“I can’t help it,” she whispered. “You really are.”
“Hell,” he muttered, cupping one hand under her butt to pull her in tighter to him as he braced with his wounded arm.
“And you feel so good inside me,” she confessed. “Can we do this again sometime?”
“Oh, merde.” His hand hardened on her butt, his movements growing stronger, faster. “Bouclettes. Yes. Now will you please shut up and let me get it right this time?”
“You already got it right.” She rubbed him, flexing her hand gently as she tightened all her inner muscles as hard as she could. “Now you should just focus on having fun.”
He opened his eyes again and gazed down at her, shaking his head wonderingly. “Fun?”
She flopped back on the bed, arms spread wide. “Fun. Yes. Here I am. I dare you. Have all the fun with me that you can.”
“Oh, bon sang.” His body shuddered. “You don’t know what that does to me. You look so—so—”
“Do it,” she whispered. She cupped her own breasts, pressing them together and up, an offering. “Do it. Do it.”
“Merde.” He bent and kissed her as his body began to move faster and harder.
“Yeah,” she breathed wickedly and bit his lip. “Oh, yeah. Like that.”
“Merde, Layla, please—”
“Yeah.” She squeezed. “Harder. Faster.”
“Shut up—” He was losing himself in his own movement, his eyes going blind.
“Oh, yeah. I love the way you feel.”
“Oh, bordel.” Big arms engulfed her, wrapped her in tight, tight, tight, into his body, into his strength and darkness, as he growled hard and low as he came.
Layla wrapped her arms tight around him and held on, so pleased with herself that the only thing she could do was grin like a cat in cream. She was still beaming later when he came back from the bathroom and slipped into bed beside her. He tried his best not to take over the narrow space, but the whole mattress dipped toward his weight, tumbling her body against him. He propped himself on his side to gaze down at her, his face oddly solemn, one hand framing her face, stroking back curls. She smiled and curled on top of his body to leave room for him on the mattress, draping her arm over his chest as he tucked her in close. Still smiling, she nuzzled her face into his chest, falling gently into a dream of roses.
Chapter 16
Calm down. Matt rubbed a grimy hand on his T-shirt, over the left side of his chest. You’ll be all right.
In the quiet gray of early dawn, his hands sank again into dirt, digging up the old fountain’s pump. He might have to follow the old buried wood pipes up into the hills to solve this particular problem, but he was hoping the failure of the fountain really lay in the modern pump someone had installed in the fifties or sixties to add a decorative lion fountain here to the old system for bringing water to the houses above the valley.
The moist, old scent of fountain earth rose around him, and a little movement in the doorway onto the patio lifted his head.
Layla leaned sleepily against the doorjamb, barefoot, in soft knit yoga pants and a gray hoodie, her hands in her pockets, her head resting against the doorjamb, too, as if those curls were too heavy at this hour for her to hold them up.
And his heart did ease, at the sight of her, as if something as soft as her bare footfalls had brushed across it. He sat back on his heels, rubbing his dirty hands against his jeans automatically. Maybe his hands wanted to make themselves a little more eligible to touch someone if the opportunity arose.
“It’s official,” she murmured. “Our sleep schedules are not compatible.”
“Is that a big deal?” Matt asked warily. His last girlfriend had made everything a big deal. Casual friendliness to another woman. Not noticing if she painted her toenails. Taking a deep breath. Of course, she’d been famous, and famous women obviously weren’t for him. He couldn’t handle the narcissism. Layla, in contrast, was so down-to-earth and human, his girl next door.
Layla gave a dreamy shrug, as if she was barely awake, and smiled at him. “Thanks for the rose.” Her voice was almost a whisper, this husky blend with the softness of dawn.
He flushed a little. Him and his stupid roses. Why he had to go leave one on the pillow beside her, he did not know.
“I put it in the vase,” she said.
Had she? Taken care of it just like the others? He bent his head, trying to focus on the pump while his mouth kept wanting to curve ridiculously.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve been meaning to fix this fountain,” he said.
That smile she sometimes had for him made him feel so confusedly and vulnerably happy, as if he was a teddy-bear she was about to pick up and squeeze. He had never in his life felt very squeezable before.