Page 71 of Layla

Everything happens fast after that, his fingers sliding through my hair to take down my ponytail while mine go to work on his buttons.

“So beautiful,” he mutters once he has my hair free. “I fucking love your hair.”

“You do?” I can hear the vulnerability in my voice, the need, and I think he can too because his expression softens as he looks down at me.

I immediately grab his face, tilting it down so his lips will meet mine again. I want to be kissing him but I also want him to stop looking at me like that. I don’t feel vulnerable during sex, not ever, and I certainly don’t want to feel that way in front of John.

But he won’t let me hide. He presses a kiss to my mouth and then one to my forehead before he steps back, just a little, his hands going to the hem of my tank top. “I do,” he says. “I think about your fucking hair all the time. The way it swings down your back when you’re playing. The way it feels in my fingers.” Those fingers grip the edge of my tank, gathering the fabric in his fists. “Your eyes, too. The way they look right now, all wide and dark and filled with fire.” He pulls my shirt over my head and I watch his throat, transfixed, while he swallows heavily, eyes glued to my body. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

It’s too much, the way he’s looking at me. The pure need and awe I see in his eyes. And the distance between us—he’s not touching me now, just looking at me, and I feel so completely exposed. I reach for his hand, needing the warmth of it against my skin, and he lets me take it, pressing his other palm to my chest, right over my heart. “You’re perfect, Layla. Just like this.”

“Please kiss me,” I whisper, my voice shaking. When he smiles, it lights up his whole face and I decide I don’t care if I’m exposed, maybe I don’t even mind feeling vulnerable. Because John sees me. He reallyseesme, and somehow that makes it all okay.

He doesn’t pull me into him when he kisses me this time. Instead he grips my hips, pressing me backwards until the back of my knees hit the edge of the bed, then presses further until I’m laying down, John following me onto the mattress. His kisses are more gentle now, exploring and soft, and I realize that I’m trembling when I return to the task of trying to rid him of his shirt.

“I’ll do it,” he says, pulling back a little and treating me to the delicious view of his quick and steady fingers working the buttons. “What?” he asks, and I realize that I’m staring.

“I have a thing about your hands and buttons,” I mutter, unable to drag my eyes away.

He pauses. “What? Why?”

I meet his eyes and I can’t help the grin spreading across my face. “I don’t know why. But every time I see you unbutton something, it does things to me.”

He barks out a laugh. “Seriously?”

I just grin back, feeling cheeky now, all the fear and overwhelming emotion of a few minutes ago fading away. “Something about how efficient your fingers are. They look…capable.”

His eyebrows go up, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I’ll show you how capable my fingers are.”

Then his mouth is on mine again and I’m dizzy and breathless because holy shit, I’m in bed with John. I want to ask him what this is, if he’s really okay with it. He’s been so insistent that nothing inappropriate should happen between us and here we are, half naked on my bed.

Before I can force my brain to form the words, he kisses a path down my neck. “I don’t care,” he whispers against my skin, answering the question I hadn’t managed to ask. “I want you.”

Well, that’s enough of an answer for me. “I want you too,” I say, running my fingers through his surprisingly soft hair as he drags his mouth lower, over my collarbone, down to my chest. And then he’s pulling my bra aside and his lips are on my skin, anddamn, nothing has ever felt this good.

Except now those capable fingers are on the zipper of my pants, brushing against the skin of my thighs as he pushes the leather down, and that feels even better. And when his fingers brush against my hot center, that feels better too. Every single thing John does to me feels better than the last until he’s finally sliding a condom down his length, then pressing into me, moving above me, so good and so strong that I come apart in seconds.

“Perfect,” he says again and I push my face against his neck, embarrassed.

“I don’t usually…not so fast—I mean—”

He tilts my face so I’m looking at him and the wonder in his eyes has a lump forming in my throat. Jesus, what is wrong with me?

But John is looking at me like there’s nothing wrong with me. Like the version of me that he can see really is perfect.

“You’re beautiful, Layla,” he says. “And you feel so good.”

He’s holding himself completely still but already I feel my body ramping up again. “More,” I whisper. “Please, John.”

And because John always seems to know exactly what I need, he presses his forehead against mine and begins to move, watching me the entire time, really seeing me, just like he always does. And I’m so glad, because I get to watch him, too. Get to see the desire in his eyes, the way his jaw tightens when he gets close. Get to see the look of pure bliss on his face when he finally falls over the edge, only closing my own eyes when I follow him a moment later.

He stays just like that afterwards, forehead pressed to mine, our lips an inch apart, while our breathing slowly returns to normal.

“Perfect,” he says again, kissing my temple. And he’s right—this moment, here with him, is absolutely perfect.