Claiming Serenity(38)

Just like that, that openness he’d given her the night before, that honesty and gentleness, left the room and made Layla retreat faster than any other time she’d left his apartment.

“Let’s not do that anymore, okay?” She’d frowned when he wiped his mouth dry, like he hadn’t wanted to taste of her goodbye on his lips. “That kiss goodbye. I don’t want that from you.”





She hadn’t gone back the next night, texting Donovan with a message about the holiday and spending time with her family, but now it was Thanksgiving and she had run out of excuses. It had started out as a low-key, relaxing holiday. During the day, at least. A ridiculously, carb-loaded Thanksgiving feast with her parents, teasing Ethan about his new girlfriend, Clara, who, much to their father’s dismay, preferred American football to rugby. Clara, though, the poor thing, wasn’t from Cavanagh and likely had no idea what madness she had walked into when her father kept the repeat of the All Blacks streamed loud and plugged into their flat screen. That evening, Layla joined her friends, and Donovan—who she stoutly refused to consider as anything but a shag buddy, especially after his little ambush in the cafeteria a few weeks before—at Joe’s house. It promised to be a nice dinner until, of course, Donovan sat next to her.

He sat too close.

He smelled divine, masculine, delicious.

He made sure to spread his legs under the table so that his warm, muscular thigh touched against Layla.

But when Donovan laid his fingers on the inside of her knee and Layla’s tiny gasp caught the attention of her friends around the table, she was forced to brush off the pleased sound by smiling at Autumn, covering that low moan his touch had stirred from her. “Oh, sweetie,” she told the redhead, “this ham is the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

A few snorts and under-the-breath giggles later—Quinn was particularly obvious, biting his lips, nodding at Layla as she shoveled in more food—and Layla was able to dig her heel onto the top of Donovan’s foot, effectively making his roaming fingers leave her leg.

By the time Layla started to leave, having avoided the furtive looks and subtle hand brushing Donovan managed throughout the night, Layla was angling for a long, hot shower and as many hours of tryptophan-induced sleep as possible.

Donovan, however, had other plans.

She barely had her coat over her shoulders when he slipped in behind her under the dim lights of the mudroom. “Leaving without a goodbye kiss, brat?”

Shoulders stiff as he touched her, Layla stepped away from him, from those nimble fingers helping her tug her coat on. “I don’t have the energy to explain something like that to our friends.” She turned, stuffing her scarf under her lapel. “Besides, we don’t do that, remember? The kiss good night?”

“Then maybe this shouldn’t be good night.” Donovan said and Layla highly distrusted the arch of his eyebrow or the slow movements he made toward her.

When Donovan leaned forward, brought his lips dangerously close to Layla’s mouth, she stiffened, held him back with her fingers against his mouth. “Are you crazy?” she whispered, inching around his wide shoulders to make sure no one had seen them. “Our friends are ten feet away. Do you wanna get caught?”

“I love it when you get all flustered.” Donovan ignored the small swat she made against his hand when he rubbed the line pulling down her mouth. “You make the cutest little scowls. It gets me hard.”

“Ugh. You’re such a cretin.” She pushed him, annoyed when his laughter moved above a whisper. “Shut up.”

“Come on. Don’t be pissy.” Quicker than Layla expected, Donovan pulled on her waist, leaned flush against her and her attention went behind him, to the voices she heard just beyond the kitchen. “Stop worrying about them,” he said against her ear. “Joe is telling another ‘when I was but a wee lad back in Ireland’ story and they’re all riveted. They aren’t worried about us.”

“Let me go.” Layla hated the low, mildly desperate sound of her voice. She didn’t know if it was fear of being found out by their friends, or the way Donovan’s strong hands and warm, whiskey-flavored breath fell against her neck that made her words come out airy. She just knew it would be very bad if they were discovered. It would be better, but highly stupid, if he just got on with kissing her.

“You turning me down, Layla?” She barely registered her back against the doorframe or the laughter echoing through the house. Donovan’s mouth, his warm tongue, made thought impossible. She heard herself moan, gasp when Donovan tugged on her hair to pull her face toward his. “You know you don’t wanna do that. This is the day we’re supposed to be grateful for the things we have.” Hips against her and Layla closed her eyes as she felt that hard and heavy impression through his jeans. “And I’m so fucking thankful for this, brat… you and me and this.”