Something in his voice makes me feel shy as he takes my hand and leads me down the hallway to the master bedroom. He takes my bag, drops it to the floor beside the door, and pulls me inside.
My first thought upon walking into this room is that it so absolutely screams sex that I’m almost literally thrown off balance. It’s not sleazy—not like a porn set or anything like that—but unlike the demure polish of the rest of the apartment, this is clearly the room of a bachelor who is looking to get laid, and as frequently as possible. The entire room is bright white, right down to the walls, the painted wood floors, the soft cotton curtains fluttering over the large window, and the modern-style canopy bed dressed with white linens and a twisting drape of translucent muslin hung lazily around the frame.
On the opposite wall, facing the window, there is a huge painting—the only color in the room—done in a Jackson Pollock-esque style using rainbow splatters of paint. It appears to be a close up of a woman’s erect nipple and a man’s mouth, teeth bared, about to close down on it. My own breasts tingle at the sight, instantly bringing to mind the attention Nico paid to them just last night. I glance back at him, and he is watching my reaction with a knowing smirk on his face, gently rubbing his fingers over my knuckles.
“Jesus,” I breathe. “You really can’t be in this room and not think about sex, can you?”
Nico tips his head back and laughs.
“No doubt, baby, no doubt,” he agrees. “I call it K.C.’s fuck pad. It really is, isn’t it?”
“He, um, must get around. How do you sleep in here alone?”
The bed is perfectly made, like it’s waiting for someone to throw back the covers. As I think about how many women have been lured to this exact spot I’m standing in, made to feel the exact things I’m feeling…a shudder of revulsion slides down my spine. The room is so obvious—too obvious, really. It is a fuck pad, but I can’t understand how any woman could enter the place and not know she was one of a long succession of other conquests that preceded her.
My arms wrap around my middle as I shrink into myself. I don’t want him to think I’m intimidated by this place, but I can’t help it. He says he housesits the place when K.C. is gone, which seems to be a lot. But Nico’s young, gorgeous, and has the charm of an R&B song. How many other girls has he brought back here?
Suddenly, I feel a little dirty. And not in the way I want to feel around Nico.
“I…Nico, don’t take this the wrong way, but…” I trail off, struggling to vocalize my thoughts. “Has anyone slept in the fu––this room recently…with you?”
He blinks at me for a moment, and then bursts into a peal of laughter that bounces around the airy high ceilings and light furnishings. “Oh God, Layla,” he gasps. “You are awesome.”
“That doesn’t really answer my question,” I point out, squeezing my stomach. Does that mean he has? The thought makes my stomach twist into knots, even though I know I have no right to be jealous.
“Ah,” he gasps through a few more chuckles. “Sorry. That was just funny. No, baby, the answer is no. I haven’t brought anyone but you back to the fuck pad. That would be K.C.’s M.O., not mine.”
Privately I wonder why not. Nico’s got the looks and the charisma to take home just about any girl he wants. Hell, half my office would come running if he crooked his fingers. They already do the second the elevator doors open.
But Nico’s expression is kind as he strokes my shoulder lightly. Hope springs warm in my belly—maybe he really is the good guy I want so badly for him to be. One thing is for sure. I don’t want to be another conquest of this room, no matter who’s the conqueror.
“Do you think we could sleep on the futon?” I ask. “Or maybe the couch?”
Nico sobers, considering the room again before reaching down to grab my bag.
“Abso-fuckin’-lutely,” he declares, and we march back down the hallway to the recording studio and its conveniently soundproofed walls.
Chapter Seventeen
Nico
I knew it was going to be a gamble taking her into that room. K.C. is an animal, and for all his goofy looks, the guy gets more play than anyone I know. Helps when you have extra cash and a place like this to take the girls.
But I’m actually thrilled that Layla wasn’t feeling it. That the tension running through her body wasn’t the good kind. She’s been nervous around me before, but not in the way that makes her shrivel up like a raisin. She looked worried. She looked scared.
Now I’m even starting to wonder if I should have just taken her to my place. The more time I spend with this girl, the more I want her to see all sides of me. Maybe she wouldn’t care that I live in a crappy railroad apartment in Harlem. Maybe she would actually be all right with just plain Nico.
The longer we’re away from K.C.’s porn-set bedroom, the more relaxed Layla becomes. We go back to the kitchen and eat dinner, sitting across from each other on the counters and grinning over the takeout boxes she suggests we use instead of K.C.’s fancy dishes. Then she sets up her books at the dining table and studies while I park myself on the sofa and watch TV. It’s weird. We’re not doing anything but just being together, but it’s nice. I feel calmer, lighter just knowing she’s there, doing her thing in the next room. I feel happy just being around her.
It’s fully dark outside when I wake up about two hours later with the TV still blaring with some sports trivia. I’m laid out on K.C.’s massive sofa, and Layla is bent over me, looking cute and uncertain as she taps my shoulder.
I blink lazily, then my eyes widen as I become aware of the situation going on underneath my jeans. Morning wood is a real thing, but I’m telling you, it doesn’t just happen in the morning. Especially not around a girl like this.
Layla doesn’t seem to notice as she sits next to me on the couch. Naturally, I slide my arm around her waist and nuzzle my head in her lap. Her hands thread into my hair, and we both sigh, content. Her coconut scent surrounds me, and it doesn’t take me long to move from content to something else. She seems to feel the same, as I feel her fingers drift down my neck and start playing with the collar of my shirt.
I turn in her lap to look up at her.
“Hey beautiful.” My voice is still scratchy from sleep. Her hand falls on my chest, and I take it, eager for her touch. “You all done?”
She nods, her eyes wide, like she’s mute. I smile. She shivers.
Ah. So it’s like that, huh?
“Come here.”
I pull her down until she collapses along the length of the couch, spooned comfortably toward the television with her back fitted to my front.
I grab the remote control from the coffee table and flip around, trying to find something that’s not a total mood killer. Eventually, I land on a channel that’s broadcasting a live concert by Sade. Fuck, yes. I could not have asked for anything better. The velvety texture of her voice fills the room, and I’m humming along with her as I skim my hand up and down the length of Layla’s thigh. She wiggles her heart-shaped ass in reaction and hums lightly. It’s torture, but I love it just the same.
“Mmmm.”
She makes that sound when she likes what I’m doing. She did it a lot last night too. So, I keep doing the same thing, running my hand up and down her curves, light and flirtatious, just enough to drive her as crazy as she’s driving me.
Then she turns in my arms and burrows further into my warm chest as she slips her hand under my shirt. The effect is instantaneous—I’m hard as a rock in seconds. But I don’t hurry anything. It feels really good just to touch her like this, to have her touch me too.
“This okay, baby?” I ask, pulling up the edge of her shirt so I can mirror her actions and brush the delicate skin over her ribs. Her skin is butter-soft.
“Mmmm, yes. Yes, it’s...ah...just fine.”
I lean into her neck, feather a few kisses down the side, where whatever scent she wears is the strongest. She arches against me, rubbing her hips against the serious hardshi
p in my pants. This is a dangerous game we’re playing, one I’m not sure I’ll win. But I don’t kiss her—not yet. I know the second I do that, it’s over. There will be no more gentle flirtation, no more teasing. Just pure, all-consuming lust.
Slowly, I graze my fingers over her oblique muscles, testing to see just how far she’s going to let me go. Layla works out. Not crazily like some of the girls I see at the gym, but just enough that her body is taut and soft at the same time. My fingertips tease farther and farther up her shirt while I nip at her ear. Then I finally brush my knuckles under the curves of her breasts and caress the incredibly soft skin between them. She squirms, her breath hot against my ear. So I do it again and again, trailing my hand back down her ribs and stomach and then up again.
I want to leave no part of her untouched. I want her to feel it tingle from head to toe, long after I’m gone.
I continue worshipping her like that for what seems like hours, occasionally pressing kisses on her collarbone, her neck, her ear, her cheek. But aside from the fact that I could do this forever and be a happy man, I’m not going to make a move here beyond a little petting on the couch. I need her to give me the green light. I can give her at least that much.
Then, just as I skim back down again to play with her navel, Layla seizes up.
“Stop,” she breathes into my neck. “Stop!”
I pull my hand away, confused. She obviously likes what I’m doing. Her nipples are visibly hardened through her shirt, and her breath is harsh and staggered. If she doesn’t want to do more, I’ll be disappointed, but it will be okay. I just like touching her. Maybe she doesn’t realize that no matter what, it’s okay. I just want to be with her.
I open my mouth to say just that, but I can’t. So instead, I just ask, “What’s wrong, baby?”
Layla bites her lip and shakes her head. Okay, now I’m worried. Is it just me, or is she about to cry?
“N-nothing,” she says, even as she twists away from me and swings her feet to the floor.
I stand up with her and take her hands.
“Hey,” I say. “You okay?”
Her gaze is hungry as she stares at me, the bottom of her t-shirt caught up a little on her hip, the top button of her jeans already undone. The thought of what’s below it makes my cock stand to attention. Seriously, does she have any idea? Does she have any fucking clue what she does to me?
Layla
“T-take—take off your shirt,” I blurt out before my nerves get the best of me.
The concern on Nico’s face is adorable. He’s not sure if I like what’s happening, or maybe he’s not sure if I’m going to stop him again. Truth be told, I probably like it too much. If I’m being honest with myself, there is a chance that Quinn is right, and I’m right on the precipice of falling in love with this man, even after such a short time. It’s scary, and I doubt he feels the same way, but I can’t say no to him either.
My mother would toy with her big diamond solitaire and tell me to wait—even until marriage—to let a boy do the things I want Nico to do to me. Especially because I might be falling for him. Nobody respects easy women, Layla, she’d intone every time I’d want a skirt that was too short for her tastes or wear a little too much eyeliner. If she could have had it tattooed above my vagina, I think she would have.
But in this moment, it’s easy to push her warnings aside in the face of my visceral, all-consuming desire for this man. I can’t remember ever wanting something as badly as I do in this moment. Not the soccer state championship. Not visiting my dad’s country and meeting my family. Not my admittance to NYU. Nothing even comes close to how badly I want Nico. Right here. Right now.
And it must be all over my face, because the confusion disappears from his features, and a sly, panty-melting smile spreads across instead. Suddenly, I feel like prey, and he’s the predator that just sighted me. But instead of running, I want nothing more than to be hunted. Consumed.
“Your wish is my command.”
Nico sits up and yanks the t-shirt over his head, revealing that broad, muscular chest I spent the last night cuddled into. I take a moment to ogle him openly, studying the way his tattoos emphasize the taut lines of his deltoids and biceps, the way his skin stretches over his pecs and the ridges of his abs. In contrast to the thick black hair on his head and the five o’clock shadow he’s currently sporting, his chest is bare, impossibly smooth, almost glossy, like petrified wood. Seriously, no one has any right to look that good.
“Your turn, baby. Fair’s fair.”
I remove my t-shirt and toss it to the floor, then reach down and tug off my jeans too, even though he’s still in his. I’m vulnerable, standing before him like this in nothing but a black lace bra and matching panties, one of the few nice sets of lingerie I own. This isn’t my darkened bedroom at midnight or the dim light of the morning. The lights are on, and I’m on display. Will he like what he sees?
Nico’s eyes are hungry. I can feel the heat of them as they pass over the shape of my shoulders, breasts, stomach, legs, lingering for a moment at the lace-covered shadow between my thighs. I’m thankful I had everything groomed just a few days ago. He’s incredibly good-looking, but I’m no slouch, either. I need to remind myself that sometimes.
Without breaking his searing gaze, Nico unbuckles his belt and lets his jeans drop to the floor, where he kicks them away. Oh, and he looks good too, even though it was only this morning that I saw him just like this. The hard muscles of his thighs and V-shaped abs disappear under the tight silhouette of his boxer briefs, which don’t leave much to the imagination. I haven’t yet seen what’s under there, but it’s obvious he’s got more than enough to satisfy any woman. I bite my lip. He wants me. I don’t need to doubt that.
“Jesus, Layla,” Nico whispers, breaking my trance, though he still seems to be lost in one too.
He reaches out a tentative hand and strokes my arm, then catches my hand and pulls me against his solid body. I can feel him ready against my thigh, hard as steel. It only makes me want him more.
“You are so goddamn beautiful, it hurts,” he mutters against my lips.
Then he tilts my chin, just like he did last night, and kisses me—finally—for the first time all evening.
That’s it. I’m done for.
“Shut up,” I mumble and open my lips to welcome his tongue, so eager to twist and tangle deliciously with mine.
I moan when his hands slide down to knead rhythmically at my ass, something that quickly makes him fall short of breath. Hmmm. Six flights of stairs? Next to nothing. A couple handfuls of my backside, and Nico can’t exhale properly. It’s hard not to feel smug.
“You’re thinking too much,” he says as he bends a little and lifts me easily so I wind my legs around his waist.
Obediently, I wrap my arms around his neck and bring his mouth back to mine. Between that and the fact that he’s got a death grip on my ass, he barely manages to stumble down the hall to the recording studio, where the futon now lays open. Sometime while I was studying, he must have come back here to make the bed, since now it’s dressed with some very soft-looking sheets and a fluffy blue comforter.
With a groan of frustration as he breaks the kiss, Nico kneels down and sets me gently on the mattress. Then he crawls up the length of my body, covering me completely with his broad, solid warmth while I lie back. Balanced with his forearms on either side of my head, he shelters me as our eyes meet.
He plants a gentle kiss on my lips. “You don’t…I mean…” He chews on his lower lip as he figures out what to say. It’s a habit we share.
I do my best to wait patiently.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is, we can stop whenever you want.” He kisses me again, then chews for a moment on his lower lip. “I don’t want you to feel like just because I brought you all the way here, I’m expecting something.”
I have to quirk an eyebrow at that one. “Not even a little?”
A pair of dimples emerges in full force with a sh
eepish smile. If he wasn’t so tan, I’d probably be able to see him blushing. As it is, his expression is completely endearing.
“Well, I’m not going to say I don’t want anything more to happen,” he admits. “But want’s not the same thing as expect.”
“So if I told you to get this—” I gyrate against the long length currently nestled between my legs, blocked only by two thin pieces of fabric—“off of me, you’d be just fine with it?”
I roll my hips again, earning a long, low growl from the bottom of his significantly deep voice.
“I might be a little disappointed.” He leans down to nip lightly at the soft skin under my jaw. Then he pushes himself back up slightly to look at me, his features turning serious again. “Is that what you want, Layla? You just have to say the word. I don’t want you to feel like I’m trying to pressure you. You deserve…well, you deserve the best any guy can give you. A fuck lot better than me.”
We stare at each other, all remnants of the joking mood gone. My heart is beating so loud and fast, I wonder if he can feel it against his chest. It’s getting harder and harder to keep my feelings at bay here, getting harder to convince myself I’m just another girl to him, that he couldn’t possibly feel what I have been feeling. The way he’s looking at me, the way he’s tried so hard to respect me and impress me, the fact that he’s initiated this entire day’s worth of second and third date material...could it be possible that he feels the same kind of connection I do? Could he be...falling...too?
“Layla,” he whispers hoarsely. “Give a guy a break here.”
I blink, then take a deep breath as I trace a finger across the strong line of his cheekbone, down the square jaw that’s dusted with stubble. And then I kiss him, gently. He stays perfectly still as I nibble my way around the contours of his lips and beg entry with my tongue, slipping it in for a second to touch his. Just a touch, just a touch. When I lay my head back on the pillow, he’s a statue, his eyes closed, but mouth still half open.
Bad Idea- The Complete Collection Page 15