Page 52 of Seeking Vengeance

He teases his mouth over mine, his tongue grazing my lips. “Tell me.”

I whimper, too weak to withstand temptation. “I’m yours,” I whisper.

For now.

Until the moment he leaves for D.C.

15

Layla

After unending kissesupon the vanity counter that send my blood racing, Matthew swoops me into his arms and returns me to the sofa.

He ignores my panted breaths, and the lust I know glistens in my eyes with every docile blink, and places distance between us like a devout gentleman, making sure I hold a cooling pack to my cheek for hours.

We talk. Laugh. And even though I don’t want to, I fall, not just hard, but wholeheartedly, for a man I barely know.

He orders room service. We eat oysters and drink more champagne. He asks question after conversational question and listens to the answers with a level of interest most don’t pay me. And he isn’t intrusive.

He asks about my happiness.

He wants to know all the intricate details of my soul. From my favorite sounds, to the places in the world I love most, and every trivial piece of information in between.

He takes in the tidbits I share with unwavering focus, devouring the insight like I’m an anticipated book he’s finally able to read. Not merely listening, but learning. Studying. He seems to take note of the cadence in my voice, and holds my gaze longer when I attempt to guard myself, waiting for me to expose the truth.

And I do. For the most part.

Everything I tell him is real. It just isn’t deep.

I skate on the shallowest depths of my being, never truly letting him in even though I want to.

And although we don’t kiss or claw at each other’s clothes again, he has me in a constant state of thrumming tingles with his attention, his gaze raking over me with slow deliberation.

By late afternoon, I have a full belly and a body that has succumbed to adrenaline detox. Yawns come every other minute until Matthew demands I rest my head on a cushion he places on his lap.

We continue learning surface-level details about each other, neither of us asking the finer questions because we both know everything else is off-limits.

And our time together is still perfect.

I don’t need to know his surname and he isn’t getting mine. I don’t ask about the darkness from his past, but I learn of his love for Switzerland and his hatred of hot weather.

He finger-combs my hair, his touch perfectly gentle for such a strong man, as I lay cuddled around his waist.

He makes sure I still have access to money to get home. That I have ID stored in my cell to be able to board a flight. He treats me like a treasure as my heart becomes full and my eyes grow heavy.

Sleep is inevitable. The adrenaline and alcohol knock my feet out from beneath me, and all I want is a nap. I just expected him to still be here when I woke.

Instead, the only thing left behind is a note on the coffee table in a now empty suite.

Amore mio,

I couldn’t wake you for two reasons:

1. It seemed sacrilegious when you sleep like an angel.

2. I didn’t want to give you closure by saying goodbye.

This isn’t the end for us, even though I assume you’ve told yourself it would be. We will see each other again. I’ll make sure of it.

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