Claiming Serenity(22)

And she did, not caring that he was bossing her, that Donovan the Demon was making her wetter than she’d ever been in her life. “There,” she said through a gasp when his thrust into her raised body hit the perfect spot deep inside her. “Right there. Harder and faster. Do it, Thor.”

Donovan didn’t argue, didn’t complain that now she was leading him, pretending his was an Avenger, he didn’t seem to care and their dance went on for minutes, until their skin was sweat slicked and hot, until that sweet coil raged like an inferno inside her and her muscles contracted, nails scratching down his arms as she came all over him.

“Fuck, Layla. Fuck.”

And Donovan followed, moving faster, gripping her hips so tight Layla was sure he’d leave marks, but she didn’t care about him bruising her. She didn’t care about much of anything but the way that faint line between his eyebrows deepened, how he muttered to himself, saying things that sounded vaguely like “yes” and “God oh God” and then groaned, his body stilling then shaking as he spilled into her, shudders racking his body.

Finally, when Donovan was spent, and he landed beside her on the mattress, Layla felt the distance slip between them, instant and sudden, but not unexpected. She could still feel the sting of his fingers on her hips, and the juices from their releases trickling between her aching thighs. She could still taste the hint of coffee on his tongue and the heat from his body as he tried to return his breathing to normal.

But the distance surged between them. The shame. The disappointment, it all felt worse than Sayo’s guilt. That small scratch of guilt was now a pulsing sore, open and throbbing. It felt heavy; a thick wall of hesitance, of reluctance that Layla wrapped around herself like a blanket.

Donovan lifted his arm, pulling it across his forehead, staring up at the ceiling, but he didn’t speak. Layla sensed how tense his legs had grown, how his breathing had slowed. The silence lengthened in Donovan’s room with the smell of sex, the reminder of how they’d relinquished their inhibitions, perfuming the air; how that abandonment of reason now left them both silent and awkward.

He didn’t touch her or ask if she needed anything. Layla took the hint and gathered her clothes dressing in the silent darkness, uncaring if Donovan watched.

When she opened the door to his bedroom, Layla hesitated, wondering if he’d stop her, thinking he didn’t care that she was leaving him without much more than a glance behind her. And when she gave him that look, still silent, not expecting anything from him, their eyes met and in that long, silent gaze. Layla pretended she didn’t see the regret surfacing behind the whites of his eyes. She pretended that there wasn’t the same look staring back at him.





Classes were monotonous. They generally were on the Cavanagh campus when the air turned colder, when the snow high in the mountains flirted down on the town. The holidays were approaching and motivation, concentration was fleeting, out of reach for most of the students.

For Layla, that restless anticipation was only exaggerated by the realization that lies weren’t working for her anymore. She had hated Donovan for years, decades. He’d always been the ridiculous asshole who made it his goal in life to keep her miserable. Now, however, it wasn’t name calling or rumor starting that Donovan kept in his arsenal of torture. Now it was his touch. His body. His mouth, that shook her, quite literally, to her core.

She hated Donovan. Hated him for what he’d done to her for years. She hated him more for the distracting memories he forced upon her. She hated the recall of sensation he alone had worked in her. All day, most of the following afternoon, Layla retraced every touch she and Donovan had made against each other. Her mind filled with his smell, with the heat of his breath against her skin and the long, hard throb of him stretching inside her. She couldn’t shake the memory, how their customary arguing had led to them being alone, being naked—and then almost instantly being ashamed.

She should have held that shame close in her heart, let it overtake the innate desire that kept replaying the sounds and scent of Donovan’s voice and skin, the masculine taste of his skin. Layla should have ignored that memory, focused on the way they parted, how she could only manage a look over her shoulder. How he didn’t stop her, didn’t even try to stop her.

She should have done all of that. She knew that deflection, denial, made sense. But Layla did none of those things, left logic and sense behind with every stop light she passed, every block she drove by that brought her closer and closer to Donovan’s apartment.

She told herself she only wanted to end whatever “it” had been. There would be no more touching. There would be no more of “them” at all. She’d spent the day practicing what she’d say to him. “You repulse me” and “That will never, ever happen again” seemed like good, reasonable things to say, things he’d understand and would probably relate to. She kept practicing, all through her classes, even jotted down the phrases over and over when she should have been taking notes. She texted them to herself, ignoring the twenty or so messages from the ever-persistent Walter who was still trying to “make her see reason” or so he’d said. She emailed the sentences to herself, intending on going home after class, writing up something intelligent and mature like “It would behoove us both not to entertain such juvenile physical releases when we clearly cannot maintain a civil interaction without resorting to insults or, the previously mentioned juvenile physical releases.”