Claiming Serenity(5)

“We’re clear, princess.”

She hated being called that. It was an insult the way Donovan said it and nothing similar to when her father called her princess, like he had since she was a baby. Her dad told her she always reminded him of Cinderella. Donovan said it like she was Cruella DeVille. “Would you stop…”

“I thought you were leaving.”

“I am, you huge Neanderthal.”

She was almost across the threshold when he added, “And don’t you go telling that rent-a-cop boyfriend of yours either. He’s got a big mouth too, and I don’t want Coach to find out.”

She stopped in her tracks and turned on him. “Do you really think I’m that stupid?” He shrugged, implying that she might be, which only fueled the simmering fire of her temper. She stepped back into the room, getting right up into his face. “God, I hate you so much. You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah, and you’re a bitchy little brat. And for the record, your smell like a brewery.”

“Bastard!”

“Lush!”

Layla wanted to claw his eyes out, but instead she was caught still, struck stupid by the quick exhale Donovan released and the way his lips quivered in an exaggerated snarl. She wanted to insult him again, ignore how thick the air had become, how his sharp blue eyes burned as they trailed over her cheeks to her mouth, how they felt like licks of pleasure across her skin, but before she could level even the slightest insult at him, Donovan grabbed her arm and pushed her up against the door until it clicked closed.

“You’re disgusting,” she told him, but her voice carried no venom.

“And you’re a complete and utter bitch.”

She wanted to hit him. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted Donovan to do something, anything but glare at her the way he was. And then, before she could think which she wanted more, Layla got her wish.

His mouth was controlling, consuming, teeth against her bottom lip, opening her up to the invasion of his tongue. It was warm, thick and she felt it all over her body, with every thrust of his mouth on hers, with how tight his fingers pulled and squeezed her ass. Donovan wasn’t gentle, wasn’t sweet. This wasn’t a kiss that was meant to be tender. This was a full bodied, take control kiss and Layla had no idea why she wasn’t resisting, why she liked it so much. But she didn’t resist, and she did like it, so much. Too damn much.

She moved her hand, curling her fingers into his t-shirt, let a low, soft moan work up her throat and she didn’t think about how much she hated him, how surely, kissing Donovan should repulse her, that the idea of Donovan doing anything remotely sexual had always repulsed her—hadn’t it? —but his tongue battled against hers, obliterating her thought. Caught in the fray, Donovan pushed his hands into Layla’s ass and that deliciously hard erection pressed against her. Layla was lost.

For a moment.

Her thoughts were warring, scattered telling her how stupid she was being, reminding her that she had a backbone, that she hated, hated Donovan and no matter how incredible his mouth and hands felt, she could pull away from him. Any minute now.

And then Donovan destroyed the mood. “You want it again, don’t you, princess?” he said against her lips and just the sound of that overly confident voice had Layla pushing him back, arms straight, palms firm against his chest.

He didn’t ask her why she stopped him, why she wouldn’t answer him. Instead he watched her drag the back of her hand across her mouth, moved his gaze to her eyes and instantly, she knew that the white flag that might have been raised between them had been lowered.

She didn’t care how he made her feel. She didn’t care that the night before she, apparently, had given herself over completely to the one man she’d always professed to hate. This was Donovan Donley, a slight to all women with any good sense. Or a one year old Maltese puppy.

“Don’t ever touch me again.”

Donovan’s jaw moved again like he was trying to come up with something cruel, something angry to say. Instead he nodded once, straightened his shoulder before he opened the door. “Not a problem.”

It didn’t happen, she told herself, bypassing the pizza boxes haphazardly scattered across the dingy, stinking carpet. It so did not happen. But as she left the apartment, looking up and down the cobblestone sidewalk, making certain none of those nosy, prying eyes watched her, she couldn’t help the shake that took over her hands or the wobble of her knees that had absolutely nothing to do with tequila consumption. Just didn’t happen. And part of her wondered, despite the anger, despite the outrage, despite what she knew she should be feeling, why what just didn’t happen had her smiling.