SHE’D AGREED TO ride on the back of his bike to the restaurant, a Thai bistro in Uptown called SukhoThai, and some part of him never wanted the ride to end. Her arms were tight around his body, her soft breasts crushed against his back and the soft wind of the New Orleans evening blowing across his skin. He never felt more alive than when he was on his bike, unless it was when he played at the clubs. But something about riding with Layla, the trust she put in him to deliver her safely, her small body close behind him, felt just right.
Maybe it was that hyperresponsibility shit again, part of what drove him to be a Dom, the kind of Dom who lived by the Safe, Sane and Consensual credo, as well as Risk Aware Consensual Kink. But no—it was damn well more than that, although he couldn’t begin to understand it. But what did it matter? The girl was on the back of his bike, riding through the night. He had half a hard-on and he was about to fill his belly. Life was fucking good, all right.
He turned onto Magazine Street and parked in front of the restaurant. He held the bike up as she got off; then he kicked the stand down and swung his leg over. Layla was fumbling with her helmet and he reached out to help her unbuckle it, letting his fingers brush her smooth cheek as he slipped the helmet from her head, releasing her glossy black curls. She blinked up at him, her gorgeous, full lips parting; then she licked them—which made him bite back a groan. He was glad to have to take a moment to buckle both helmets to the bike—his throbber had gone from half-hard to full-bore in moments.
Get ahold of yourself, man.
He’d have liked to get ahold of himself, take his rigid dick in his hand and stroke until he came. Relieve some of the unbelievable sexual tension making his whole body vibrate. Damn, but this woman was something.
“Duff? Are we going in?”
“What? Yeah, sure. Of course we are.”
He slipped a hand to the small of her back, where the warmth of her skin came through her cotton tank top.
So, so not helping.
Opening the door to the restaurant, he gestured for her to go in before him. As he followed her in she swept her hair to one side, allowing him to check out the tattoo on the back of her neck, a long line of Tibetan script running from the base of her skull to somewhere between her shoulder blades. Beautiful against her caramel skin. He’d have loved to put his mouth there, to lick that line of ink, see if he could make her shiver . . .
He bit back a groan, and had to stay close behind Layla as the host led them through the place to seat them. Duff held Layla’s chair, and she looked up at him with a raised brow before settling into her seat.
“What? Is it such a surprise that I’d hold your chair for you?” He sat down across from her. “The majority of American men seem to have lost all taste for gallantry, seems to me. It’s a sad state of affairs.”
“It is. And they have. Thank you.”
He shrugged. “My parents brought me up right. I can say that much for ’em, at the very least.”
“I take that to mean you don’t have a good relationship with them?”
Shrugging, he folded his napkin into his lap. “Let’s just say we don’t see eye to eye.”
Layla rested her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, leaning toward him. “Oh, really? And why is that?”
“Nosy lass.”
She smiled. “Yes, I am. Are you going to tell me?”
“It’s a sad bit of history—I don’t know if you want to hear it.”
She looked puzzled for a second, her brows drawing together. How had he never noticed how heavy her dark lashes were, framing the big almond-shaped eyes?
“I do want to hear it,” she told him.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Why wouldn’t I? This isn’t a mercy date, you know.”
He let out a chuckle. “You’re so used to your subbie boys, aren’t you?”
She shrugged. “Subbie girls. For the last year, anyway.”
“Perhaps sometime you’ll tell me why it’s only been ‘subbie girls.’”
“Perhaps. Don’t try to change the subject. You said you’d tell me more about your family.”
“Did I? I suppose I did, in a roundabout way.”
The waitress came to deliver two glasses of water and hand them menus. Duff thanked her.
“You mentioned you had a brother?” Layla asked when the waitress had gone.
“Yeah, Leith. He’s a young one—only twenty-nine.”
“That’s not so young—he’s only two years younger than I am. How old are you, Duff?” she asked.
“Ah, I’m an old man of thirty-three.” He paused. “And yeah, I suppose he’s not that much younger—it’s just that I’ve always felt so protective of him. Responsible for him. Perhaps more than I should, at times.”
Layla sipped her water. “I’ve never had that problem.”
“No? Why is that?”
“I’m the youngest. The baby, I suppose, and certainly treated that way. And my older brother, Charles, is a preacher, like my dad. I’m kind of the black sheep. No one . . .” She looked down at her fingers on the glass, those long lashes resting against her cheeks for a moment before she glanced up once more. “I guess no one expects anything of me. I mean they do—or they did—but I’ve sort of let them down.” She paused again, letting out a sharp laugh as she ran a hand through her hair. “God, I don’t know where all that came from. Tell me more about your family and Scotland and how you ended up here.”
He mentally tucked away the bit of information she’d shared for later, then picked up a menu. “Shall we order first? What do you like?”
“I like everything. What are you in the mood for?”
He waggled an eyebrow. “Dangerous question.” He’d been teasing, but his dick wanted him to mean it. Hell, he did mean it. The woman was dangerous. To him. Maybe to herself.
She shook her head, laughing as she went back to perusing the menu, and after a minute or two the waitress came back to take their order.