Layla #2
His tall, broad shadow is carved beneath the moonlight. He’s leaning against a steel pillar, his boot crossed over the other, with both arms folded across his chest.
I take him in from a distance, admiring him just for a moment.
Worn black jeans molded to the strong contours of his legs, and a black T-shirt replacing his usual flannel. The fabric stretches over his muscular frame, broad across his shoulders and tapering to a lean waist.
The lamplight highlights the edges of his glasses, the lenses shimmering with reflections of the moon overhead. The shadows shift to reveal the burn scars scattered along his arms and the dark ink of his tattoos wrapping around them.
He wore a shirt for me.
His dog tags hang against his chest, brushed silver in the glow, swaying slightly with each breeze through the corridor—his hair curls at the nape of his neck, softening the severity of the rest of him.
Every delicate curl.
Every scar.
Every line and bend of muscle.
I’m in such awe of him until he lifts his eyes from his phone and they land on me.
He pushes off the metal beam and makes his way toward me, and my heart thumps against the straps of my backpack.
In one hand, he holds a scuffed matte-black helmet I’ve worn before.
In the other, he holds a second helmet. Also black, but its surface is alive with hand-painted sunflowers, their petals imperfect, golden, and tender in a way that only matters when someone paints them with their heart rather than their skill.
A tiny breath slips out of me.
He painted sunflowers. For me.
Reed finally reaches me and stops inches in front of me, close enough that his warmth brushes against my lips.
“Sunshine.”
I attempt to smile as I gaze up at him. “You came.”
“Of course I was going to come,” he says, his fingers twitching at his side, like he wants to reach for me.
Before I can speak again, he leans slightly and gently sets both helmets on the pavement.
His hands rise slowly from his sides, almost hesitant as his palm slides behind my head, his fingers parting through my hair at the nape, gently guiding me as his other hand finds the side of my jaw, his thumb tracing along my cheekbone in a slow stroke that sends a shiver down to my knees.
My breath stutters. “You wrote me back.”
“Of course I did, baby, I missed you,” he mumbles, as his thumb caresses my jaw.
And without warning, he leans his massive frame lower, and he kisses me.
His lips press against mine with warm certainty, as if he’s already memorized exactly how we connect.
The cool night air swirls around us, replaced by the heat radiating from his mouth.
My fingers instinctively find the front of his shirt, gripping the soft, worn cotton and tugging him impossibly closer to me.
His hand gently tightens at the back of my head, guiding my face as his mouth presses to mine, deepening the kiss. His lips softly drag over my lower lip before he gently nicks it between his teeth; a careful scrape that causes a slight, desperate moan to escape from my throat.
He hears it, he feels it, because a low growl hums through his chest and spills into my mouth, with the sound vibrating heat directly between my legs.
His tongue brushes my bottom lip, teasing, coaxing, asking for permission without asking.
I part my lips for him, and the kiss shifts, becoming something driven by hunger, carefully restrained in every slow stroke.
Our breaths intertwine as his thumb glides over the hinge of my jaw, urging me closer, deeper.
The taste of him, a hint of mint and whiskey, washes over me until the world slips away completely.
I tilt my head, following every subtle nudge from his mouth, as his tongue meets mine again.
My knees threaten to give out, so I tighten my grip on his shirt, fingers curling around the hard muscle beneath.
He kisses me as if he’s trying to learn every reaction from me, every shiver, every breathless sound, and keep them for himself.
A car passes somewhere beyond us, but the whole world narrows to the press of his thumb against my jawline and the quiet catch of my breath as his mouth angles just right.
He finally pulls away, his forehead nearly touching mine, his hand staying at the back of my head, as his thumb still traces a warm path along my cheek.
“I needed that the second you walked toward me.”
My pulse struggles. “Me too,” I whisper.
He draws another slow stroke through my hair before letting his hand fall, reluctantly. He crouches to grab the helmets, lifting the sunflower-painted one into the glow of lamplight.
“This one’s yours,” he says, straightening his posture to his full, impossible height. “It felt wrong for you to wear mine again. So I did something about it.”
I run my fingertips over a sunflower’s petal, the textured brushstroke brushing against my skin. Warmth flows into every part of me, not from adrenaline or nerves, but something softer.
“I love it,” I say, barely a breath. “I love that you made it for me.”
His eyes flick to mine, filled with something that could undo me if I stare too long.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I made it knowing exactly who would wear it.”
I smile in response, gazing up at him.
He pulls back, eyeing my backpack. “Just a backpack, sunshine? You’ll be here for seven days.”
I tug on the straps, smiling to myself. “I was so excited to get here, I just threw whatever in there, wanted to pack light.”
He smiles, leaning down to kiss my forehead.
My eyes flutter shut with the contact. His motorcycle engine idles in the distance.
Pulling back again, he offers me his free hand. “Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s get you out of here.”