Bad Boys of London(17)

The hours pass fast. The music is good and Ria is a great laugh.

It’s almost midnight. I know because the girl next to me is whispering that there is a surprise cake to be cut at the exact stroke of twelve. I am sitting at the table with Ria, feeling relaxed and merry when the air shifts. I look up and BJ is standing over us, looming even bigger and broader than I remember. He is wearing a khaki t-shirt tight enough to show off his impressive muscles and the V of his torso. His jeans hang low on his hips.

But he is with a woman!

It takes a few seconds for that to sink in. But when it does—fucking hell!—I feel like the biggest fool this side of the equator. There was nothing between us after all. It was all in my imagination. I was wrong again. Just as I was wrong about Lupo. Without looking directly into his eyes, my eyes slide away to her.

She is voluptuous and hauntingly exotic with creamy skin, blue-black hair, either green or hazel eyes (it’s impossible to tell under the club’s lights), and high cheekbones that give her a feline appearance. She is wearing a short black dress that can barely contain her curves, and she has her hand possessively curved around BJ’s arm. Her nails are long and red and she is running them lightly along the inside of his forearm in a way that is profoundly sexual. I find the sight so disturbing I have to drop my head and stare into my drink.

‘Layla,’ BJ says by way of greeting.

‘Hi,’ I reply brightly, looking up, but not letting my eyes rise past his mouth. He has a sexy mouth. The lower lip is so deliciously plump it makes you want to nibble it. Jeez. How much champagne have I had? I return my eyes to my drink. Five glasses.

To my horror Ria invites BJ to sit with us. She slides closer to me, and motions for me to scoot up further along the seat. The space she’s freeing up does not seem big enough for him. Fortunately, he tells us that he’s not staying. I look up with relief.

Big mistake.

He is staring at me and I am suddenly caught in his stare, unable to look away. I suck my bottom lip into my mouth. There is a curse word stuck behind my teeth. My skin comes alive and my heart dances in my chest.

‘Layla. Isn’t that an Arabic name that means the dark of the night?’ the woman he is with asks with a fake-ass smile.

Before I can answer BJ speaks up. ‘No, the real Arabic translation of Layla means that light, giddy feeling one has after the first drink of the night. Not drunk but on the way to being there. It is the beginning of intoxication.’

My breath catches in my throat. I stare at him shocked. The way he said Layla had been a sultry caress.

The woman laughs, a hostile, angry sound. ‘Well, Arabic names on non-Arabs is a bit silly, really.’

‘I can’t imagine a more suitable name for her,’ BJ says, his coal black eyes never leaving mine.

Flustered by the look in his eyes, I stand up in a rush. His gaze drops to my navel. His lust is so blatant, fiery heat rushes up my neck and into my face.

‘Excuse me. I need to nip over to the ladies,’ I tell the girls as I slide out of the banquette seat.

I feel his eyes burning into my back as I leave the sectioned-off area.

I stand in front of the mirror and stare at myself. There are two spots of high color on my cheeks, my hair is an untidy mess, and my beret is no longer set at its jaunty angle. Someone has stepped on the side of one of my beautiful new boots and there is a brown mark on it. I pull out some paper towels from the dispenser, wet them, and try to clean it off, but I have to give up without much success.

The weird thing is, I am doing all these things on autopilot. Some part of my brain is going crazy. He came with another woman. It rankles. But then he goes on about my name and looks at me as if he wants to eat me. What’s he playing at? Is there or isn’t there something between us

I run my fingers through my hair, apply a new layer of lip gloss and exit the toilets. As I walk along the frosted glass corridor a large hand reaches out from the darkness and slams me against an unyielding body.





TWELVE





Layla


What if we kiss? What then?


My breasts are crushed against his hard muscles, but I don’t attempt to struggle. I have grown up with three brothers so I know how useless it is to fight with people who are bigger and stronger than you are. Instead I fix him with a venom-filled glare. He brought a fucking woman with him.

‘Let go of me.’

‘Scared?’ he taunts, his voice rich and smooth.

‘Of you?’ I scoff sarcastically, as if even the idea is incredible.

He laughs. It comes from somewhere deep inside him, a wicked rumble. But I like it. I like it a lot.

‘Yeah me,’ he says. ‘I like to tie girls up and suck their pussies until they scream.’