Page 18 of Castaway Whirlwind
Immediately on alert, I bark low, “Where’s Layla?” I pay Jared’s little brother, Trent, who is a line cook in the kitchen, to take photos of Layla’s schedule and send them to me every week, so I know she should have gotten to work hours ago.
Faye puts her hands out to placate me. “Don’t worry. She’s fine. She called out this morning to take care of something.”
“Take care of what?”
The front door opens behind her, and my little darlin’ rushes inside in her adorable pink hoodie, her hair wind-blown and cheeks blooming red from the cold.
“Layla, why are you—” Faye hurries away.
I plant my feet on the checkered floor for all of ten seconds before I can’t take not knowing what’s going on any longer. No one says a thing to me when I follow their voices, stomping through the swinging doors and past the kitchen to the employee area where Layla is struggling to take her hoodie off.
“I know I should, but I really need the tips,” Layla says to Faye, her voice muffled by the hoodie around her face.
My eyes are drawn to her tits spilling out of her uniform when the top three buttons pop open, one by one.
“Seriously, honey. Go back home. Take a bath. You’ve already worked eight shifts in a row, and who knows how many other side gigs. You don’t need to be working when you’re exhausted and in so much pain.”
“You’re in pain?” I ask, wishing I could take it from her and bear it myself so she wouldn’t have to.
Both women turn to me, though Layla’s arms are now stuck up over her head. “Is that Russell?” Layla asks.
“Yeah, darlin’, it’s me.” Faye steps aside so I can take her place, and I tug the hoodie up so Layla can pull her arms down out of the sleeves.
“Ow, ow, it’s stuck on something,” Layla says, hopping on her feet.
I spin Layla around to face the row of lockers, locating a loose thread from a seam in her hoodie tangled with the little hairs at the nape of her neck.
“Hold on, let me get it.” I try to be gentle as I untwist her hair—soft, so very soft. My fingertips linger on the back of her bare neck when I’m done, my heart beating double-time as I trail my hand down the length of her spine.
If I gave her the gentlest of pushes, I could have her front pressed to the locker, lift the hem of her dress up to her waist, pull her panties down, unzip my jeans to free my swollen cock, then slide into her little pussy in under thirty seconds. She’d be tight and hot, pulsing around my shaft, gasping as she begs me to give her another slow, deep thrust.
I’d pull her hips back and tilt them up so I could go deeper. I’d give her long, measured strokes that would have her moaning my name softly, then louder as I drove her closer to the edge. I’d slip my fingers around her front to massage her clit, and when she came, she’d beg me not to pull out.
I’d kiss her neck and whisper in her ear how much I love my little darlin’ as I pump her full of my cum. I’d stay inside her as long as possible to keep it from spilling out while I rubbed her little belly and prayed for a miracle.
Layla’s voice is soft and sweet when she says, “Russell?”
Mine is the opposite, hard and husky, hearing her say my name. “Yeah?”
She drops her head back against my chest and tips her chin so she can look up at me. So small and precious. “I’m good now.”
I drop my nose in her hair, inching forward, my upper thighs brushing against her bottom. “Yeah, I know you’re a good girl, darlin’.”
“Wow,” Faye whispers from the side.
“No, um, I mean…” Layla yawns, and I finally notice the deeper purple circles under her eyes that she’s tried to cover with concealer, which worries me to no end. “You can let go now.”
I jerk back to reality, finding my right hand wrapped around the side of her neck possessively and the other on her opposite hip, standing close enough that a stiff breeze from behind would have me grinding my hard dick against her lower back. I suck in a huge breath before I drop my hands and move to the side.
Even after clearing my throat, my words are still garbled when I say, “Sorry ‘bout that.” Ignoring Faye’s reddened face from my periphery, I continue with the conversation beforehand. “Why did Faye tell you to go home? Are you sick? Hurt? What?”
“Yes,” Faye says at the same time as Layla says with another yawn, “No, I’m fine now.”
Faye rubs her hand up and down Layla’s arm. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Clock out. Relax with the girls. I’ve got this.”
I look back and forth between the women as they continue to argue in the nicest manner I’ve ever seen. “Will someone please answer the question? If you’re hurt, I need to know.”
