Page 32 of Carry on Wayward Son

Her eyes flew open.

“Come on, Layla. One more time.”

She whimpered, but her body obeyed. Her heels dug into my ass, her fingers twisting in the sheets, and when I thrust into her again, she shattered.

This time, she took me with her.

Pleasure hit me like a sledgehammer, white-hot and relentless, my release tearing through me as her name tore from my throat. I buried myself deep and stayed there, my forehead pressing into the mattress beside her head as I rode out the last waves of it, my body trembling with the force of it.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was our ragged breathing and the distant, muffled thump of Koa’s tail against the floor.

Sixteen

LAYLA

Well.

Holy shit.

I stared at the ceiling of the rental cottage bedroom and took stock of the situation. I just had sex with Jace Hollingsworth. Really, genuinely, spectacularly good sex. It left me wrung out in the best possible way, like every muscle in my body had finally remembered what it was for. I did not have sex toy for gorgeous sailor on my list of life goals, but in the moment, I was finding it hard to come up with anything that would feel better. My God the man knew how to use that body in every way that mattered.

Was this wise? Probably not. The list of reasons it was a terrible idea was long, and I’d be able to recite every item once my brain came back online. But between the sparring and the orgasms, the wound-up knot of everything I’d been carrying since I’d set foot back on Hatterwick had loosened. Everything that had detonated when I’d watched Bruce walk out felt distant. Right now, I was warm and safe, with Jace curled around me from behind, his chest against my back and his arm wrapped around my waist. And that was comforting in a way I wasn’t used to.

His fingers were moving, tracing the botanical lines that wound their way up my arm with the slow, deliberate attention of someone who appreciated both the artistry and the narrative woven into the ink, even if he didn’t know the stories they told. He followed a delicate vine up from my wrist, his touch feather-light as he discovered a flower blooming at the crook of my elbow, then continued his exploration upward along the curve of my biceps. I let him explore, didn’t pull away or redirect his attention. It was good to be touched like this—not with the urgent heat that had consumed us earlier, but with a quiet, almost reverent curiosity that seemed like a different kind of intimacy than what we’d just shared. Something gentler. Something that made my chest tighten.

“Your tattoo artist deserves an award,” he murmured against my shoulder, his breath warm on my skin. “This ink is exquisite. The detail work is incredible.”

I smiled to myself, a small, genuine smile he couldn’t see from his position behind me. “She’d be pleased to hear it. I’ll pass along the compliment next time I see her.”

His touch shifted directions, following the path of another vine as it curved back down toward my wrist. Those clever, gentle fingers brushed over the hummingbird hovering there. “This one looks like it’s ready to fly right up off your skin.”

The little bird, rendered in exquisite jewel tones, was one of my favorites. “Hummingbirds always remind me of joy.”

“I always think of them as little Napoleons. They’ve got the confidence of a hawk in a body that weighs like… a nickel.”

I chuckled. “You’re not wrong. My parents have feeders all along the front porch at home, and I love sitting out there and just watching their little airshow.”

Jace’s fingers reached the edge of the ink and moved past it, sliding down to the skin below where the tattoo coverage grew thinner, more delicate. Where the scars began—the ones the flowers and vines drew the eye away from with their vibrant colors and intricate patterns.

He traced one of the scars. Slow, gentle, with the same careful attention he’d been giving everything else, as though it was just another line in the overall design.

I willed myself not to tense, not to pull away or make it into something it didn’t need to be. My body did it anyway—a full-back tightening, muscles going rigid all at once, a reaction I couldn’t stop fast enough to hide from him.

He didn’t pull his hand away. Didn’t comment on the change in my body language or the way I’d gone still beneath his touch. He just kept stroking, slow and even, maintaining the same soothing rhythm. “You don’t have to talk about it.” His voice carried no pressure, no expectation. Just offering me an out if I wanted it.

I made myself exhale. Made myself release the tension muscle by muscle, forcing my body to relax back against the solid warmth of his chest, where I’d been before the instinctive reaction had taken over. “Car accident.” I kept my voice as casual as I could manage. “A long time ago.”

Not the truth. Not even close to it. But I’d been telling people that same carefully crafted lie for so many years now that sometimes—not always, but sometimes—when I said them, they almost felt true. Like something that had actually happened instead of the constructed cover story they actually were.

His hand continued its slow, soothing movement over my wrist, fingers tracing the raised edges of old scars with the same gentleness he’d shown the tattoos. I lay there and let it happen, let him touch the damaged parts of me without flinching away, and after a long moment I shifted enough to look back at him over my shoulder. The question that occurred to me seemed fair, all things considered.

Turnabout was fair play.

I reached out and traced my own fingers over the scar that ran along his ribs, following the pale line of it against his tanned skin. It was old, years healed, but it had been significant once—deep enough to leave a permanent mark, the kind of injury that spoke to serious trauma.

“And this one?” I asked, keeping my tone light, matching his energy from a moment ago.

“Terrorist.” He said it in the same easy, matter-of-fact tone he seemed to use for most things in his life. As though it was the most natural explanation in the world.