Claiming Serenity

by Eden Butler

  “Rent-a-Cop at two o’clock.”

  Layla didn’t hesitate. She really wasn’t in the mood to see Walter or to hear his complaints that she’d been ignoring him. He’d been texting her and leaving pathetic messages on her phone for weeks, none of which Layla answered. He was relentless, that was for sure, but Layla had no desire to speak to him and she certainly didn’t want an argument between them quieting the crowded cafeteria. She moved quickly, not at all subtly and darted behind several tables full of freshman and sophomores as she headed toward the long hallway that led to the bathrooms, hoping Walter didn’t see her as he walked in, his hand resting on his walkie talkie.

  The men in her life were either lecturing her, pranking her or stalking her and Layla was getting tired of them all.

  Layla didn’t see him. Her eyes were on the floor, distracted by her escape from that asshole snooping for her. It was her distracted attention Donovan depended on. He was careful, waiting for Mollie to approach Walter, putting him off Layla’s scent before Donovan left his table.

  “Catch you later,” Donovan told his squad mates, but they didn’t care that he abandoned them. There was too much food on their table, too many beautiful girls smiling at them for them to notice Donovan retreating to the back of the cafeteria.

  No one, not his boys or Mollie, or that dipshit Walter noticed Donovan dipping away from the crowd, eyes lowered and watching Layla as she walked ahead of him, hurrying toward the bathroom. He didn’t know what compelled him to follow her. Maybe it was the distance that moved between them the night before. Seeing her that morning with Coach Mullens leaving her car, glaring at Donovan as he passed and Declan whispering something to Layla that Donovan couldn’t quite make out had put him off. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus and both Coach and Declan noticed.

  He’d passed it off as fatigue, not feeling well, but neither of them bought it and Donovan’s sour mood only got worse when he and Declan went back to Willow Peak to race the Irishman’s Mustang again after practice.

  “What did you say to Layla?” he’d asked Declan, but his best friend gave him nothing but a hard time.

  “Why do you wanna know, mate?” Donovan hated that suspicious glint in Declan’s eye anytime he asked about Layla.

  “No reason,” he’d told him, but he knew, just like he knew that Mullens hadn’t bought his bullshit excuses for his poor performance at practice, that Declan wasn’t convinced Donovan was leaving Layla alone.

  The whole day had annoyed him and when Layla hesitantly came into his room that night, they hardly spoke. He knew something was wrong with her but convinced himself not to ask what. Their touches were perfunctory, cold and Donovan forgot about the treat of going bare with her, forgot most everything but the way she fit around him. She hadn’t stayed and until that morning, he hadn’t wondered why.

  Then she walked into the cafeteria with Mollie, looking so fucking tempting with her light blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail that fell to the middle of her back. Perfect for grabbing, for tugging. It didn’t help that her strong thighs and muscular calves were evident through the black leggings she wore and that perfectly round ass of hers teased him as she walked around the cafeteria, peeking out behind her long maroon sweater and gray Army jacket.

  He’d watched her when she wouldn’t notice him looking, let his gaze rake over her, wanting so damn much to grab her, pull her out of the crowd and get her back to his apartment to make up for his subpar performance the night before. Instead, he’d settled for going after her, stalking sure, but come on, she was so damn beautiful, and he just couldn’t keep away from her.

  He knew he shouldn’t have followed her. The risk of being caught was too great, but the sway of those glorious round hips was too tempting; the soft waves of her blonde hair too enticing. She’d haunted him already. He knew this. He hated this, but anytime he closed his eyes, he could feel Layla all around him, over his dick, on his tongue and he’d been unable to keep his mind off her or keep from counting the hours until he’d be inside her again.

  He hated what she did to him. Donovan hated that it was Layla dominating his thoughts; it was her skin, her hair, her body, consuming his passing days. He felt like an addict, unable to keep away from her. He couldn’t help how being with her felt. And part of him hated her for it, just a bit. He needed to bring some semblance of control back to whatever it was they were doing. He needed to remind her it was his touch she wanted, his hand, his tongue and mouth all over her.

  She didn’t see him as he walked up the hallway, didn’t even bother to look behind her until she slipped through the kitchen, out into the small pantry that faced the cafeteria, she was too intent on dodging her former “boyfriend”. The cafeteria staff was minimal so close to the Thanksgiving break and no one was around really to see either of them slip into the tiny pantry.

  Layla edged near a small, rectangular window that overlooked the cafeteria, her calves flexing as she rose on the balls of her feet, and Donovan took advantage, slipping behind her to curl his arm around her waist.

  There was split second where she straightened, when her back and arms grew stiff, but then she seemed to instinctively know it was him, and then she relaxed against him before he even spoke, before he rubbed his mouth under the chunky scarf she wore.

  “Did he leave?” Donovan asked, pulling Layla tighter against his chest.

  “Can’t see.”

  They both inclined their heads, moved together until Layla nodded, pointing her chin to where Mollie stood talking to Walter.

  “He’s got it bad. What did you do to that guy anyway?”

  “I said no. All the damn time.”

  He liked the amusement in her voice but had to remind himself why he’d followed her. He needed to focus, keep her attention on him, on them and not the asshole outside that pantry interrogating Mollie.

  “You never said no to me.” Donovan wrapped her long pony tail around his fingers, giving her hair a small tug. “And I still want you. There has to be something else you did to him.”

  The hair fell out of Donovan’s grip when Layla moved her chin up, lifting one eyebrow as she looked over her shoulder at him. “I can say no. Don’t get it twisted. I’m able to resist you.”

  “You think so?” Donovan smiled, loving the way Layla’s eyelids fluttered when he rubbed himself against her. “You sure about that?”

  “I’m sure,” she said, pushing back against him before she pulled his arm from her waist. “Don’t get cocky, Donley. You aren’t as good as you think you are.”

  “I haven’t heard you complain once.”

  He thought it was ridiculous, that look she gave him, how she tried to act like he didn’t affect her, how she stepped closer toward the window, looked out of it as though he would keep his distance. “You should have been in the car with me when I left your place last night.” Then, a smug little grin crossed her lips and Donovan lifted his eyebrows, surprised at how cold she was pretending to be. “You were off.”

  “Me? What about you, princess?”

  “I was fine, jackass.” Donovan didn’t flinch when Layla jabbed him in the ribs. He knew this game, it felt like foreplay and shit was Layla good at foreplay. “What’s your excuse?” she asked, stepping up to him like she loved taunting him, urging him to snap back. Yeah. She was good.

  Donovan was better.

  “I was fine.”

  Stray strands loosened from her hair and Layla fidgeted with them, brushed them behind her ear as though she needed a distraction from how closely Donovan stood next to her. He could just make out a shake in her voice when she said, “You just didn’t do it for me last night.”

  “Funny how you moaned and clawed at me like I did.” He stepped forward, smirking when she didn’t budge. He loved how she challenged him, how she was rude and brave and ready to give as good as she got.

  That long, frustrated sigh she released had Donovan withholding his amusement, not really eager to have her pull away from him
again. But when the expression on her face shifted, when she curled her arms over her chest, defensive, shamed, Donovan frowned, worried that she’d tell him something he was sure he had no desire hearing. Layla turned away from him, took her long hair between her fingers, pulled the pony tail over her shoulder as though she wanted to prevent Donovan from touching it again. When she spoke, it was to the window, to the faceless crowd, to her best friend and ex-boyfriend who hadn’t noticed them looking through the glass. “I just feel… not right when I leave your place.”

  “Guilt?” He didn’t get that. He wanted Layla to feel good. He knew that she did if her moans, her reactions when they were together were any indication. Donovan would never understand why women placed so much emphasis on emotion when sex was concerned, anyway. Why couldn’t they just let it be what it was: necessary, fun, pleasurable? “Why?”

  Layla turned her head, but didn’t move her gaze to Donovan and he thought she might move away from the window, give him her full attention, but then the Rent-a-Cop stepped closer, one turn and he’d be in their line of sight and Layla jerked back, leaned against the wall next to the window to avoid Walter. Donovan didn’t move, barely glanced at the guy when he squinted over the window, disregarding Donovan as soon as he saw him as just another cafeteria worker. He could feel Layla watching him, felt the quick flash of heat even as she shot him a scrutinizing glance, so he moved his eyes to the right, cocking that side of his mouth up as if to say “continue”.

  “You wouldn’t understand.” She said it flippantly, more to herself than to him as she ran her boot heel against the baseboard at her feet.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, Donovan…” She pushed off of the wall, came to his side but stood far enough away that the heat he felt from her disappeared completely. “You don’t have any shame whatsoever.”

  He could only manage to stare at her. She cut him so low sometimes. She always had and, yeah, sure, most of the time she was only defending herself, reacting to the shit he gave her. But this time, her words bit into his skin, enraging him, frustrating him because they were true. Because she knew him better than he wanted her to. “Do you always have to talk to me like you think I’m a piece of shit?”

  “Stop being so sensitive.”

  He surged toward her, slamming the pantry door shut when she tried walking through it. “Stop being such a bitch.”

  That stopped her quick, he knew it would. Layla hated being called a bitch almost as much as Donovan being told to fuck off. But her anger only made her skin seem brighter and the heaving of her chest had Donovan itching to touch her. That frown though, the quick scowl jerking her top lip up, told Donovan she didn’t want that from him, that she likely didn’t want a damn thing from him. “God, I can’t stand you. You’re a vile, annoying, entitled asshole.”

  “Say what you want, Layla, but I know the truth.” He beat her to the door, holding it closed when she huffed out a breath and reached for the doorknob and that huff became of moan as he curled his fingers around her small waist.

  “I know where you live, sweetheart.” He moved her tiny body so that she was staring back out of the window with Donovan nestled behind her. “Those moans, the way you touch me, you can’t fake that shit. I’ve seen you like nobody else has, Layla and I’m getting damn tired of you pretending you don’t like me.”

  “I don’t.” She bristled at his words, threw her elbow back into his stomach. “I hate you.”

  “Yeah? Funny how you don’t say that when I’m inside you, making you scream.”

  “That’s it!” Layla was too fast for him, too agile and Donovan had to trust his rugby skills, those fast reactions necessary to move around the pitch, to keep her from leaving. He caught her, grunting as she jabbed him in the stomach again, trying to get his hand off the doorknob. “This is over. I won’t be back.”

  “Yes you will.”

  “Oh you think so?”

  He smirked, nodded slow, then pushed her against the door, knowing that if she really wanted him to stop touching her, she’d kick him in the nuts or call out to the skeleton staff on the other side of that door. Donovan had known Layla since they were kids. She didn’t do a damn thing she didn’t want to and in all those years, he’d never once seen her put up with anyone trying to break her down. She was a fighter and she wanted to be exactly where she was. He knew that—and had it reinforced when she barely groaned as he pressed her up against the door, when he reached around her waist and rested his open hand against her stomach. “You’ll be back, Layla because you want me.”

  “No… no… I… I don’t.” Her voice had already taken on a breathy, eager rasp and Donovan smiled against her neck, loving her stubbornness, how she still tried to pretend he wasn’t affecting her.

  “Really?” Fingers quick against the fabric of her shirt, Donovan waited for her protest, waited for her to tell him to stop. When that did not come, he slipped his hand under the waistband of her leggings, down that flat stomach, until he was beneath the lace of her thong, all the while calming her with gentle nibbles against her ear, and his tongue slowly tracing tingly lines along her neck. He teased her with featherlight fingertips against her silken folds and he closed his eyes, loving how easily she rested against him, until her ass was right against his hard dick. “As much as you hate me during the day, Layla, that’s how much you ache for me at night.” He fished his hand down further, smiling when he found her already slick against his fingers. “You see? I make you wet. I make you throb and pulse because no matter what you tell yourself, you want me. You want my mouth on you.” He kissed her neck, slow, tantalizingly. “You want my touch, my fingers on you, in you.” Two fingers slipped inside her and Layla immediately squeezed against them, muscles tight, firm even as he stroked her into her in a soft, insistent rhythm. “You don’t hate me, Layla. You hate yourself for wanting me.”

  She could barely speak. “You’re… you’re the same way.”

  He couldn’t disagree with that, wouldn’t even try. Donovan knew how fucked up he was, how much she affected him. “And I’m not denying it. See?” He pushed his erection against her, smiling again when she released a low moan. “I never said I didn’t want you. Besides, you can’t fool me. I know you want to be bad with me. You even enjoy the danger, the threat of being caught.” Donovan moved them back to the window, looked over her head, through the glass and out onto the crowd, to Mollie and Walter. “You want to want me right now. Right here, brat. I can feel how wet you are.” He kissed her neck, smiling when a shudder moved Layla’s arms. “Tell me you don’t want me.” That shudder quickened and Donovan had to withhold a low groan as Layla rubbed back against his dick. “You want me to take you right here, in front of the Rent-a-Cop, with Mollie just feet from us. Don’t you?”

  With his free hand, Donavan pulled down her silky tights. His chest was tense with pent up desire and when she pulled up her sweater to expose her gorgeous, naked ass to him, his dick throbbed in angry anticipation. “I wanted you bare last night, Layla. I wanted to feel your sweet, tight pussy right on my skin. Just… like” Donovan lowered his zipper and Layla leaned forward against the window, spreading her legs for him without being told. “This.” Donovan thought he’d come the moment he plunged up inside of her. The utterly amazing feel of her all around him, the real her, the raw, honest Layla, gripping his dick tight, squeezing him until he thought the sensation, the searing, heat of her pussy clenching him as he slid in and in and in would be too much. “Fuck.”

  “Donov…” she couldn’t finish his name, couldn’t do more than grip the frame around the window.

  He pulled her hips to him, holding her waist as he pounded her from behind, moved his fingers to her clit until Layla’s voice came out in a whine, until Donovan had to slip his free hand over her mouth to keep from drawing attention to them. “See, princess? I can make you come. I can make you so fucking desperate for my touch.” Donovan knew Layla’s body. He knew when she was so close her voice sounded liked
a breathy sigh, when she was anxious, desperate. He knew that when her breathing accelerated, when she moaned out a litany of curses, that she was close to coming.

  Just then, Layla cursed against his palm, her head arched against his shoulder as she chased that climax her body ached for. And just as “oh shit, fuck, fuck” flew from her mouth, Donovan took his hands away and pulled out of her, robbing her of her climax just as it peaked, just before she fell off the edge. He’d take the pain of stopping. He’d take that gladly just to prove his point.

  “And for the rest of the day you’ll be thinking about how I had you moaning fifty feet from a hundred students stuffing their faces. Close enough to that bastard you called a boyfriend for him to smell you. And you’ll come back tonight. You’ll come back because you want me.” He turned her around and kissed her tenderly on the forehead and steadied her when she staggered back, her legs and hands shaking, breath uneven. “You’ll come back. Because your body needs this. Because you want me to finish what I started.” Donovan pulled up her leggings, straightened her sweater and jacket back over her hips before his kissed her neck. “You’ll come back, Layla because no matter how much you try to deny that your body likes mine, I’m still the only one who gives you what you want.”

  He left her to recover, checked that no one lingered near the pantry and made his way back into the noisy, crowded cafeteria, raising his chin in casual greeting to Walter who was just leaving. But he didn’t turn back, didn’t bother to see if Layla was watching through the window. He didn’t need to. He knew she was.

  She did go back.

  She didn’t event hate that she went back because he was right. Only Donovan could make her breathless. She wanted him, and his mouth and his fingers and his strong, controlling dick. And though she tried telling herself she didn’t care about him, she knew what this was. There was no way she could lie to herself about the need she felt for his body. His touch, his mouth, the sweet tang of his skin, it was all an addiction, one that they both indulged in without restraint as often as they could.