Page 9 of Coming Home to My Cowboy
“Just dinner then?” I ask as he takes a step back. I almost hope he says no. I hope he wraps himself around me, picks me up, and carries me to the kitchen to devour me there just like in my fantasies.
“Your dinners are feasts. I enjoy them,” he comments.
Another compliment, but not in the way I want. I’m sure he has to feel this. He’s not just tolerating it. He can’t be. I’ve been flirting and teasing him, trying to get him to talk as much as I do since I masturbated to the fantasy of him every fucking day.
If he didn’t want me in some way … he wouldn’t allow that. He can end a conversation with a look and hasn’t done it.
I cross my fingers as I go to the kitchen. I want the same man that I’ve wanted for years. I’ve wanted him silently. I’ve wanted him in my diary. I’ve wanted him in my late night fantasies. And now, I want him enough to push the limits.
Chapter 6 - Jace
Resisting Layla is getting harder by the day. Every bit of innuendo delivered like a tease is a trap. Her eyes say she’s serious, but her smile says she’s just pushing my buttons. Maybe age is wisdom because I know exactly what I want. I want her. I want to feel her curves mold to my hand. I want to be the reason she makes those breathy, soft moaning sounds that seem to echo whenever she showers or late at night when she’s sure I won’t hear her.
Denial is starting to feel like a punishment.
Every other conversation is perfectly normal. She asks about my life, pays close attention when I give her real, yet short answers. I summarize things, but even that is restraint. The gentle way she nods along, never prying, despite the curiosity written across her face eats at me. Then she touches me, delicate, light fingers that feel like a request for permission, and my resolve is tested again.
Her long looks even when she’s reading, the way she leans against me, insisting it’s to make sure I’m watching the Christmas movies she puts on, how gorgeous she looks in the flickering colored lights of the Christmas tree and always makes sure to cook, to make coffee, or to surprise me with something(gloves or a coat generally when I go outside) that’s practical, but shows exactly how aware of me she is, it weighs on my shoulders.
Layla pays attention and approaches with her quiet confidence even if it’s with another teasing phrase.
She’s been on a walk for thirty minutes, just left me a note, probably because she knew I’d insist on coming with her.
And coming with her …. No. I refuse to let those thoughts fester. I’m just here out until Aaron gets back. And his daughter … His daughter has me hanging on by a thread.
I love and hate it. I love having her attention. I hate that I feel like I’m crossing a line with my best friend. The age difference doesn’t bother me. She’s all grown up. I barely looked twice when she was little, but it could invite trouble for her – namely in the shape of her father.
Aaron promises he’ll arrive tomorrow, that he’s confirmed it multiple times. The sudden hot streak has made travel possible. It should be relief coursing through my veins, but it’s something else. A necessary, pulsing need that I can’t shake.
Taking one slow deep breath, then another, I try to calm my emotions. It’s never been a problem before. I’m loyal to my best friend. I’m here to protect Layla from her own worst thoughts. But thinking about her finding someone else, settling when she’s made it clear she wants me, is unthinkable.
One second, I’m focused on my thoughts, twisted and hot, the next second, I hear a total downpour. From cloudy skies to rain pouring down in a few seconds flat. No warning, nothing to prepare. I open the front door, determined to go get Layla before she can get sick, lose her way, fall, or anything else that comes to mind.
I find her panting, soaking wet, holding herself on the porch, staring at me with her hair plastered to her cheeks and chest, her clothes barely more than a second skin. She trembles as she looks at me.
“I’m not as fast as the rain,” she breathes.
I pull her inside and start pulling at her clothing. When she gasps and stares up at me, in her leggings and t-shirt, nothing else, I take her face between my hands. “Why did you go on a walk today! After dark! You could have been hurt! Someone could have…”
She keeps trembling. “I … I’m sorry. I thought-”
Layla’s eyes flick back and forth like she’s looking between my eyes and my mouth. She grips the side of my shirt with tight fingers and licks her bottom lip. Every twisting feeling I’ve been trying to push down break free in that one swipe of her tongue over her lush lip.
“Fuck it,” I breathe.
Her eyes widen, but I pull her tight against me, stopping a millimeter before her lips. She leans in and lets out one of those breathy moans I’ve only heard from behind closed doors. Fuck it all. I can’t resist her. Not for another night, another minute, another goddamn second.
I kiss her hungrily, sucking her bottom lip, licking into her mouth. I pick her up and pull her against me, sharing my heat. I press her against the front door as her legs tighten around me. I swallow each moan she feeds me while pulling her wet shirt off and throwing it off. She wraps her arms around me, clawing at my tank top, pulling it up in a way that proves she hasn’t done this before.
“Only dates?” I ask as I turn to lay her in front of the fire.
She lays back across the rug and pulls me closer. “Only dates. One or two kisses not… Nothing more than kisses.”
“Layla,” I groan as I pull my belt out of the loop and toss it to the side. She looks me over and trembles. I shake my head. “Who else has touched you?”
“Only … me,” she whispers. “No one else. I …. I’m a virgin, Jace. I’ve been waiting for the right person.”
Fuck. The words hit me hard enough to knock air from my lungs. Heat, need, protectiveness, all crashing at once. I still my hands instantly.
