Page 48 of Layla

I keep my attention stubbornly on the coffee maker. Then he reaches out and touches my wrist, just the slightest bit of pressure, and something in me seems to unravel. I turn to face him and when my gaze meets his, it’s like everything that happened from the night before comes rushing back in. His hands on my neck when he helped me with my hair. The realization that he took the time to notice my favorite book. Almost kissing on the couch. All of our whispered words in the dark. Holding his hand. Every single tension filled moment comes crashing over me, like it had all been a build up to this, to this point in time standing there in the kitchen, half dressed, John barely touching me.

I’m in his arms before I can even process what’s happening. His lips crash into mine, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other goes to my waist, pulling me tight against him and then tighter still. I can’t breathe, he’s kissing me so hard. My knees have turned to jelly and I can barely stand but it doesn’t matter because John is strong and he’s holding me up, holding me like he can’t stand the barest millimeter of space between us. All I can do is clutch his arms and kiss him back, moaning loudly when his tongue darts out to run along my lips.

The sound does something to John because he’s groaning, somehow pulling me even closer and my mind fixes on how near we are to the bed and how much nicer this would be if we were laying down.

But then he’s pulling back, breathing hard, his hands clutching my shoulders to hold me steady while he simultaneously pushes me away. I feel dizzy, drugged. I can’t remember the last time I was kissed like that—hell, I don’t think I’veeverbeen kissed like that. It takes a second for reality to break the haze of lust and giddiness I’m feeling. But then I finally take in the expression on John’s face and everything stops.

He lookshorrified. Absolutely and completely horrified. Like he can’t believe he could have made such a monumental mistake.

“Shit,” he says, releasing me like I’m something dangerous, something painful and hot that’s burning his skin. “I shouldn’t have—shit, I’m sorry.”

“Why?” I ask, too bewildered to feel the mortification but suspecting that it will come soon.

John runs a hand through his hair, cursing again. “I should not have done that,” he mutters under his breath, and I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or himself.

Before I can ask any more questions, before I can demand that he tell me what in the hell is wrong with him, he’s grabbing up his discarded dress shirt and heading for the door.

“John, what the hell?”

He doesn’t turn back. “I’m sorry I did that, Layla.”

“But I—”

He talks over me. “We need to forget that this ever happened.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me to stand alone in my room, shocked and embarrassed and so damn hurt I can hardly breathe.