Page 37 of The Tryst

With a naughty smile, she shakes her head. “My go-to is gifs of men or women touching themselves.”

That’s too hot. “Yeah?”

She nods. “I like to watch pleasure. When I watch women, I imagine it’s me and you’re doing dirty things that make me want to touch myself. When I watch men, I picture you, getting off to me.”

My throat grows dry. “I swear you’re going to make me ready to go again,” I growl.

“Good,” she says with a satisfied grin. “I’ve been thinking about youa lotlately.”

“Every night. Every morning,” I agree. I don’t know that I can survive her sensuality, but I will try. Too soon, I have to say goodbye. “I’ll see you Friday night. We’ll go to Hugo’s. I’ll make a reservation, and I’ll get a car and pick you up.”

“I can’t wait,” she says.

When I see her, I’ll tell her more about me. The things I haven’t shared yet. Things about my family. Things about my plans.

Like the fact that I’m not only coming to New York for a weekend.

I’m relocating there, merging my VC firm with my brother’s under the name Strong Ventures, and I just bought a new place in Gramercy Park—a penthouse apartment overlooking the city.

That’s where I intend to take her after our dinner. There I’ll fuck her to her sixth, seventh, eighth orgasm, and then some.

13

A HINT AND A HEADLINE

Layla

My mom doesn’t spend much time on the Upper East Side if she can avoid it.

But sometimes she has to visit our former neighborhood for meetings, or, like today, for a quick lunch appointment with moi before she sees her stylist on Madison.

I brace myself for a new set-up. Surely, she’s had enough time now to flick through her Rolodex of families she trusts—Lennoxes, Christies, or Bettencourts.

But I’m not agreeing to a date when I’m seeing Nick tomorrow night, so I’ll tell her I’m too busy with work.

With that bulwark in mind, I head into Patricia’s Hole in the Wall. The lowbrow name is ironic. The place is owned by one of Mom’s sorority sisters, and with oak walls and deep green booths with backgammon boards, it’s as old money as you can get.

At the hostess stand, a perky brunette smiles, showing off straight white teeth. She’s new here. “How can I help you?”

“I’m meeting Anna Mayweather. Party of two.”

“Mayweather,” she says, repeating the name. A second later, recognition dawns in her eyes. Then, shock. “Oh.Mayweather. You’re Layla Mayweather.”

She’s not recognized me as the heiressto a lipstick line. In this kind of bar, money is presumed, it doesn’t surprise. This is something else.

Six years after my father’s murder, you’d think I’d be used to the stares. I mostly am, but I still don’t like it. Her thoughts might as well be plastered on her face.

You were the one who walked in on your father’s murder. You saw his business partner holding the weapon.

Then the question everyone wants to ask but no one ever dares—what was that like?

Knowing what hell is like can’t prepare you for the flames.

I paste on a Mona Lisa smile, revealing nothing. “Yes, I’m Layla. Is Anna here?”

“Not yet, but I’d be so happy to show you to her table,” the brunette says. There’s an apology in her tone and then on her tongue. “I didn’t mean to make you…” she fumbles. “I just meant…”

But she can’t even sayuncomfortableas she escorts me to a table. She just exudes her own discomfort.

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