Blake
I’ve survived a lot of bullshit in my life. A raging asshole father. One of the toughest military schools in the country. The Marines. But none of that compares to the fight I’m engaged in now. My body is humming with homicidal thoughts.
Not only does Layla’s little fucking confession have me envisioning her and her kid at the hands of some prick, but she’s flipped my damn world on its axis with her reasons for leaving. Protecting her daughter. Pulling up stakes, living in a shit hole with no money, starting over… all for her kid.
Her story laughs in the face of my preconceived ideas of women. She didn’t show weakness, but immense strength. She wasn’t selfish, but gave up her comforts for another. Granted, her husband was a dick, but staying is taking the easy way out. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Layla chose the fight, the struggle, and the sacrifice.
All the times I prayed my mom would take us out of there, to live free from the control of my fuckface dad. She never stuck up for us, demanded a better life for her boys, fought to right the wrongs—damn. I need to pull it together.
Pacing the small living room does diddly-shit for my anger. It’s only a reminder of how these girls live in a shabby and inadequate apartment, alone to fend for themselves. There’s one ratty-looking couch, a small tube TV with rabbit ears, and cheesy plastic blinds on the windows with—I run my hand along the window frame. No locks. It’s unlikely anyone can crawl up to the second-story window, but if for some reason they had a ladder or—
“I’m ready.”
The sound of her voice spins me around. Facing her, I catch myself to avoid stumbling back as I take in her appearance. A skin-tight, pale-pink sweater clings to her body, the soft fabric enticing my fingers to touch. Her chocolate skirt is shorter than the knee-length ones I’ve seen her in before. This one skims her slender thighs, which are wrapped in patterned stockings that make me curious to know how far up they go. Do they stop at her thighs, held on by a sexy garter? Fuck me, this woman is a knockout. The T-shirt and pink socks had me hard as steel, but this is sex-on-a-desk hot.
“Your hair.” A smirk pulls at my lips. Not loose and flowing like I asked, but pulled back into a tight ponytail. Holy hell, her defiance only makes my dick harder.
She grins, throws out a heeled foot, and cocks a hip. “I don’t take orders.”
I glare at her and move across the room, stopping less than a foot away. She sways a bit but quickly recovers. Her bright brown eyes fix on mine, and she juts out her chin. My mouse is a rebel.
I sink my teeth into my lower lip to avoid the full-blown smile that’s surfacing. Her eyes flare, and I see it. For the first time, it’s unmistakable. Desire.
“So many sides to you, Mouse.” Clumsy and awkward, confident when she needs to be, insecure about the past, nervous when I get close. All the sides I’m diggin’, and each one just as hot as the other. But attraction is one thing, translating that attraction to real life is something else. And right now, if we don’t get out in public, I may throw my no-kids, no-baggage rule straight out this second story window.
“Let’s roll.” I sidestep her to the door, pull it wide, and hold it open. She doesn’t follow immediately, but studies the crappy popcorn ceiling for a few seconds before taking my lead and heading out.
Doesn’t take orders, huh? I can work with that. Just have to make her believe she’s not taking them, when she most certainly will be. My mind goes to a billion dirty places until we’re in the Rubicon.
She picks up the binder that holds my CDs and flips through the pages. “You have great taste in music.” She tilts her head to the side and squints to read the titles before turning to another page.
“No glasses today?” I’ve noticed she doesn’t always wear them. Not that I care. Hot librarian or doe-eyed babe, both looks are sexy as hell.
She closes the CD binder, and her eyes dart to mine before she shrugs and focuses out the window. “I usually only wear them when I read or watch movies.”
Silence simmers between us. Visions of her reading in my bed or watching a movie wrapped in my arms wearing nothing but her glasses flicker behind my eyes. I shift, suddenly restless in my seat. I’ve always been a horny prick, but lately I’m getting a stiffy from the friction of the wind. My libido is all out of whack. First her fluffy pink socks, and now her reading—wait.
When was the last time I got laid?
That’s got to be the problem. I make a mental note to take care of that ASAP. With all the pressure of the fight coming up, my back being fucked five-ways to Friday, and family shit poking at me, I could use a little extracurricular release.
And sure as shit, relieving the sexual tension will make being around Layla a lot easier.