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I unbuckle my belt. “What does it look like?”
“Maybe I don’t feel like fucking you.”
“Then, leave.”
Lyla doesn’t move.
“Turn around,” I instruct, pulling a condom out of my pocket and unrolling it on my hardening dick.
Lyla raises a brow but listens, gripping the marble counter and steadying on her heels. She looks over one shoulder, watching me toss the wrapper and give my erection a couple of quick strokes. My blood is hot, fueled with anger and lust. A volcano waiting to explode.
“What if I get pregnant?” she asks.
I freeze. “Are you?”
“No.”
“Then, why are you bringing it up?”
“Because it’s a possibility.”
“We’re using protection.”
“We were using protection when I got pregnant with Leo.”
I scan her face. “Where is this coming from?”
“It’s a possibility. I’m trying to be responsible. Realistic.”
“Do you want more kids?”
“Not on my own.”
“No one said anything about doing anything alone.”
“We’re not together, Nick.”
“We live in the same house. We sleep together. We eat together. We have a child together. What do you call that, Lyla?”
She spins around so I can see her annoyed expression. “I’m here because of Leo. Because you made choices that put his life at risk and I’m stuck dealing with the consequences!”
“Oh, is that what you tell yourself when you’re coming on my cock? That you’re doing it for Leo?”
I see the slap coming, but I don’t stop it. I embrace the sting.
“I’m not my mother,” she hisses. “I won’t put Leo through the hell I grew up in.”
“What hell would that be? He has everything he could possibly—”
“There’s more to parenting than money, Nick. I know you can provide for Leo financially. I’m talking about where that money came from. What kind of example you’re setting for him. You can’t possibly want this for him. You said you never had a choice, and maybe that’s true. Leo will have one.”
I shake my head. “Stop pretending he’s the only thing we have in common. If that were true, you’d be home with him. You wouldn’t be here with me. You wouldn’t be dripping”—I sneak a hand between her legs, tracing the drenched lace wedged there and then tugging it roughly—“at the thought of me fucking you. I’m not lying to you, Lyla. Extend me the same fucking courtesy.”
I pull my hand away and wait for another slap. For her to walk out. Instead, she rises up and kisses me. It starts out gentle, mostly because I’m too shocked to reciprocate.
Slowly, the surprise melts away. Our kiss turns greedy and desperate. Filthy and angry.
I jerk away and study her. Our ragged breathing is the only sound in the bathroom. “The emotional whiplash is getting old, Lyla.”
