Chapter 34 Layla
Layla
A storm stalls over the ridge and turns the cabin into the coziest place to be—quiet, toasty, and dare I say . . .
Sexy?
Grady throws another log into the fireplace to warm my frozen nubs, orange light licking across his forearms. He goes to the kitchen and returns with two mugs filled to the brim with ooey, gooey marshmallows and chunks of chocolate. My mouth waters.
“Careful, it’s hot,” he says.
We sink onto the couch. The wind whips against the windows, rattling the panes. Our original plan was to go hiking, but an hour into the woods, dark clouds in the distance grumbled—and the cold front turned my warm fingers into little icicles.
I try to wiggle my toes. Shiver.
Grady tips his chin at my feet, slurping from his mug. “How cold are you right now?”
“Frostbite adjacent.” I smile. “Is that a thing?”
“That’s a medical emergency.” He sets his mug down, pats his thigh. “Feet. Here.”
I laugh, scandalized, but he has a low-key bossy mountain-man thing going, and suddenly my legs are already swinging into his lap and his hands are on me.
Grady tugs off both my socks like he’s unwrapping a present, slow and careful, eyes on me the whole time. Warm palms wrap my frozen right foot; his thumbs press into my arch and—oh. Ohh . . .
“Good?” he asks, voice low.
“So so good.”
Better than good. A moan escapes my throat.
His thumbs slide up my instep, and I melt, spine going soft, dignity slipping right off the couch with my socks.
“Tell me if you want more or less,” he murmurs, head bowed like he’s concentrating.
“More,” I breathe. “Definitely more.”
He kisses the inside of my ankle—quick, reverent—then trades feet, working slow circles that spread heat up my calves. My bones go boneless.
When he squeezes behind my knee, a tiny gasp flies out of me.
Grady’s eyes flick up. “Sensitive?”
“Apparently.”
His thumbs trace the inside seam of my legs, slow enough to make a shiver roll up my back. He presses another kiss above my knee. Then a little higher.
“I thought this was a medical procedure,” I manage.
“It is.” His smile curves against my skin. “Restoring circulation.”
He guides my heels onto his shoulders and leans in, mouth traveling a lazy path that has nothing to do with podiatry and everything to do with the way my hips tilt toward him.
Grady is all smoke and heat as his hand slides under my sweater, his palm wide and warm over my stomach. I arch into it—into him—and he groans, a sound that vibrates right through me as nervous energy floods my belly.
Why do I feel a tad guilty?
Like I’m cheating?
Hayes and I barely speak.
He’s not here.
“Come here,” Grady says, voice reeling me back into the moment.
Straddling him is a revelation: the solid breadth of him, the way his hands bracket my hips and guide me down to where he’s hot through denim.
Hard.
I gasp; his fingers tighten as I roll my hips, grinding into his erection, body on autopilot.
He kisses me like he’s got nowhere else to be, slow and devastating, then trails his mouth along my jaw, my throat, the edge of my collar. “Can I take this off?”
“Yes.” Obviously . . .
He peels my sweater off like he did my socks, eyes skimming over bare skin before he bends to taste the new warmth he’s uncovered. Kissing my breasts above the lace of my white bra.
My hands fist in his hair. The storm knocks against the windows, and I swear the sound lives in my chest now.
“Doctor,” I moan. “I think I need follow-up care.”
His thumbs slide beneath the band, stroking the undersides until my nipples pebble tight through the fabric. “You look so pretty like this,” he says, voice rough. “But I want you prettier.”
“Then take it off.” It comes out breathless, so needy I don’t recognize myself.
This is not me. Grady and I . . .
Haven’t had sex yet.
I’m still unsure how I feel about him. And yet . . .
The cups of my bra fall, and cool air meets hot skin, and then his mouth is there, warm and wet, tongue circling, sucking my nipples; I gasp. My hips rock, and he groans, palms sliding to my ass to drag me down harder against the thick line of him.
“Grady,” I whisper, dizzy. “God.”
“I know.” His hands frame my face, he kisses deep, then his hands lower again, hungry like he can’t choose where he wants me most. “You feel incredible riding me like this.” He pants. “Think about how good it would feel with me inside you.”
Inside me.
“I feel—” Greedy. The denim is torture—in our way—and I want more but not all of it . . .
I tug at his belt, clumsy with urgency. He lifts his hips so I can shove his jeans down to mid-thigh; the bulging erection strains against dark compression briefs, thick and tempting. I settle over him again, and the first grind—thin cotton against thin cotton—rips a broken sound from both of us.
“Jesus, Layla.” His hands span my waist, guiding me. “Keep doing that . . .”
But the second I feel that thick pressure beneath me—his body responding, mine answering—I swear my vision blurs. His head tips back against the couch, throat flexing when he swallows, and it hits me: This man is beautiful.
Safe.
A really good guy.
The kind of guy you want to bring home to your parents and introduce to your friends.
And he deserves better than being the guy I use to forget another.
Shit.
I catch his wrist when he tries to slide his hand between our bodies, his knuckles grazing the heat soaking through my leggings, and he mutters a curse, eyes darkening.
“Fuck, you’re wet.”
I want so desperately to feel more when I kiss him. I want to lose myself in how delicious he smells and how easy it is to be with him. I want to move on.
Still. Hayes’s face flashes across my mind—sun on his skin, the way he called me good girl, the way my body still remembers him—and guilt spears straight through the pleasure.
Grady’s hand cups the back of my neck, slow and careful, and the other slips low like he’s asking permission with his touch. I gasp anyway, because even his gentleness is overwhelming. I am full of too many emotions right now, most of them guilt.
“Layla . . .” he murmurs when I pull back. “Hey. Look at me.”
I do.
And that makes it worse.
His eyes aren’t greedy.
They’re hopeful.
Open.
Honest.
And I can’t be dishonest with him—not in this way.
Not like this.
“I—I need a second,” I whisper. “Grady, I don’t think I’m quite ready for this.”
The lust drains from his face instantly, replaced by concern, his large hands sliding from my hips to my thighs so he can look at my face and stare into my eyes.
“Hey. Babe, it’s okay.” He sits up, bracing one arm around me so I don’t fall. “Did I push too fast? Are you all right?”
I shake my head, frustrated at myself, at the timing, at everything. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I promise, it isn’t you. It’s just . . . I’m sorry. My head is not in the right place for this.”
I see Hayes in the hot Arizona sun, and another stab of guilt slides under my ribs.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him here, now, in this moment with someone new.
It’s too much.
He gently lifts me off his lap so I’m sitting beside him instead of on top of him, his hands brushing my waist like he’s making sure I’m steady.
“No hard feelings,” he adds, cracking a small smile. “I mean—some hard feelings.” He gestures vaguely downward toward his dick. “But this is a me problem.”
My chest tightens. God, he really is a good man.
I place a soft kiss on his cheek before standing to gather my bra and top with shaky hands, cheeks hot, thighs buzzing not from pleasure now but from the adrenaline of stopping. Grady watches me, somewhat deflated but not unkind.
“Bathroom?” I murmur, holding my clothes against my chest.
“Down the hall, second door.” He pulls me forward one last time to press a kiss against my stomach, gentle after all that fuckery. “Take your time.”
Once inside, I brace my palms on the counter and meet my reflection.
Cheeks flushed, hair wild. My breasts have beard burn. The hint of a hickey flirts with my collarbone. My mouth is swollen, lips puffy.
“Girl, what are you doing?” I hiss at the reflection in the mirror, horrified. “Seriously. What the hell are you doing?”
You are fully grown. Have sex with the man! No one is here to stop you! Not Faith, not Hayes, not the dating police! There is nothing standing in your way!
I imagine fucking Grady would be incredible.
So why not? Why Can’t I Let Myself Sleep With Him?
“Let’s be honest,” I tell the girl in the mirror. “You like the attention he’s giving you. A whole lot.” I find a brush and untangle my hair. “You also like that he stopped when you asked him to. You like the way he looks at you.” And that thing he does with his mouth.
I take one more look at myself.
“Choose you,” I whisper to myself. Take a breath before opening the door and stepping back into the hall.
Grady is where I left him, smoothing a palm over his hair when he sees me, a concerned smile on his handsome face.
“You good?” he asks, searching my face.
“I am.” I tuck myself back into his space, getting comfy on the couch next to him. “I was giving myself a pep talk in the bathroom—is that weird?”
“What kind of pep talk?” His mouth curves.
I trace the line of his jaw with one finger to show him I am not turned off by him. “Part of me was saying, ‘You’re fully grown, have sex with the man.’” His eyes darken. “Another part of me is saying, ‘This is a perfect night, don’t rush it.’”
He exhales, relief and want tangling together. “I like both parts.” He gathers the throw blanket and puts it over my legs, a small, gallant thing that makes my throat tight. “And by the way, I haven’t made out this hot and heavy in a long fucking time. Maybe since college.”
That makes me laugh. “Does it make you feel young again?”
Grady chuckles. “I once made out with Sadie Plummer in the back seat of a Honda Pilot, in the parking lot of the administration building, and just as we were getting to the good part, we realized neither of us had a condom. So I couldn’t have sex then either.”
We dissolve into an amused laughter that hits at the same time the storm outside thunders and the one inside us subsides.
I feel better.
So much better.
He’s not being a prick about his blue balls.
“Hey.” He taps me on the knee with the tips of his fingers. “Thanks for trusting I’m not a creep who’s going to pressure you when we’re alone. I’m fine taking things slow.”
We grin at each other; Grady reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers.
“I don’t feel any pressure,” I lie.
But mostly I’m lying to myself.
Fake it till you make it.