Page 97 of The Tryst

I try to tell him that with my body, moving to greet his mouth with a passionate kiss.

He takes my kiss and matches it with a heated one of his own, like he’s telling me the same thing.

He wants this.

He wantsus.

He wants more than these stolen moments.

We kiss and fuck and consume each other. Soon, my world narrows to the slap of sweat-slicked skin, to the grunts and groans of a race to the end, then to the cries of bliss coming from deep within me.

I surrender to an orgasm that’s as lustful as it is emotional.

It crashes into my body, radiating through me to my fingers, my toes, my hair. Seconds later, he’s falling under too, shuddering then stilling as he groans, a long, deep rumble.

Then, we’re quiet, tangled together as we come down.

Soon, he’ll have to go.

But after we straighten up, he tugs me back to bed and brings me close to him once again. Strong arms wrap around me. Warm breath tickles my neck. “I don’t want to leave you,” he rasps out.

It sounds like a confession.

“I don’t want you to go,” I say.

We stay like that, together and quiet, until he breaks the silence. “Layla,” he says, importantly.

I tense, but then he soothes my worries with his words. “I want to stay. I do.”

I take his hand, wrap his arm tightly around me.

But eventually, the sun rises, and he leaves.

32

THE SERIOUSNESS OF TIRAMISU

Nick

The first thing I do when I reach the Strong Ventures building is go straight to Finn’s office.

I rap on the open door and stride in before he even looks up from his laptop.

When he does, he freezes, his coffee in hand. Then, he sets down the mug and points to the small brown box with the clear window on top in my hand. “Shit. It must be serious. You brought tiramisu.”

My brother has a hell of a sweet tooth. “I hope you have room in your dessert drawer.”

Finn pats his flat stomach. “Always,” he says, but his tone is grim, matching mine. He tips his forehead to the door. “Better shut that.”

But I’m already closing it, locking it too. I won’t take any chances.

I stride to his desk, setting down the offering along with the fork. “It’s from Sunshine Bakery,” I say. I don’t tell him Layla lives near the bakery. That I picked this up when I left her home this morning since the bakery was open early today. That I’m a fucking mess. I don’t have to tell him the last one.

“My favorite,” he says, then takes the treat, opens the box, and sniffs like it’s a fine wine. “This is going to hit the spot.”

He closes the box, rises, and heads around the desk, patting a leather chair for me, then grabbing another one for himself. He sits across from me. “What’s going on?”

There’s only concern in his voice. No teasing, no needling.

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