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The door cracks open, and Lord have mercy…when I see that tiny, white splotch of towel through the crack, I know it’s all she has on. A wild, hot image of shoving open that door and ripping the towel away tears through my mind right before the cruelly vivid fantasy of bending her naked body over the counter and burying myself inside her.

Off limits, I tell myself, but I don’t move, don’t walk away. I stand right there, all but talking myself into pushing that door open and pulling every naked inch of her against me.

Chapter ten

Jensen

I’m still trying to convince myself not to go inside the bathroom and strip away Layla’s towel when she delicately clears her throat.

“Thank you,” she whispers hoarsely, as if she’s as affected by the intimacy of the moment as I am. It takes me a minute to even remember what she’s thanking me for, that is until she inches behind the door and reaches for the bag.

I hand it to her quickly and turn away, adjusting my cock where it rests painfully against my zipper in a long, hard throb of pain. The door shuts behind me and sexual tension pricks at me like tiny needles poking my skin. With a grumble, I drop and do a hundred push-ups. It doesn’t work. My cock still throbs. Shit. Damn thing is as stubborn as a woman. I do another hundred. My cell buzzes again, and I curse. I forgot Marcus.

I jump to my feet and claim a chair behind the table and open the text message to read Marcus’s demand: Where is my money?

The blow dryer sounds in the bathroom as I send a text message in return: Where is my ICE?

He answers with: Don’t tell me you screwed up a sure thing?

I all but laugh as I type: Your idea of a sure thing is about as sure as getting lucky with a nun.

A several-second pause follows, then: If I get you another shot don’t F it up.

I snort and shoot back my answer: Talk is cheap.

Marcus is not pleased: My portion of this deal is not.

The door to the bathroom opens, and I all but swallow my tongue. Layla stands there with her hair sleek and shiny, her lips glossed pink, her skin pale and fresh, looking like an angel coming to save my tarnished, bedeviled soul. Of its own free will, my gaze travels over the slim blue jeans she wears and flat, silver-strapped sandals that showcase delicate little feet. Then back up those long legs to her pale blue blouse that dips deliciously at her neckline.

Her hands smooth the silky strands of her hair as she walks toward the table. “I can’t believe the clothes fit.”

“We’ll get your things later,” I promise, though her earlier extraction forced priorities to shift, but I don’t tell her that.

“I’m completely satisfied,” she assures me. “You have no idea how wonderful it feels to have clean clothes and a private shower that didn’t make me feel like I was the star of some porn flick.”

My gaze rivets to her face, a hard punch of anger vibrating through my gut. “I’m sorry about Tad opening the bathroom door like he did. I would never have let him go inside.”

Pink flushes her cheeks, and she sits down at the table trying to be nonchalant about her comment, but the visible shiver that shakes her delicate frame gives her away. “I hate talking about that man. He might have been forced to keep his hands off me, but Tad raped me with his mind so many times, it makes my skin crawl just thinking about it.”

Blistering anger bubbles inside me and mixes with an acidic dose of guilt over ever letting Layla near him in the first place.

Layla inhales. “Food smells so good.”

I reach for the bag and offer her a burger and fries. “It’s probably cold by now.”

“I don’t care.” She pops a fry in her mouth and sighs. “I feel like it’s been a lifetime since I had a good fry.” She unwraps her burger and spreads the fries on the paper. “I’m actually hungry too. It’s the first time in well…a really long time. Got any ketchup?”

I snatch up the packets in the bag and pile them on the table before reaching inside the fridge. “I’ve got water and Dr. Pepper.”

“No Coke?” she asks, mockingly appalled.

“I have a pretty serious Dr. Pepper addiction,” I admit, passing her the can. “Doc Katie—she heads up our scientific team—she gives me hell about it. Says all the sugar is bad for the body.”

She accepts the soda. “If your body heals itself, does sugar really even matter to you?”

“Exactly.” I tap the table. “If a GTECH can’t survive a few too many sodas,” I say, “he’s in real trouble when the Zodius start shooting. I think Katie thinks it makes us feel human if she acts like we’re human.”

“Do you want to feel human?”