Page 11 of What She Deserves
He followed, his mouth stopping a hairsbreadth from hers, nostrils flaring. “I can’t.”
When his lips touched hers, her resistance melted away. She’d never stood a chance. That’s why distance between them was essential.
Rashad kept his hands on the brick behind her. The only parts of their bodies that touched were their lips. He coaxed her mouth into a deeper kiss with gentle pressure and the teasing tip of his tongue.
Her hands moved of their own volition, sliding over his hard chest, taking delight in molding the contours of his lean waist and hard abs.
Kissing him was heaven. Bliss. Her mouth softened, and she allowed his tongue entrance to explore the innermost areas of her mouth. Layla moaned, shivering not from the cold but from the desire rushing through her blood. She was burning up, achy, like someone in the middle of a hot flash. Her fingers clutched the Henley as she stepped closer to his heat, the tips of her breasts grazing his firm chest.
Rashad abruptly wrenched his mouth from hers and expelled a deep breath. Layla whimpered her disapproval and tightened her grip on his shirt, resting her forehead against his collarbone, right beneath his chin.
“Step back, Layla.” His voice shook.
With a deep swallow, she reluctantly stepped back into the wall.
Rashad’s eyes bored into hers. “I want to fuck you so bad—right here, in the middle of the fucking street, and I don’t care who sees.”
She trembled at the rawness of his words. His arms were still stretched out on either side of her shoulders, but beneath the shirt his muscles were corded with tension. In fact, his entire body was rigid, but his chest heaved up and down with the energy he exerted to keep control.
“You’re a good woman, Layla. Any man would be lucky to have you. That’s why I’m here. I want to be that man. Will you give me another chance?”
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. She didn’t want to answer while she wasn’t thinking straight.
Rashad pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she briefly closed her eyes, clenching her fists to keep from reaching for him again.
He stepped back and smiled at her. Not one of his cocky grins, but an achingly sweet smile that twisted her heart into knots.
“You need time to think. My number hasn’t changed. Call me in a week if you think we have a chance.”
As Rashad walked away, Layla felt an invisible line tugging her toward him, but she resisted and turned her back on him.
“No,” she whispered.
She rushed to her building on shaky knees and took the elevator to her loft. Inside, she flopped onto the bed and buried her face in the pillows. Hating him. Hating herself. Hating that between her thighs was wet and throbbing.
Will you give me another chance?
She knew what the answer should be. No. That’s it.
But her beating heart insisted she choose the other option. Because the ache—the unbearable need for him—had returned.
