Chapter 25 Hayes
Hayes
My fingers drum the steering wheel on my way back from school, a leftover jitter I can’t shake. Part adrenaline, part relief, part . . .
Anticipation.
Benny marched into the building on a mission—over an hour late—backpack bouncing, crisis closed. She only looked back at me once after I’d signed her in at the office, two fingers to her eyes, then to mine: I’m watching you.
I did it back.
The light turns green. I roll through, jaw unclenching for the first time all morning. Ten minutes ago I was counting the beats between her breaths in a playhouse. Now I’m counting the streets between me and Layla.
Be naked . . .
I make myself drive like a person who deserves a license.
The neighborhood is ordinary in a “wealthy community” way that makes me proud to deserve this. I’ve been working my ass off the past decade to get here, and damn if I don’t enjoy seeing my house every time I round the bend and it comes into view.
Desert landscape. Low, sprawling, and expensive sand-colored exterior. I bought it because I fell in love with the stacked stone. So different from where I grew up in Ohio, where you won’t find crushed granite, agave and aloe plants, and boulders.
Charcoal pavers lead to my four-car garage with frosted-glass doors; steel house numbers ride the wall beside a tall, up-lit saguaro. Black steel window frames, a hint of a courtyard beyond the gate at my entrance. It’s also nothing like I’d find in Layla’s Washington state with its crowded pines.
Very Scottsdale coded, very bougie—and it’s mine. All mine.
I pull into the drive. Engine off. Keys in my palm. Dick already twitching.
I wonder if she’s going to actually be naked . . .
Once inside the mudroom entry, I kick off my sneakers. Tug off my socks and let them drop to the floor, leaving them like breadcrumbs as I make my way through the kitchen.
Pull my T-shirt over my head.
Sure, I may be laboring under the assumption that Layla will be lying in the center of my bed, legs already spread, so I can climb on and eat her sweet pussy—but a guy can dream, yeah?
Let the shirt fall to the foyer floor.
I take the stairs as slowly as I can, thumb hooked in the waistband of my track pants, pulse banging in my throat like a fist on a door that won’t open fast enough.
Let Me in.
At the top, the hallway is quiet. Not a peep, not a soul to be seen, nothing but a pair of Benny’s shorts on the floor near her bedroom door that she must have dropped when she brought her laundry up.
At the opposite end of the hallway, my door rests ajar, and my dick twitches again.
What am I going to find?
I’m excited. Feel like a lion chasing a deer.
Push the door open, eyes instantly settling on Layla perched on my bed; not naked, but she might as well be. Sheer black lingerie, tits covered but the shadows of her nipples and the triangle between her legs a sexy tease. Satin bows hold the entire thing together.
“Hi,” she says casually. “You took forever.”
“Traffic.” My eyes give her another look over, devouring her whole as I approach the bed. “Did you bring that or DoorDash it?”
Layla shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe it just showed up at your place.”
My blood churns. Rockets through my body. “I want to tear it off with my teeth.”
“Then do it.” Her chin lifts, daring me. “What are you waiting for?”
I raise myself onto the mattress, climbing between her thighs, nose burying in her neck. Nuzzling. “You’re going to wake up tomorrow sore, thinking about me the entire flight back to Star Lake.”
I nip along her throat, slow and claiming, and feel the shiver run all the way through her.
“Good,” she whispers, fingers sliding into my hair. “Make it hard to forget you.”
“Oh, I’m going to make it impossible.” I inhale her perfume, lips against her ear. “Full flight, surrounded by people, you’re going to be replaying every second of my face between your legs and my dick inside you.”
Layla shivers, and I lower my mouth to her collarbone. Kiss between her breasts.
I close my mouth over one nipple and draw slow, wet suction through the fabric until it’s a hard, aching peak.
“Oh—” She leans back onto the pillow, watching me.
Her back leaves the mattress. I smooth one palm down her side, under the cage of straps, and tug one bow loose with my teeth. The ribbon slips free with a soft whisper.
“Pretty little problem,” I murmur, undoing the second bow. “Let me solve it.”
I peel the lace apart, and her breasts spill into my hands, flushed and begging. I suck one bare, slow and deep, thumb circling the other until her hips start to search for friction. She tries to grind against my thigh; I shift just out of reach, and her whine turns needy.
“Uh-uh.” I kiss down her sternum, tongue tasting salt and perfume. “You’re going to take what I give you, exactly how I give it.”
“Please,” she breathes, and it’s my undoing.
I slide lower, fingers hooking the edge of her barely-there panties, brushing the wet heat beneath. One kiss on the inside of her knee. Her thigh. Then I spread her with my thumbs and breathe her in, pressing my mouth there.
“Look at you,” I rasp, meeting her eyes as I lick a slow line up her. “So fucking sexy.” The perfect breakfast.
I flatten my tongue and savor, slow enough to make her tremble, then seal my lips around her clit, pulling a sound from her throat.
“God—Hayes—”
God. That’s me . . .
I slide two fingers inside—tight, slick heat clutching me—and curl them just right. Her whole body bows, a perfect, helpless curve. I work her—round and round my thumb goes—keeping my eyes on hers until they flutter and roll.
When her thighs start to shake . . . quiver . . . I pin them with my forearms and go mean, sucking steady while my fingers flick that spot that turns her body electric.
She looks beautiful—breath gasping, hips rolling, pussy pulsing against my mouth. I ride her through it, easing only when she’s shaking and breathless, then give her one last slow lick that makes her whimper.
“Inside.” Her nails bite my shoulders. “Now.”
“Ask me nicely.”
Her smile is wrecked and wicked. “Please.”
“Get on your knees,” I tell her, palms gliding down her back. She rises, spine curving, the smallest tremor in her legs. I smooth my hands over her round cheeks, moving the string of her lingerie out of her ass crack, dick in my hand, teasing her entrance with the tip.
Layla leans forward on her elbows, ass in the air.
“Good girl.” I line up and press forward, slow and sure, filling her inch by inch until the breath leaves both of us.
Heat. That delicious tightness.
Home.
I groan loudly. God, it feels so fucking good in this position.
I fuck her, ego rewarded when a broken sob of pleasure catches in her throat. I draw back and roll my hips, finding that rhythm that makes her arch and reach one hand onto the headboard. Push against it as I grip her hips a little harder . . . drive deeper.
Slam into her, skin slapping.
“Harder,” she whines. Begs.
Fingers bite into her hips as I hammer forward, pace turning ruthless, the slick drag of her and the scrape of that tiny strip of lace making me see stars. The headboard thuds the wall; she shoves back to meet me, greedy and wild, gasping my name.
“You want it rough?”
A barely perceivable nod. “Yes.”
I trap the wrist that’s on the headboard while the thumb on my other hand finds her clit again, working her pretty little nub at the same time I pound her from behind. Every time I bottom out, she moans, the sound turning my brain to static.
I keep her panties shoved aside, the elastic biting into my cock while I drive into her, the angle cruel and perfect . . .
“Don’t stop, don’t stop . . .” she groans.
I crash into her, giving her every filthy inch of my dick, chasing my own orgasm with a rough rhythm that leaves us both shaking.
“That’s it, baby.” F-fuck, fuck, fuck. “Come on my cock.”
When she does, it’s loud.
Gorgeous.
Sexy.
I tug at her hair, pulling gently as I spill inside her, vision blurry, breath ragged. Moaning. Groaning.
I hold her steady through the racking aftershock. The tremble in her thighs slows into a satisfied melt. Then I ease out, palm her spine, kiss the back of her neck.
So fucking satisfying.
She laughs and collapses onto her side. I follow, dragging her against my chest, mouth in her hair while our breathing evens out.
Minutes pass like that—nothing but two hearts beating.
I hook a finger in the ribbon at her hip and tug it loose, stealing the satin bow like a thief.
“I’m keeping this,” I say, lifting it to my nose. “It smells like you.”
How I’m supposed to let her leave is beyond me.