking and stroking at the same time.
“Oh my fucking God,” he rasps, like warning me about a cliff he’s about to go over. He tries to sit up, like he needs to see, to help, to surrender. “You feel—fuck—oh f-f-fuck—so good.”
Yeah, you said that already . . .
I hum around him, and he shudders.
His palm slides into my hair, not pushing, just holding, his control written in the way his fingers flex and release.
I set a pace that turns a low growl in his chest into a broken sound, a pace that says I might be out of practice but giving blow jobs is like riding a bike and I haven’t forgotten how.
“Layla, b-babe—Christ,” His head tips forward, voice shredded. “If you keep—” He breaks off with a strangled sound when I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper. “Fuck. Okay. Okay.”
I want to make him moan and come in my mouth so bad . . .
I’m desperate for it.
“L-Layla—” he stutters, body locked tight, gripping his door handle. “I’m gonna—”
I press my thumb beneath his balls. Massage.
I suck and suck, and he comes apart in my throat, a groan tearing out of his chest that has the truck vibrating harder than the engine, his hand clamping in my hair . . .
I swallow.
Then he’s gone—eyes squeezed shut, head thunked back, one palm braced uselessly on the steering wheel as if he’s trying to keep himself from floating off the planet.
“My legs feel like JELL-O,” he admits, scandalized by his own body. “I can’t feel them at all.”
“Are you going to be all right?”
“Layla.” He shakes his head. “That felt so fucking good.”
Yeah, I could tell. “Breaking news, the state of Arizona has had several noise complaints coming from this park,” I say primly, reaching over to help him straighten the hem of his shirt.
“Don’t make me laugh.” He laughs, then winces. “What if I never recover? What if you broke me? What if I can’t ever do math again?”
I roll my eyes, smiling. Lick my lips. “You don’t need math.”
He pulls me forward, kissing me square on the mouth, hands gripping the back of my head, tugging on my hair. I wonder if he can taste the salty parts of him on my tongue as I open my mouth to him.
I’m turned on, too, but don’t count on him to return the favor.
It would be way too awkward—like, where would he kneel?
We part, and he squares his shoulders, smacking his hands on the steering wheel. Focused. Determined.
“Right. Right. Driving.” He clears his throat. “I can do this.”
I buckle my seat belt as he fumbles for the ignition that’s already on. He pats around for a key that does not exist—all he has to do is press Start—then remembers how modern vehicles work.
“Okay.” He’s muttering to himself, running through the steps like a flight checklist. “Feet. Pedals. Hands. Wheel.”
“Excellent.” I laugh. “I feel so safe right now.”
Hayes rubs his face with both palms, breathing like he finished a triathlon three seconds ago. He reaches for the gearshift, then rests his hand on his lap.
I wonder if we’re ever leaving this parking lot, pleased that I’m the reason he can’t get a grip.
“Want me to drive?” I offer, because I love the idea of chauffeuring a six-foot-three running back who has been emotionally stunted by my mouth.
He stiffens with fragile male pride. “No. I’ve got it.” A beat. “Probably.”