TWELVE
Donovan
Donovan loved the way her hips curved into her waist and how easily his hand fit right in that spot. He liked her hair falling down between her shoulder blades and the subtle dip of her back, the muscles he had kissed over and over and how she responded to each touch. But tonight she sat too stiffly on his bed, body rigid, the tension of her day working into her shoulders.
“I should go,” she said, moving her neck to stretch the strain that had built up. “I don’t know why I bothered coming here.”
He heard the fight dying in her voice, those excuses she made to convince herself he wasn’t good enough for her. But she had come, like she had every night for weeks, and in the low whisper of her words and the weak grip Layla held on her denial that she liked Donovan, he heard the small request that he take away the things she didn’t want clouding her mind.
“You’re here because no one else is.” Donovan came behind her, took her hair between his fingers but did not pull it or use it to direct her movement. His fingers were gentle, slow and the closer his touch came to her shoulders, to lowering the zipper at her back of her shirt, that stiff bearing in her shoulders fell, loosening the tension from her muscles. “You’re here because in this room, it’s just the two of us, just our skin.” She didn’t fight him as he lowered her shirt, as her bra loosened hook by hook with a slow twist of Donovan’s fingers. “You’re here because this is where we hide from the fuckers who try to control us.” A kiss, a graze of his teeth against her shoulder and Layla leaned back, letting Donovan push her onto the mattress. “You’re here, Layla, because your body wants mine, because when I’m inside you, the world stops spinning.”
Her moan was like a melody, rich, heavy with something that ached from her skin. “Donovan,” she said, trying one last time to deny him. “I don’t think we should do this anymore. It’s getting too complicated.”
“Why? What happened?” Sliding his finger up her naked chest, Donovan pulled her shirt off, watching her eyes, trying to measure if she really didn’t want him touching her. But that concern, that hesitation disappeared and he took the opportunity to kiss her throat, to inhale the decadent scent of her body. “Talk to me, brat.”
“Mollie… she… lower. Please. Right there…”
“Mollie?”
“Saw… saw us tonight… at… at Joe’s.”
Donovan stopped, pushing away from Layla and the heavy breath that left her open mouth. “Did she tell the others?”
Layla moved her hands over her chest, covering herself. “No. She wouldn’t do that. We keep each other’s secrets.”
He waited, his own hesitation pulling too many questions, too much thought into his head, but he kept his fingers on that beautiful pale skin, absently rubbing his thumb over her navel. “Do you want me to stop, Layla?”
They stared at each other, pausing for permission, for a rejection Donovan hoped wouldn’t come and then Layla smiled. “I like when you touch me.”
“I like touching you. You know that.” He tugged off his shirt and laid back against his headboard. She watched him, gaze taking in his movements as he snuggled against the pillows and lifted his arm to rest on the top of his head. He bit his lip once, ravenous with the look she gave him, the tiniest lick of that small, pink tongue across her bottom lip and those perfect, round nipples pebbling hard as he stared at them.
“Come here,” he said, wanting her, just then, but knowing that she needed a moment to calm, to have those worries so evident in the slow way she moved toward him, eased. He let her come to his side, right against his chest and for the first time, Donovan held her tight against him. “I’m not the kind of guy you need.” She sat up, looking at him. “I’m no Prince Charming. I’m not good for anyone and I doubt I ever will be.”
“So do you want this to end? You have doubts?”
He hated the idea of never touching her again. He hated that being without her touch, her taste, would bother him greatly, and if he were a better man, a stronger man, a decent man at all, he would tell her to go. Donovan knew that if he were the kind of man he once was, before betrayal and disappointment fractured whatever he thought he might want one day, then he’d thank Layla for her time and attention and tell her his doubts were too great, that their moment had passed.
But this Donovan was a selfish bastard on his best days. Still, he’d give her something, likely not what she deserved, but something he’d never given to any woman. Ever.
“If I said I didn’t care about you, that would be a lie. I do. Am I in love with you?” He waited, measuring her expression, relaxing when she didn’t look afraid. “No, sorry, I’m not. But I like the way we move together. I like that I can get lost in your body.” I like the way I can still smell your perfume on my pillow after you leave, he said to himself. “I like that you let me do things to your body that I’ve only ever dreamed about.” I like how free you are with me. How beautiful you look when you’re underneath me, falling to pieces. “I like that you don’t ask for anything but my body, for the way I make yours feel.” I love how you let me take you, let me love you like we won’t have another second of this in life.
He expected her to be disappointed. Most women were when you told them you didn’t love them, but Layla wasn’t a typical woman and they had never professed any desires for anything more than moments and spaces of want being fulfilled.
But Donovan could see something working behind her eyes, something in the way she didn’t smile, in how she faced him, stared over his face as though what she’d say next had to be considered and carefully spoken.
“Maybe… I dunno, maybe we should set some ground rules.” Donovan didn’t like where this was going, but let her continue. “I… one day I want something with someone who will love me. You can’t give me that and I can’t spend the rest of my life sneaking into your bed.”
“You want to date someone else?” He told himself he would not be upset if she found someone. Despite their own relationship, Layla was a good person, and good people tend to gravitate toward each other. They fell in love and got married and did all the things that normal people are expected to do. If she wanted that and knew he couldn’t give that to her then, logically, he couldn’t be angry at her for that.
It still bugged him, though, the idea of her with any asshole but him.
“I want you to be okay with the idea of me dating someone else if that someone else happens to come along.”
He thought for a moment, considering her, ignoring the twist working in his stomach and the idea of Layla letting anyone else do to her what he did. “Okay. Fair enough. We have no commitment to each and that’s fine, Layla.” A quick blink to move away the image of all those times that Rent-a-Cop held her hand or kissed her in the café, at McKinney’s, all the moments that fucker touched her and Donovan felt sick to his stomach. “I’m, a, not cool with you sleeping with me and then running off to fuck someone else.”
He tried to hold back the smug smile he felt itching his bottom lip when Layla bunched her nose up as though she found the idea of being with more than one person obscene. “I wouldn’t do that. Donovan, that’s just… foul.” But the tempting smug smile left him when Layla narrowed her eyes, when one thin, single eyebrow cocked up. “Same goes for you. I don’t care if you date, if you hang out with other girls, but this body,” Donovan flinched when Layla grabbed his thigh and settled over his lap. “For as long as we want this, this body is mine. I’m calling dibs.” He let a smile slip, let his composure fall just an inch and it was enough for Layla to catch and quickly deflate his arrogance. “Until something better comes along.”
He felt the smile fall from his mouth and would have called her something insulting, something that would annoy her enough that they’d fuss and then move onto Donovan’s second favorite thing to do with Layla: argue, but she moved against his lap, slid over his dick and any ideas he might have had about pissing her off left his head and Donovan took her lips, hard, eager, fast.
They had become comfortable; the taste, the feel of that soft skin against his mouth was something Donovan didn’t think he wanted to do without. In the back of his mind he heard a warning; the fierce rage of conscious thought that told him to back away, that he was kissing her because she felt like his. The possessive roar that anyone else taking her lips was some sort of sin against what was building between them.
But that night, he didn’t listen to the warnings. He didn’t listen to constant refrain of sense that told him she had gotten under his skin. He liked her there, sliding against him, her pointed nipples rubbing against his bare chest. Even if he couldn’t admit it aloud, even if he’d never confess it to her, Donovan liked Layla hot and tight and throbbing. He liked it too damn much.