by Eden Butler
“I haven’t touched her, not for months and…” It only took one sharp glance in his direction to shut Donovan up.
Normally, Layla would have loved seeing the smug bastard reduced to a shame-faced idiot, but she didn’t love it then. She didn’t love anything about that night. Layla got no satisfaction out of her prank landing hard and lasting on Donovan’s skin. She felt stupid for reducing herself to the stupid games she and Donovan had been playing for years. Just because she hated how he made her feel. She hated herself for letting him touch her. She hated herself more for thinking about him, wondering when she’d taste him again.
“I’m sorry, Sayo. You’re right. You’re absolutely right,” Donovan said, all the fire and anger extinguished from him completely. “I’m sorry you had to see this.”
Layla hated him, hated herself for not apologizing first. To Sayo. To her friends. Never, ever to Donovan. Nope.
“Sayo—” Layla tried, but silenced herself when Mollie and Autumn pulled Sayo away from them, when Declan nodded for Quinn to follow him out of the door.
She watched her friends leave her behind, her gaze trained onto each step they took, on the glint of moonlight shining off of Sayo’s messy hair.
“This is the last time you do this shit, so help me God.”
Layla closed her eyes, pulled her arms around her waist, holding herself tight so she wouldn’t be tempted to slap Donovan. It was pointless and Sayo was right, it had been very juvenile, but damn if Layla couldn’t help herself.
Logically she knew this was her fault. She had broken the truce, had given in to that small voice that reminded her that she and Donovan hated each other, that they would never be together again. But logic, reason, got twisted with anger, with shame as Donovan stood behind her, as she smelled his clammy skin that reminded her of the pitch.
She didn’t bother glaring at him or remarking on his subtle threat. Layla stepped back, grabbed her purse from the table and didn’t offer even the smallest glance at Donovan as she left the café.
Predictably, he wouldn’t let her get away that easily. But Layla figured if she manage to make it to her car, to hold her tongue long enough, then maybe the fire would leave Donovan completely. He had to know she wasn’t in the mood to argue with him.
“That’s it? You don’t have anything to say?”
He was walking backward, following her through campus, to the courtyard parking spot she’d left her mom’s two year old Mercedes GL Class in. She was almost there, had her keys out, threaded between her fingers and the remote depressed to unlock the door when Donovan stepped in front of her, stilling her with his hands on her shoulder.
“You did this. Again. You did this and now you’re quiet? Why? You feeling like shit?”
Layla closed her eyes, took a long breath in and out, tried to keep that frustrated, lost look on Sayo’s face present in her mind. But Donovan made it damn hard.
“Get out of my way.” She sidestepped but he seemed intent on getting in her face, forcing some stupid reaction from her that she knew would kill the calm Sayo’s shaming had given her.
“Just tell me why. That’s all I want to know. Why’d you start this shit up again?” When Layla ignored him, moved to her driver’s side door, Donovan stepped back, acted as though he’d let her leave without reviving the war they’d been battling since they were kids.
Yeah. Like that was going to happen.
“Run off like a good little girl. Go home and lick your wounds and in the morning go kiss your friends’ ass. I hope it works. God knows they’re the only people that can tolerate your self-absorbed, bratty ass.”
Layla let him take two steps. She let him get just feet away from her car before the dam broke and that shame, the thick guilt Sayo had leveled at her, evaporated with the snap of her temper.
The pain of her key biting into her palm as she squeezed it, didn’t register. Layla didn’t care that there were people along the sidewalk, joggers and couples who slowed when Donovan’s loud voice interrupted the quiet.
She really didn’t care that she knew how much Donovan hated what was about to leave her mouth. She didn’t care that he’d knocked Landon Rogers out cold in ninth grade when he spouted the same thing to Donovan that she was going to say now.
Layla just didn’t care and when she spoke, she made sure her voice carried, that the nosy loiterers around them could hear perfectly well what she told Donovan.
“Fuck. You.”
Donovan slowed mid-step and Layla didn’t care that he turned, that the ugly snarl returned to his lips, that the bright flush that crept up his neck had nothing to do with the stain on his skin.
“What did you say to me?”
“Are you deaf and stupid? You heard me. Fuck…” But she didn’t get to finish the insult. Donovan charged toward her and Layla lifted her fist, like she thought one punch from her thin arm would do any damage at all. The threatening stance didn’t even slow him and before she could scream, before she could push him away from her, Donovan stood in front of her, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her around to the other side of the car, then yanked open the door and shuffled her into the passenger seat.
“Get the hell out of my car, you stupid piece of—”
He jerked her keys out of her hand and Layla noticed how his fingers shook, how loudly he slammed the car door, how quickly he moved back around the car and how heavily he fell into the driver’s seat. He continued to struggle to push the key into the ignition.
“It’s a good idea if you’d stop talking. Right. Now.”
He was in her car, barking orders? No. Not happening.
Layla reached over the console, tried gripping the key, but Donovan caught her hand, squeezed her wrist until she felt a pinch. She wouldn’t wince, wouldn’t retreat from the dangerous growl working from Donovan’s throat.
“Let me go.”
She hated him. She always had. That warm buzz of hatred had comforted her for years, had listed Donovan as the enemy, the foul cretin who could never be trusted. And she could see it in his eyes, the same burning anger that always came into hers when she thought about him. He probably hated her more.
They would never be more than this. They’d never breech the weak strands of peace, never mind friendship. She knew that, or at least, told herself that notion was gospel, a truth she’d hold onto, cradle just as tightly as the hatred she felt for him.
But Donovan kept hold of her wrist. The grip loosened, but he didn’t let go and that brimming anger she saw in his eyes, the one Layla swore would never leave hers when she thought about him, slowly fractured behind each blink Donovan took.
“I said…” Layla cleared her throat, not understanding why that streak of anger was dimming. “Let… let me go.”
Donovan shut his eyes. It was a brief gesture, small and seemingly insignificant, but enough that she noticed, that she let her defenses fall, sure that this battle was over.
Eyes opened again, Donovan dropped her hand, resting his fingers on the door handle. Then he scratched his chin, the noise of his nails on stubble only grating Layla’s nerves further.
“You need to get out.”
He kept his eyes downcast, moving his hand onto the steering wheel, twisting his fingers against the plastic.
“This is my car, Donley.”
This time when Donovan shut his eyes, the lids creased, tightened and squeezed as though he was trying to blot out the need to lash out.
“Donovan…”
“Layla!” he shouted, twisting toward her, his grip back on her arm, moving up her to neck. “Shut the fuck up.”
And Layla didn’t have more than a second to get angry. They came together like a flash, that nagging voice in her head, the one that told her how disgusting Donovan was, silenced by something darker, something baser that Layla had only heard whispered before now.
She couldn’t take the way he touched her, how tightly he weaved his fingers into her hair, how quickly the thin air in her car cooled, t
hen heated as they groped and grabbed and went at each other like their skin was on fire, like only their tongues and mouths could cool that blaze.
There was a rip of fabric, the release of a zipper and Layla found herself touching Donovan, that hot, heavy weight that she stroked inside of his jeans teasing her with each throb it made against her palm. She didn’t know why she was letting him pull down her bra or pinch her nipple until she yelped, until she demanded he do it again.
She didn’t remember when he started the car.
Or when they left campus.
Definitely not how they came to Donovan’s front door, kissing, sucking, kicking it shut behind them.
Layla couldn’t say for sure why she found herself naked on Donovan’s mattress, with him pulling her to the edge of the bed, settled on his knees. She came to herself, to awareness when the shock of his tongue slipped up her center, when he spread her open and touched her deep, fingers, at least two, moving inside her like they belonged there. Like she needed them more than breath.
“Fuck, you’re so tight. So fucking tight and wet.”
His hair felt thick, coarse between her fingers when she yanked it. “Do you have to talk? Please. I’m trying to imagine Chris Hemsworth. Hush.”
For once, Donovan listened but Layla couldn’t have marveled at that small victory, not when he pulled her closer to his mouth. Not when his fingers and tongue worked hard to make her come, to bring her closer and closer to the brink.
Then, just as her breathing accelerated and the grip on his hair tightened and Layla was so damn close, Donovan abruptly pulled away from her, robbing her of that sweet release.
“Mother fu—”
A hand over her mouth kept her from finishing the curse. “Don’t even think about it, brat.” She tried biting his hand, but he was quick, pulling her to her knees to face her on the center of the bed. “Hemsworth got tired. Besides, that one wouldn’t have been good.” He gripped her, pulled her by the back of her thighs until their bodies touched, sending a quick ache straight to her clit. “This one… this one will make you fucking hoarse.”
It only took him a second. His movements like lightening, grabbing a condom, laying her flat on her back and then, he slid in, stilling only once as he looked down at her, reaching to touch her clit, to rub his thumb against it like he needed to be gentle, careful or Layla would break.
She wasn’t fucking glass and she didn’t want him being careful.
She wanted him hard and heavy and sweating on her. She didn’t want to see that astounded, fascinated look on his face. It made her stomach twist, made her think he was surprised to find himself inside her.
“Donovan…”
He exhaled, swallowed as though her voice had shaken him from his daze. And when he pushed in deeper, to the hilt, filling her, spreading her with how thick and long he was, Donovan shook his head, traced his lips over hers with too much reverence, too much care.
“I knew you’d feel good.” He thrust once, arms shaking as he leaned over her. “I knew you’d fit me right.”
Mouth open, Layla stilled, staring at him when the realization came to her. She could slap him, she knew that. In fact, by the shift of his expression, the way his mouth dropped open, Layla guessed Donovan expected her to be angry, annoyed at least at the slip of information. But he felt so, so good inside her—the steady throb of his dick, the feel of his massive body over hers, had Layla euphoric, pushing back any inclination to lash out. Still, she wouldn’t keep the malice out of her words. “You really are a shit, you know that, right?”
“Layla…”
“I knew…” the snap of her words quieted behind her teeth when Donovan’s thrusts sped, when he shifted his hips so that he touched her hard, stealing any insult she wanted to throw at him. “I freakin knew nothing happened that first night.”
She tried not to moan or enjoy the heavy weight of his tongue pushing her lips open, but he tasted so male and delicious that her efforts came off as weak and pathetic.
“It wasn’t like nothing happened,” he said between quick licks up her neck. Donovan’s voice was low, deep and the scrape of his teeth against her ear only eradicated any hesitance she thought she should muster to deny him. Donovan sucked her ear between his teeth, humming at her taste, hips slowing to keep a steady, drugging rhythm that had Layla shaking. “You made me come so hard. You made me want you so bad that night and all you did was let me have a taste of that sweet pussy. I stopped everything when we got too close and you laid on that bed and let me make you come. You looked so fucking sexy.” He lifted on his palms and stared down at her, to pull her legs around his waist. “I couldn’t follow through, not then. Not when I knew you wouldn’t remember it. And, shit, Layla, I wanted you to remember every inch of me.”
She knew she should leave, pack up her expected indignation in the name of some barely familiar hint of female pride. But Donovan glanced at her, wanting her to stay, looking like he needed her to stay. Fingers up his face, nails sliding into his hair, Layla pulled him close, stopping short of touching his mouth, her small irritation at his non-disclosure overwhelmed by the smell of his skin and the warmth of his hands holding her against him, the feel of him moving deep inside her. God, how she hated herself for wanting him. The guilt was there already, but it was small scratch in the back of her mind, overwhelmed and dismissed by the feel of Donovan’s fingers pressing into her hips, by the slide of his hard, gloriously long dick pulsing inside of her. She hadn’t remembered that first night, not really, and though she couldn’t understand why she wanted it at all, she did want it, she wanted every detail of this night to stick in her memory.
“Then make me remember.”
Despite the small release of his surprised breath and the quick shake in his arms Donovan redoubled his efforts, moving quicker then, harder. She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut as Donovan moved inside her, as his hips worked faster and faster.
Layla wrapped her arms around his neck and brought his head down to kiss him, to open her mouth to him and suck on his tongue as his dick continued to pulse inside of her. She didn’t take her mouth from his, or pull her fingers out of his hair as Donovan gripped her legs, eager and hungry and so damn desperate it was almost funny. “Put your leg on my shoulder.”
And she did, not caring that he was bossing her, that Donovan the Demon was making her wetter than she’d ever been in her life. “There,” she said through a gasp when his thrust into her raised body hit the perfect spot deep inside her. “Right there. Harder and faster. Do it, Thor.”
Donovan didn’t argue, didn’t complain that now she was leading him, pretending his was an Avenger, he didn’t seem to care and their dance went on for minutes, until their skin was sweat slicked and hot, until that sweet coil raged like an inferno inside her and her muscles contracted, nails scratching down his arms as she came all over him.
“Fuck, Layla. Fuck.”
And Donovan followed, moving faster, gripping her hips so tight Layla was sure he’d leave marks, but she didn’t care about him bruising her. She didn’t care about much of anything but the way that faint line between his eyebrows deepened, how he muttered to himself, saying things that sounded vaguely like “yes” and “God oh God” and then groaned, his body stilling then shaking as he spilled into her, shudders racking his body.
Finally, when Donovan was spent, and he landed beside her on the mattress, Layla felt the distance slip between them, instant and sudden, but not unexpected. She could still feel the sting of his fingers on her hips, and the juices from their releases trickling between her aching thighs. She could still taste the hint of coffee on his tongue and the heat from his body as he tried to return his breathing to normal.
But the distance surged between them. The shame. The disappointment, it all felt worse than Sayo’s guilt. That small scratch of guilt was now a pulsing sore, open and throbbing. It felt heavy; a thick wall of hesitance, of reluctance that Layla wrapped around herself like a blanket.
Donovan lifted his arm, pulling it across his forehead, staring up at the ceiling, but he didn’t speak. Layla sensed how tense his legs had grown, how his breathing had slowed. The silence lengthened in Donovan’s room with the smell of sex, the reminder of how they’d relinquished their inhibitions, perfuming the air; how that abandonment of reason now left them both silent and awkward.
He didn’t touch her or ask if she needed anything. Layla took the hint and gathered her clothes dressing in the silent darkness, uncaring if Donovan watched.
When she opened the door to his bedroom, Layla hesitated, wondering if he’d stop her, thinking he didn’t care that she was leaving him without much more than a glance behind her. And when she gave him that look, still silent, not expecting anything from him, their eyes met and in that long, silent gaze. Layla pretended she didn’t see the regret surfacing behind the whites of his eyes. She pretended that there wasn’t the same look staring back at him.
Classes were monotonous. They generally were on the Cavanagh campus when the air turned colder, when the snow high in the mountains flirted down on the town. The holidays were approaching and motivation, concentration was fleeting, out of reach for most of the students.
For Layla, that restless anticipation was only exaggerated by the realization that lies weren’t working for her anymore. She had hated Donovan for years, decades. He’d always been the ridiculous asshole who made it his goal in life to keep her miserable. Now, however, it wasn’t name calling or rumor starting that Donovan kept in his arsenal of torture. Now it was his touch. His body. His mouth, that shook her, quite literally, to her core.
She hated Donovan. Hated him for what he’d done to her for years. She hated him more for the distracting memories he forced upon her. She hated the recall of sensation he alone had worked in her. All day, most of the following afternoon, Layla retraced every touch she and Donovan had made against each other. Her mind filled with his smell, with the heat of his breath against her skin and the long, hard throb of him stretching inside her. She couldn’t shake the memory, how their customary arguing had led to them being alone, being naked—and then almost instantly being ashamed.