Claiming Serenity(34)

Just then, Layla cursed against his palm, her head arched against his shoulder as she chased that climax her body ached for. And just as “oh shit, fuck, fuck” flew from her mouth, Donovan took his hands away and pulled out of her, robbing her of her climax just as it peaked, just before she fell off the edge. He’d take the pain of stopping. He’d take that gladly just to prove his point.

“And for the rest of the day you’ll be thinking about how I had you moaning fifty feet from a hundred students stuffing their faces. Close enough to that bastard you called a boyfriend for him to smell you. And you’ll come back tonight. You’ll come back because you want me.” He turned her around and kissed her tenderly on the forehead and steadied her when she staggered back, her legs and hands shaking, breath uneven. “You’ll come back. Because your body needs this. Because you want me to finish what I started.” Donovan pulled up her leggings, straightened her sweater and jacket back over her hips before his kissed her neck. “You’ll come back, Layla because no matter how much you try to deny that your body likes mine, I’m still the only one who gives you what you want.”

He left her to recover, checked that no one lingered near the pantry and made his way back into the noisy, crowded cafeteria, raising his chin in casual greeting to Walter who was just leaving. But he didn’t turn back, didn’t bother to see if Layla was watching through the window. He didn’t need to. He knew she was.





She did go back.

She didn’t event hate that she went back because he was right. Only Donovan could make her breathless. She wanted him, and his mouth and his fingers and his strong, controlling dick. And though she tried telling herself she didn’t care about him, she knew what this was. There was no way she could lie to herself about the need she felt for his body. His touch, his mouth, the sweet tang of his skin, it was all an addiction, one that they both indulged in without restraint as often as they could.

Each night seemed to build on the one before. Each night, more inhibitions tossed aside, more liberties taken. But on one particularly exuberant night, while they lay in his bed with their bodies exhausted, their hair tangled together and their breathing slowing, Donovan and Layla had done something she never thought would be possible for them. They had a conversation. They lay in bed, calming, breath still overworked and Layla moved her distracted gaze around his room, flippantly wondering why his clothes were put away, why the mess that usually cluttered the floor was suspiciously absent. She hoped he wasn’t making efforts for her.

The conversation wasn’t anything she’d expected and she’d had doubts Donovan would volunteer anything personal, anything remotely private with her, but that had been a particularly rigorous night and the orgasms had been many. Donovan’s sated state must have loosened the tight hold he had on his emotions.

It was his tattoo that started it all. That beautifully inked Irish flag on his left pec and the elegant scrip, all loops and swirls of Never Again underneath it.

“What is this?” she’d said, drawing her fingernails over each letter.

Donovan, eyes closed and breath still panting, grabbed her hand to still her fingers. “Something to remind me not to lose myself. Ever.”

“You mean over a woman?”

One eyelid opened, followed by the next and Donovan had watched Layla’s expression as if he needed to see if she could handle his truth.

“Don’t get anxious,” she finally told him when he’d continued to stare at her. “No promises, remember?”

“I remember. But Layla…”

“You don’t have to tell me.” Tired of his hesitance, she rolled onto her back, telling herself she didn’t really care about the damn tattoo or how distant Donovan always wanted to keep himself. “I was just under the impression that there were no lies between us. Not here anyway.”

“If that’s what you think, then fine, but Layla, you might not wanna hear this.” He’d turned his head, giving her a stare that made her stop thinking of anything but the concern, the worry that had kept the humor from his expression. “It’s not just my secret.”

There had been a million thoughts clustered in her head just then. They were random and ridiculous, but the most constant, the most worrisome was the invented idea that Donovan would unearth some great mystery about someone she cared about. Impossible, devious images of Declan or, God forbid, Donovan and one of her friends had made her stomach twist.

“I was just curious, Donley. It’s not…”

He shook his head, leaned up on his elbow to give her a better look at his ink. She’d let him take her hand, rub her fingertips over the flag, ignoring the quick lick of heat she’d felt when he’d moved her hand in slow, small circles.