Page 21 of Castaway Whirlwind
“Stop me, darlin’.”
I go ice cold all over when she shifts in her sleep, curling toward me, her lips unintentionally brushing mine. Our first kiss, and she’s not even awake. I weep inside at how far I’ve fallen from grace even as I slant my head to press my lips more firmly against hers. Not enough to wake her. But enough to taste her, daring to lick her bottom lip, panting into her mouth as I jerk my cock.
And when I cum into my palm, then return to her side after washing my hands in the bathroom, I rebutton her top. Dragging the chair back to the kitchen, I sit and watch her, all the while hating myself, praying she’ll forgive me if she ever finds out what I’ve done.
* * *
I hate that I have to wake Layla an hour later, when what I really want is to let her be a no-call-no-show at work so shecan sleep as long as she needs. I’d pay her double whatever she makes at the bridal store to make up for it. If only she would accept it without thinking she has to earn it by cleaning the warehouse.
Layla rolls further onto her side toward me when I gently tap her cheek. “Time to get up, darlin’.”
She snuggles deeper under the comforter with an adorable scowl. But then a whimper cuts short my answering grin in an instant. Her shoulders start to shake, and when her eyes open, they meet my worried ones. “It hurts,” she says in the smallest voice.
I wish I could take every ounce of her pain away just as I wipe away the tear on her cheek with my thumb. “What can I do, darlin’? Would a hot bath help?” She nods, and I drop a kiss to her temple before moving into her bathroom to plug the tub and turn on the faucet. The bathtub-shower combo is much smaller than the garden tub I have in my primary bathroom at home, where she would be so much more comfortable.
Maybe one day, she’ll get to try it out.
Wishful thinking.
Once the tub is full, I step out of the bathroom to find Layla sitting on the edge of the bed, the comforter wrapped around her shoulders. We make brief eye contact before she looks off to the side, biting the corner of her lip.
That one moment shakes me up further.She knows what I’ve done. She must. The urge to run out of the apartment, find the nearest railroad, and lay down on the tracks is overwhelming.
“Layla…”
She slowly stands and approaches me, and I freeze like a deer caught in headlights. I stop breathing, bracing myself to be obliterated by her hate and condemnation.
“Thank you for bringing me home and staying with me.”
Fresh air saws into my lungs when she grabs and squeezes my hand, then swerves around me, closing herself into the bathroom instead of eviscerating me where I stand. And stand there, I do, near the door, listening as she takes her bath until I can gather the strength needed to walk away and cook her up something to eat on the way to work.
“Russell?” Layla shouts my name through the door just as I’m boxing the oven-roasted sausage, mixed sweet potatoes, broccoli, and cauliflower into a reusable to-go container.
I swing open the door before thinking it through, and she squeaks, crossing her arms over her chest to cover herself approximately point-three seconds before I can see her breasts, though I do get the blessed flash of her naked shoulders and the top of her belly—a memory that will live forever in the forefront of my mind.
I yank the door closed. “Sorry. I uh…” I clear my throat, banging my forehead against the door frame. “Did you need something?”
After a pause, she asks, “Can you get me the bottle of pain meds from my bag?”
I nod, though she can’t see, and dig through her packed tote bag that I had left on the kitchen counter. Emptying the contents out, I find her meds and am disappointed she’s holding her hand through the crack in the door, waiting for the bottle, instead of still in the bath, giving me an excuse to go inside and see her beautiful, half-naked form again.
That doesn’t stop me from rubbing my thumb across the delicate skin of her inner wrist when I hand her the bottle.
Putting everything back in her bag afterward, I almost skip right over the little rectangular purple business card, thinkingit’s one of Violet’s. The shade isn’t quite right, though, and neither is the fact that there’s a woman’s curvy silhouette on one side holding a mop and bucket in her hands next to MAID SERVICE printed in a curly gold font. The other side is blank save for Layla’s phone number and CASH ONLY.
It’s unlike any business card I’ve ever seen—one that makes something low in my gut tighten. The tightening doubles when I unzip Layla’s wallet, discovering a few more of the questionable business cards.
Hearing Layla shuffling inside the bathroom, the plug pulled to drain the bath, I zip up her wallet but keep one of the cards for myself, shoving it in my back pocket where it burns a hole as I finish cleaning the kitchen while she gets dressed.
Chapter 7
Layla
The drive to the bridal boutique is quiet after I finish eating, which wouldn’t be unusual, considering Russell’s nature, but it’s charged. Like I’m missing something, but I’m not sure what since I don’t think he saw anything when he barged into the bathroom earlier. I’m ok, though, with the quiet, given how embarrassed I am by the scene I caused at the diner, falling asleep on the job and then having to be carried out when I told everyone I was fine.
Russell pulls into a parking spot in front of the boutique’s doors. I lean across the console to stop him when he puts his hand on the door handle, knowing he’s going to get out and open my door for me. I don’t need him doing anything else after everything he’s done for me already today.
His brows shoot up to his hairline when I kiss his cheek, my lips skimming the tidy edge of his beard. Neither of us expected me to do that, and I blink a few times before forcing out, “Thanks for…for caring so much about me.” I jump out of the truck, closing the heavy door with a bang so I don’t do anything else I shouldn’t.
