Page 101 of Beautiful Thing

“Christ—you have to come for me, Layla.” His dark irises flash wildly as we both struggle to maintain eye contact. “You need to come right now. I won’t be able to hold on much longer.”

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

He reaches between us. The pad of his thumb strikes my clit like a match.

And explosions go off inside my body.

I cry out his name, my fingernails digging into his shoulders as I fall apart yet again. As the shudders of my orgasm pulse through me, Archer urgently removes his steely manhood from the grip of my pussy. With an animalistic growl, his release washes over my skin, painting my torso with warm, thick ropes of come.

When he’s finally done emptying all over me, Archer falls forward, his forearms braced on the table and his mouth hovering over mine. Our lips are only inches apart. I lean up and close the distance in a breathless kiss.

“My god, Layla,” he mutters, fighting for air.

I lie there beneath him, depleted, exposed, blissfully happy as I kiss him again and again.

My mind eases into a satiated state I’m not used to. My knuckles tenderly stroke his cheek as we make out. “Fuck it—I like everything about you, Archer Brighton.”I love you.

Startled by the thought, I jerk backward.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his finger chasing a bead of sweat down my temple.

All I can do is nod because my brain is too overwhelmed for words right now.

I love him.

I’m in love with him.

It’s too late to do one damn thing about it.

Archer is backing away from me, one unsure footstep at a time. “Give me a minute.”

Too worn-out to move, I crane my neck to watch his muscular ass as he turns and disappears into the bathroom.

I hear water running in the sink and I do my best to take deep breaths instead of letting my anxiety take over. A moment later, he’s back with a warm rag, wordlessly sponging his release off my belly and toweling me clean between the legs. Then he snatches his discarded shirt off the floor, draping it around my shoulders.

The worried expression lingers on Archer’s face as he silently scoops me off the table and carries me over to the couch, jigsaw pieces stuck to my ass. He wedges his body behind mine, pulling a quilt over us and a wobbly sort of relief settles over me. At least he’s not running, right?

I lie there, lips sealed, shocked still by everything that just transpired. Archer tucks his chin into the curve of my neck, staring into the fireplace. I can feel the frantic energy of his buzzing thoughts as they race through his brain.

“I’ve never felt anything like that in my entire fucking life,” he mutters into the air, and I hear the slight note of worry in his voice.

A sick feeling of panic rises within me. “Neither have I.”

That’s concerning. Because didn’t we just agree that this would be a one-time thing? So why does this connection feel like something I’ll need every day for the rest of my life?

What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?

40

LAYLA

“Mmm. Something smells good,” I hear Archer’s raspy voice before he appears in the entryway to the kitchen.

I turn around grinning, with a spatula in my hand. “I hope you’re hungry. I think I cooked too much bacon.”

“I was talking aboutyou,” his voice rumbles, making me shiver. “But breakfast smells good, too.”

He strolls over to the stove where I’m nearly finished cooking the bacon and scrambled eggs. I turn my attention back to the skillet. He comes up behind me, pressing his lips to my shoulder, where his shirt that I’m still wearing has slipped down to expose a little skin. His face is cold from outside where he just finished chopping wood for the day and his beard tickles me.

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