“What did you say to me?”
“Are you deaf and stupid? You heard me. Fuck…” But she didn’t get to finish the insult. Donovan charged toward her and Layla lifted her fist, like she thought one punch from her thin arm would do any damage at all. The threatening stance didn’t even slow him and before she could scream, before she could push him away from her, Donovan stood in front of her, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her around to the other side of the car, then yanked open the door and shuffled her into the passenger seat.
“Get the hell out of my car, you stupid piece of—”
He jerked her keys out of her hand and Layla noticed how his fingers shook, how loudly he slammed the car door, how quickly he moved back around the car and how heavily he fell into the driver’s seat. He continued to struggle to push the key into the ignition.
“It’s a good idea if you’d stop talking. Right. Now.”
He was in her car, barking orders? No. Not happening.
Layla reached over the console, tried gripping the key, but Donovan caught her hand, squeezed her wrist until she felt a pinch. She wouldn’t wince, wouldn’t retreat from the dangerous growl working from Donovan’s throat.
“Let me go.”
She hated him. She always had. That warm buzz of hatred had comforted her for years, had listed Donovan as the enemy, the foul cretin who could never be trusted. And she could see it in his eyes, the same burning anger that always came into hers when she thought about him. He probably hated her more.
They would never be more than this. They’d never breech the weak strands of peace, never mind friendship. She knew that, or at least, told herself that notion was gospel, a truth she’d hold onto, cradle just as tightly as the hatred she felt for him.
But Donovan kept hold of her wrist. The grip loosened, but he didn’t let go and that brimming anger she saw in his eyes, the one Layla swore would never leave hers when she thought about him, slowly fractured behind each blink Donovan took.
“I said…” Layla cleared her throat, not understanding why that streak of anger was dimming. “Let… let me go.”
Donovan shut his eyes. It was a brief gesture, small and seemingly insignificant, but enough that she noticed, that she let her defenses fall, sure that this battle was over.
Eyes opened again, Donovan dropped her hand, resting his fingers on the door handle. Then he scratched his chin, the noise of his nails on stubble only grating Layla’s nerves further.
“You need to get out.”
He kept his eyes downcast, moving his hand onto the steering wheel, twisting his fingers against the plastic.
“This is my car, Donley.”
This time when Donovan shut his eyes, the lids creased, tightened and squeezed as though he was trying to blot out the need to lash out.
“Donovan…”
“Layla!” he shouted, twisting toward her, his grip back on her arm, moving up her to neck. “Shut the fuck up.”
And Layla didn’t have more than a second to get angry. They came together like a flash, that nagging voice in her head, the one that told her how disgusting Donovan was, silenced by something darker, something baser that Layla had only heard whispered before now.
She couldn’t take the way he touched her, how tightly he weaved his fingers into her hair, how quickly the thin air in her car cooled, then heated as they groped and grabbed and went at each other like their skin was on fire, like only their tongues and mouths could cool that blaze.
There was a rip of fabric, the release of a zipper and Layla found herself touching Donovan, that hot, heavy weight that she stroked inside of his jeans teasing her with each throb it made against her palm. She didn’t know why she was letting him pull down her bra or pinch her nipple until she yelped, until she demanded he do it again.
She didn’t remember when he started the car.
Or when they left campus.
Definitely not how they came to Donovan’s front door, kissing, sucking, kicking it shut behind them.
Layla couldn’t say for sure why she found herself naked on Donovan’s mattress, with him pulling her to the edge of the bed, settled on his knees. She came to herself, to awareness when the shock of his tongue slipped up her center, when he spread her open and touched her deep, fingers, at least two, moving inside her like they belonged there. Like she needed them more than breath.
“Fuck, you’re so tight. So fucking tight and wet.”
His hair felt thick, coarse between her fingers when she yanked it. “Do you have to talk? Please. I’m trying to imagine Chris Hemsworth. Hush.”
For once, Donovan listened but Layla couldn’t have marveled at that small victory, not when he pulled her closer to his mouth. Not when his fingers and tongue worked hard to make her come, to bring her closer and closer to the brink.