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“You know Amara won’t find us,” I retort, dropping my face into the warm crook of her neck and drawing my nose lightly across the sensitive skin. Layla shivers beneath my touch, her head dropping back slightly in welcome.
“We could get caught,” Layla argues, although her voice is feeble and lacking any real conviction. I graze my teeth lightly over the peek of her exposed collarbone, a purely male swell of pride blooming in my chest at the strangled noise that slips from her lips at the contact.
My obsession with Layla and the looming, ominous feeling of transfer season aren’t the only reasons I’m so intent on making room to have her to myself, although they certainly play a part. No, there’s another reason everything feels more urgent now, every stolen second feels weightier.
Layla’s 24- marrying age. Most human women tend to get married even earlier these days, their lifespans shorter and more pressing on Protheka than they ever were on their home planet. I see the way the men in the village eye her as if she’s some prize to be won, as if she could ever be anyone’s but mine.
The idea of another man with Layla, of her marrying or his hands skating across her curves, fills me with rage. I drown the feeling, unwilling to let my darker nature ruin a perfectly good moment as I withdraw from Layla’s neck and find her eyes.
“We’ve never been caught before,” I say with a grin, my voice rough with my overwhelming desire for her. Layla’s cheeks flush scarlet as her eyes dip to my lips, only making my smile grow wider. She wants me nearly as bad as I want her, a fact that will never cease to make smug satisfaction ripple through me.
“But my family-”
“I’ll send word,” I interrupt her, my hold on myself growing weaker with every passing second her little body is pressed to mine. “I’ll tell them you’ve picked up an extra shift. You’ll be safe with me, I promise.”
“I know,” Layla whispers. It’s all the permission I need as I twine my fingers between hers and tug her down the alleyway, leading us toward the dark elf quarter.
