19
Layla
I lay strewn across his counter, my skin coated in a sheen of sweat, my heart fluttering like a sail in a hurricane.
“I’ll get you a cloth.” He moves out from between my legs and grabs my hand to pull me into a sitting position. Then he walks around the counter to claim something from a drawer. The faucet turns on seconds later. In the next blink he’s back in front of me, handing me a clean damp dish towel.
There’s nothing smug in his expression. No egotistical victory. He gives me the offering with respect in his eyes and steps away, allowing me a modicum of privacy to clean up the sinful mess between my thighs as he rights his pants.
“Do you want to take a shower?” He shoots me a sideways glance and picks up his shirt and jacket from the floor. “Or would you like something to eat? There’s a takeout place nearby that stays open late.”
“I’d love a shower… if you don’t mind.”
He winces. “I want you to feel comfortable here. In my city. My home. My bed. Take whatever you need.”
My stomach swells, doing a somersault of appreciation. So far, two out of three can’t be bad.
I’m entirely comfortable in D.C., in his penthouse. And we may not have used his bed, but I think I took quite a few liberties to make myself feel at home on his kitchen counter.
My problem is the exact opposite of what he wants. I should be feeling cautious. Skeptical. Cole would want me to be entirely vigilant.
I’ve been none of those things.
Neither has Matthew.
“You barely know me.” I scoot to my feet, ignoring the bite of self-consciousness now that he’s righted his clothes and I’m wearing nothing but shiny red heels. “Aren’t you worried I could be a gold-digger? Isn’t that what you thought I might have been with Remy and Salvatore?”
“You’re no gold-digger. And even though I might not know you as much as I’d like, I’m learning.” He grins. “And thoroughly enjoying the lesson.”
That swoopy, somersaulty thing takes over my belly again, then quickly fades into guilt. He has to be more wary. The thought of disappointing him when he learns the real me is punishing.
“There might come a time when you don’t like what you learn.” I give him a pointed look, trying to be his voice of reason. “Don’t put me on a pedestal. I won’t live up to the hype.”
He inclines his head and gives a subtle nod. “Okay. Point taken. Neither of us are pillars of the community. But there’s something in our chemistry, Layla. You feel it, too.”
I do, and it’s maddening in its potency. I don’t think I could escape the clutches of this attraction even if I wanted to.
“Umm…” I tilt my head toward the hall on the right of the open living area, then do the same toward the darker one to the left. “Which way to the shower?” I point my ass to the counter and bend to unclasp the straps of my heels, leaving them on the tiles.
“Use my personal bathroom. To the left. Last door on the right. Want me to show you?”
“No. It’s okay.” I start walking, needing a few minutes of breathing space to regain my equilibrium. “I won’t be long.”
I pad onto the carpet of the hall, glancing into rooms as I pass, appreciating how every space is neat and tidy. Without flaw.
I stop at the threshold of his bedroom and flick on the light, taking a moment to let the sight sink in. It’s another perfectly appointed room. Dark wooden furniture. Even darker bed coverings. Not one piece of strewn clothing or speck of dust in sight.
It doesn’t take long for my stare to move beyond appraisal and into daydream territory. I picture us both on the king-size mattress, his body atop mine, his movements hard and rhythmic.
Then he has me bent over the chest of drawers. Or my naked breasts pressed to the glass doors leading to the balcony as he takes me from behind.
I need help.
I sidestep past the walk-in closet and move into the bathroom where I use the facilities and shower quickly. I should get back to my hotel. For anonymity’s sake. To make sure I don’t push the already fragile boundaries of my stupidity.
I dry myself with fast strokes of a clean, plush towel, discovering that some parts of me are already deliciously sore from his attention. Then I shuffle from the bathroom with the thick material wrapped around my chest.
Matthew sits waiting for me on the side of the bed, his feet on the floor, his elbows on knees. He glances up from under dark lashes, his chocolate eyes meeting mine with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Feel like you’ve been catfished?” I ask, suddenly aware that this is the first time he’s seen me without a mask of makeup.
He reaches out a hand, wordlessly beckoning me forward. My feet comply without my consent, bringing me right before him.
“You floor me with every new layer you expose.” His fingers glide around my wrist, leading me between his open knees. “I’m not worthy of your attention.”
I wither inside, my strategy for space disintegrating. I want to climb onto him and cuddle in his lap. To be his very own purring little kitten.
“Your cheek is still swollen.” He reaches for my face, gently cupping my jaw, his thumb sweeping over the healing skin. “Does it hurt?”
What hurts is the destruction it caused.
The drama.
Then again, I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t been mugged. I would’ve walked away from Matthew, possibly never seeing him again.
“I don’t notice it most of the time.” Especially not when your hands are on me.
He nods, continuing to stroke the bruising, stoking my sensuality with each pass. He drugs me with his touch, building an addiction that will require a multi-step program to achieve recovery.
“Tell me why you’re really here,” he murmurs.
I tense before I can stop myself.
“Don’t lie to me, amore mio.”
I step back, fearful of his scrutiny while something inside me yearns for transparency.
His touch falls away with my retreat, but those eyes slay me with their questioning.
“You didn’t come all this way to sleep with me,” he continues. “Do you need information on the Costas? Did you decide to take my help?”
I wince for so many reasons.
For starters, he’s wrong. I did come all this way to sleep with him, no matter how desperate and dysfunctional that sounds. It’s deeper than that, though. Painfully deeper.
“No.” I swallow and straighten my shoulders. “I didn’t come here for information. This has nothing to do with them.”
“Then why?” The question barely breaches my ears, the gentleness painfully coaxing.
Because I’m alone.
Because I had nobody else.
Because my family hate to love me, and love to hate me in equal measure.
I turn away, starting for the door. “I need to get my clothes.”
“Your clothes are gone, Layla.”
I swing back to face him, panicked. “Gone where?”
“I put them in a dry-cleaning bag and sent them down the laundry shoot.” He reaches for something beside him, claiming a handful of dark material that almost matches the covers. “You can wear one of my robes.”