Chapter Seven

 

 

 

“You look better,” Layla says.

“Feel better,” Scott agrees. “Missed you.” He reaches for her, but she’s not actually all that close to the bed, and she just laughs at him. He drops his hands to his sides, then burrows under the blanket until it’s pulled to his chin.

Layla walks around to the closet and takes off her gauzy skirt, then the leggings underneath. She bends at the waist to pull the leggings off her ankles, and that leotard doesn’t leave anything to the imagination. She looks back at him, catches him staring, and grins, pulling on her lower lip with her teeth.

“You are the most obvious man in the world,” she says, and Scott feels a little thrill because she doesn’t even know how wrong she is - or so he hopes. He reaches for her again, clawing at the air like it can pull her closer.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he says. “Don’t change. C’mere.”

She smiles softly at the compliment and crawls onto the bed, settling herself in his arms. She’s so light he barely feels the weight of her, and he wraps his arms around her body and pulls her in tighter. He needs to feel her tonight.

She leans down to kiss along his jaw, and when she gets to his ear, she murmurs quietly to him. “Now why does this feel familiar?” He laughs a little, like she expects him to, but suddenly it feels like he can’t breathe. He doesn’t want to talk about last night.

But Layla obviously doesn’t want to let it go, and it’s not like he can tell her to stop. He buries his face in her neck and tries not to listen.

“Now, isn’t this better than being with Carter? He can’t give you this, can he? He can’t make you feel like this. Not like I can.”

He shakes his head, mutters, “No.” But fuck, now he’s thinking about it, thinking about exactly how Carter can make him feel, and he can’t help thrusting up against her, half-expecting her to push back, hold him down, force him still. But she’s smaller than he is, and she just arranges her legs on either side of his hips and rides the motion like they’d planned it together, and Scott’s frustrated, suddenly, because that’s not what he wanted at all.

“You wanted to make it up to me,” Layla whispers, leaning low to speak into his ear. “Fuck me tonight, Scott. Like we could’ve done last night. Like it never happened.”

That sounds like a perfect idea to Scott. He nods and plants a sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek - realizing belatedly that she doesn’t like it when kisses are sloppy and wet, but it’s too late now - and she climbs off him to strip out of her leotard. Then, in just her sports bra and panties, she slides under the covers with him and reaches for the switch on the bedside lamp.

Her legs are so smooth and thin, sliding against Scott’s thighs. He reaches down with one hand, cups her ass, pushes his thumb underneath the waistband of her panties to drag them down, and she squirms helpfully, twisting this way and that until she can kick them off and shove them to the bottom of the bed. Scott moves to her bra next, and it’s kind of a trick to get it off, stretching it over Layla’s head, but it’s so worth it, all that soft skin right there in his face, his hands fitting perfectly over her as she pushes her chest into his touch. Not so gay, he thinks to himself. He’s still pretty fucking happy to have his hands full of tits.

He teases at her nipples until they start to harden, and darts up to lick at one, and this is familiar, this is good. But then he’s remembering last night again, memories that are at once hazy and sharp, and this is what it had felt like to lean up and kiss Carter’s cock, except that instead of salt-wet hardness under his mouth, it’s sweet, plush skin, moulding to the shape of his lips. There’s no visceral, sharp taste there, nothing that sends a white-hot jolt of lust through his body. She moans and throws her head back, clearly enjoying herself, but Scott only has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. This is what they do. What he likes. This is what gets him off, Layla’s tits in his hands, against his lips, her legs sprawled around his hips.

Scott distracts himself by reaching out of the blankets for his nightstand drawer for condoms. The moment he has the little square in his hand he remembers Carter above him, the shiny foil flashing in the low light, sparkling in his hands as he ripped it open. Scott’s fingers slip on the wrapper - he can’t do it, he can’t even open it. Layla takes it from him.

“Take your pants off, baby,” she murmurs. “I’ll do this.”

And it’s easy enough to relax back into the pillows and just...let her. His body knows what to do, and that’s all she seems to be looking for tonight, sinking down onto him with a low moan. He rests his hands on her hips but doesn’t try to guide her, and she’s just as hot and tight and wet as she always is, feels just as good. But his thoughts are elsewhere, and as much as he tries, he can’t seem to bring them back to the moment, to focus on the sensation.

For a second, he’s not sure he’s even going to be able to get off like this, and it sends a panicky shake all through him. There’ve been times before, when he’s been way, way too drunk, when it’s been...difficult. But he’s hardly had anything today, only that one shot of vodka in the morning and nothing more than beer for the whole rest of the day, and that can’t be enough to... He’s just tired, that’s all. Carter just wore him out, keeping him up all night like that, and he hadn’t slept well either.

But Layla knows him, knows all the tricks of his body, and eventually she leans down to plant a gentle kiss on his neck and then bite, tiny, sharp teeth digging into his skin and sending a jolt of pain into him, just enough to push him over the edge, gasping and tightening his grip on her hips as he comes.

She hardly waits until he’s finished before raising off of him and sliding up his body in one smooth motion, kneeling right on his pillow and grabbing his hair with both hands. Scott doesn’t realize just what she’s going for, still hazy from coming, until she’s right in his face, radiating heat and so wet.

“Come on, baby, you’re not done yet,” she growls, sounding more determined than he’s ever heard her in bed. She tugs hard on his hair, pulling him up toward her, and Scott feels something tense inside him finally relax. It’s the easiest thing in the world to let himself be directed, and he doesn’t hold back, flattening his tongue and licking a long stripe all the way up through her folds, pressing his face in, getting her wetness all over his face and not caring, wanting it even, wanting her scent on him.

It’s been a while since he’s done this for her - not that he doesn’t always try to make it good for her, but she’s just so shy sometimes, hardly wanting to spread her legs for him at all. Tonight is different. Tonight she’s grinding down into his face, riding him, her clit right against the point of his nose as he fucks her with his tongue, his hands gripping her ass hard.

She’s chanting up at the ceiling, and fuck, he wishes he could see her face right now, see the expression that goes with those mindless words.

“Oh god, Scott, that’s right, that’s just right, right there, don’t you dare stop...oh fuck, fuck fuck fuck, I can’t... I...” And then her fingers go painfully tight in his hair, and her thighs shake against his ears, and she comes with a scream. He works her through it until she goes still, and even then he can’t quite let go of that taste, laying little kitten licks all up and down her sensitive flesh, feeling her twitch and jerk above him as he does. Finally, she lifts herself off him with a groan and stretches out next to him, head pillowed on his shoulder and one arm thrown over his chest.

She looks up at him and smiles, blissful, satisfied. And Scott smiles back, glad to have pleased her, to have done a good job. It’s not until she’s drifted off to sleep that he realizes what the other feeling nagging at the corners of his mind is. He’s...jealous. He wants to feel the way she looks, and it doesn’t seem to matter that he’s come - he still wants. And as he watches Layla sleep, he realizes that what he wants isn’t her. He doesn’t know exactly what it is, but it’s not her. It’s just... more. He wants more, and he keeps waiting for more, but it never comes.

Scott slides out from beneath her arm and fishes around under the comforter for his pants. He thinks about texting Carter but discards that idea as soon as it pops into his head. He wanders around the house for a few minutes, drifting from room to room, and ends up in the kitchen, where he cracks open a beer to slow down his racing mind. He finishes the beer on the couch, so deep into his sprawl that he’s almost horizontal, but he’s still not tired. He still wants more.

He wipes his mouth with the inside of his wrist, feeling sticky all over, and he knows his hair is a mess, but it doesn’t even compare to what he felt with Carter. How dirty, how satisfied he felt with Carter. Sex has never felt like that, not ever. He wants...he wants to see Carter again. He wants Carter to fuck him again. But Carter won’t, not even if Scott stripped naked and asked him point-blank. There’s no way Carter will let last night happen again, no matter how much Scott begs for it. Scott groans and lets the empty bottle slip from his hand and roll around on the floor. It doesn’t break, which is kind of unsatisfying too. Scott kicks it and shoves himself up from the couch to head back to bed.