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Layla’s choked-up voice makes me look up, and I realize tears run down her eyes. Her red lips quiver as she waits for my response.
“Did you lose someone, Layla?” I stand from the desk.
She looks like she's reliving a traumatic event.
“My sister died a few years back. Suicide, so trust me, I… this all brings it back.” She wipes her face with the back of her palm.
She has a sister?
“Was it suicide, Tristan?” Layla asks again without breaking eye contact.
My fingers tremble against the glass as I stand a few inches from her. “It was. Deanna killed herself with prescription pills, but every morning when I wake, I feel like I—” I hit my chest with my hand, “—killed her. I killed her with my nonchalance. I killed my wife, Layla.”
My heart pounds in my chest as my fingers tighten around the glass. The pain of my confession threatens to overwhelm me, the memories of Deanna’s struggles with depression and addiction flooding back with a crushing intensity.
“Tristan, it wasn’t your fault.” Layla comes even closer. I can smell her flowery scent. “Deanna had a mental illness, like you said, and yes, you could have been—”
Tears prick at the corner of my eyes. “I should have been there for her,” I choke out the words, a desperate plea from someone deceased.
I put the glass to my lips to give me a brief relief from my pain, but Layla wrings it out of my hand. I turn my eyes on her with anger—or is it pain disguised as anger? I don’t know anymore.
“Give it back.” I step closer, our faces inches apart.
“You can’t do this to Ruby, Tristan. She needs her dad.” Layla pleads with me, her eyes wet.
“Give it back!” I raise my voice at her, shocking her.
Layla holds onto the glass, and I lunge at her to get it. The glass falls and breaks as she pulls me into her arms, her hands rubbing against my back. Her bushy hair on my face and her smell in my nose is all it takes for me to surrender my anger.
“Layla,” I whisper as I hold onto her, a lifeline I didn’t know I needed.
She pulls her head away from mine and finds my lips. We kiss passionately, both of us searching for a reprieve from our pain. Her lips are soft and tender against mine, and I can taste the saltiness of her tears on her lips.
Layla pushes me against the desk and rips my shirt off. I pull her back against me, my hands running across her curves, groping her soft flesh through her black dress. My hand wanders underneath her gown, and I grab her ass.
“Oh, God,” she moans into my mouth, her hand fumbling into my waistband and grabbing my hard cock.
“I need you,” I grunt as I pull her panties down to her knees.
I spin her around and bend her over against the desk. Her hair falls across the desk as she looks up at me, permission in her eyes. She parts her legs as I remove my length. My hand grabs her butt as I set myself at her glistening entrance.
“Take me,” she says, her eyes flaring with desire.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” I whisper as I start to enter her. “I can’t get enough of you— Oh, my God.”
My cock sinks deep into her as she groans and her eyes roll into her head. My breath catches in my lungs as she tightens around me, her fleshy walls squeezing and pulsating. I hold onto her hips and start moving, our flesh slapping against each other.
“Go faster,” Layla moans.
I reach down and grab a fistful of her hair, obliging her with my fast thrusts. Her butt slaps against my pelvis, and my cock disappears and reappears from her beautiful wetness.
“Go faster—” Her hand reaches behind to touch my abs, “—fuck me harder, Tristan. Fuck me like you own me.”
I feel my legs stiffen and my butt clench as my orgasm nears. I pull her up and fuck her as I kiss and tongue her ears.
“Oh, God, Tristan. Just like that. Just like that. I’m almost there.” Her words are punctuated with moans.
My fingers tighten around her black locks as I keep going, my tongue leaving bite marks on her neck. I can feel my orgasm building. I can feel her squeezing. My legs buckle just as hers wobble. Her head falls back against mine just as I push deep into her one last time.
