Claiming Serenity

by Eden Butler

  But when Donovan laid his fingers on the inside of her knee and Layla’s tiny gasp caught the attention of her friends around the table, she was forced to brush off the pleased sound by smiling at Autumn, covering that low moan his touch had stirred from her. “Oh, sweetie,” she told the redhead, “this ham is the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

  A few snorts and under-the-breath giggles later—Quinn was particularly obvious, biting his lips, nodding at Layla as she shoveled in more food—and Layla was able to dig her heel onto the top of Donovan’s foot, effectively making his roaming fingers leave her leg.

  By the time Layla started to leave, having avoided the furtive looks and subtle hand brushing Donovan managed throughout the night, Layla was angling for a long, hot shower and as many hours of tryptophan-induced sleep as possible.

  Donovan, however, had other plans.

  She barely had her coat over her shoulders when he slipped in behind her under the dim lights of the mudroom. “Leaving without a goodbye kiss, brat?”

  Shoulders stiff as he touched her, Layla stepped away from him, from those nimble fingers helping her tug her coat on. “I don’t have the energy to explain something like that to our friends.” She turned, stuffing her scarf under her lapel. “Besides, we don’t do that, remember? The kiss good night?”

  “Then maybe this shouldn’t be good night.” Donovan said and Layla highly distrusted the arch of his eyebrow or the slow movements he made toward her.

  When Donovan leaned forward, brought his lips dangerously close to Layla’s mouth, she stiffened, held him back with her fingers against his mouth. “Are you crazy?” she whispered, inching around his wide shoulders to make sure no one had seen them. “Our friends are ten feet away. Do you wanna get caught?”

  “I love it when you get all flustered.” Donovan ignored the small swat she made against his hand when he rubbed the line pulling down her mouth. “You make the cutest little scowls. It gets me hard.”

  “Ugh. You’re such a cretin.” She pushed him, annoyed when his laughter moved above a whisper. “Shut up.”

  “Come on. Don’t be pissy.” Quicker than Layla expected, Donovan pulled on her waist, leaned flush against her and her attention went behind him, to the voices she heard just beyond the kitchen. “Stop worrying about them,” he said against her ear. “Joe is telling another ‘when I was but a wee lad back in Ireland’ story and they’re all riveted. They aren’t worried about us.”

  “Let me go.” Layla hated the low, mildly desperate sound of her voice. She didn’t know if it was fear of being found out by their friends, or the way Donovan’s strong hands and warm, whiskey-flavored breath fell against her neck that made her words come out airy. She just knew it would be very bad if they were discovered. It would be better, but highly stupid, if he just got on with kissing her.

  “You turning me down, Layla?” She barely registered her back against the doorframe or the laughter echoing through the house. Donovan’s mouth, his warm tongue, made thought impossible. She heard herself moan, gasp when Donovan tugged on her hair to pull her face toward his. “You know you don’t wanna do that. This is the day we’re supposed to be grateful for the things we have.” Hips against her and Layla closed her eyes as she felt that hard and heavy impression through his jeans. “And I’m so fucking thankful for this, brat… you and me and this.”

  “Donovan…”

  “Come on. Say your goodbyes and follow me home.”

  “No.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Layla couldn’t believe he needed an explanation. Not after that conversation that had completely floored her. Joe’s mudroom felt smaller than it had just minutes before and Donovan pulled her closer, likely knowing she couldn’t resist his mouth on her neck or the slow slide of his tongue against her skin. He kissed her skin like he hadn’t told her why he’d hated her for so long, why the betrayal her cousin, his father, had delivered made him adamant about not making promises, about not wanting anything but the sweet release of their bodies when they came together.

  Donovan pulled his arms tighter against her waist and Layla tried to ignore how sweet he smelled, how just the smallest touch from him could make her head spin, have her forgetting that their friends were in the next room, that if they were discovered, the level of drama that would weigh down upon them would be too much, too heavy.

  “Someone… someone is coming…” she finally said when Donovan moved his hand under her jacket.

  “That can be you in less than a half hour if you stop turning me down.” She bristled and he pulled back, his palm flattened against her ribs underneath her shirt. “What’s wrong? You still hacked off about the cafeteria?”

  “That was mean.”

  “I made up for it, didn’t I?” She hated how he waggled his eyes, how she couldn’t keep the smile off her face when the flash of them together that night came back to her vivid and teasing. “I made up for it a lot.”

  Donovan always fought dirty, always teased until he knew he had her ready and willing for him. This night was no different and he kept her distracted, trying to change her mind with his fingers dancing up her ribs to flick his thumb against her nipple. Layla had to shift her hips away from him to avoid the contact of his thighs so hot and close to her. “Not… not the point.”

  “Meet me at my place,” he finally said when her voice failed her and she inclined her neck when he brushed his lips under her ear. “You know you don’t have to knock.”

  Layla stood stunned, dizzy with her eyes still closed as he walked away from her and out of the door. God, how she hated him most days; she hated that he would tease her, that he did things to her body that she could not resist craving. He made her stupid, he made her blind, and that night he had her swallowing back a moan, standing in Joe’s mud room with her eyes closed trying to keep the smell of his skin and the feel of his tongue present in her senses. Donovan the Demon, she reminded herself, had too much control, kept her senseless and careless. So when Layla opened her eyes just moments after he left her and found Mollie watching her with her mouth hanging open, Layla didn’t have to go far to remind herself what a dangerous, distracting asshole he could be.

  Shit. Bugger. Fuck.

  She tried thinking of a thousand excuses to give her best friend. She was drunk. She’d been into the weed again. Donovan was a Voodoo wizard who had clearly addled her brain and left her helpless to his lecherous advances.

  But as Layla watched Mollie’s shock shift into something akin to anger and then disappointment, she knew there was no point in deflecting or hiding the truth.

  “What the holy hell, Layla?”

  “Mollie…”

  “Oh my God… my God. How? When?”

  A quick look to her left, seeing Quinn O’Malley standing in the kitchen staring between the two girls, nosy, curious, and Layla moved, hushing her friend in some resemblance of a whispered growl. “Shut up. Please.” She led Mollie out of the mudroom, following the exit Donovan took before her best friend stopped to stare at her, telling Layla with one glare that she wanted the truth. Sighing, Layla nodded toward the door. “Come on. I’ll tell you everything.”

  The November air in Cavanagh stung with the bite of frigid wind. In the breeze the hint of ice and snow whispered among each touch from the mountain peaks above the town, those looming sentinels guarding Cavanagh against the world, against the harsh glow of all places not as beautiful, not as welcoming as their small town.

  Layla sat in her car, watching the window in the apartment building to her right, scanning its side, the brick and the light shadows moving behind the curtain. Donovan was waiting for her. She knew he was. She thought, maybe, he’d given up in the hour and half since she left Joe’s, but that light was glaring onto the empty streets and she’d noticed him staring through the glass more than once.

  She thought, when she first parked on the street in front of his place, that maybe he’d let the day, the food and its slumbering effects era
se any need he might have for her body. But he was twenty-four. The stores of someone so young, so virile, could be replenished, then depleted until whatever hunger he had would be ready, eager to be filled again. She wasn’t sure hers would allow the same.

  They had made those non-promises to each other. Swearing not to need each other. Swearing that emotion, affection would be absent from the room once they came together. And it had been that way, for weeks now. It had been passionate and wild and needy and blissfully free of expectation. Donovan was the release Layla took for herself without the hope of anything complicated beyond the taste of his skin. It’s what she wanted, what she told herself she needed.

  In that room, just beyond the street where she sat debating whether to drive away or leave her car, there was no requirement of love or responsibility. There was only Donovan’s beautiful skin, his long, lean muscles and the warmth of his damp breath on her body. He took away what was expected of her. Them together, scratching, controlling, surrendering, weakened by touch and flesh and tempting release, was a playground, the relaxing haven that took away her worry and the pressures that surrounded her.

  So why did she stay in her cold car staring at the yellow light spilling out from his window?

  Mollie. Her best friend. Those words, those warnings stuck in Layla’s mind like an insect immovable on tacky paper.

  “You… you and Donovan?”

  Layla’s ears still rang from the shrill, loud pitch of her best friend’s voice. Mollie had dragged the blonde outside onto Joe’s patio, away from their friends, from the curious glances they’d garner if anyone caught sight of them. The whole time, Layla’d felt the heavy weight of guilt—shame she’d been repressing for weeks now. Shame that set heavy on her chest as Mollie asked her question after question.

  “How did this happen?” and “Why did this happen?” and “Are you being careful?” and Layla’s personal favorite “How could you not tell me? I’m your best damn friend!”

  That one had bit down deep, made the guilt of letting Donovan have her again and again seem like nothing compared to the hurt, the shock that showed in Mollie’s eyes. All of her friends had joked for over a year that she and Donovan’s pranks, their long, hateful scowls at each other, were step one in the long dance of foreplay that would lead them together naked. Maybe Mollie didn’t really care that Layla was sleeping with Donovan. Maybe, she’d guessed, that the greatest source of her best friend’s anger came from the fact that she had never told Mollie that this… whatever it was with Donovan… had begun at all.

  “You don’t tell me everything, Mollie. I didn’t know anything about what you were running from, what Vaughn tried to protect you from until after your accident.”

  Then Mollie kicked Joe’s tattered, threadbare lawn chair until it rattled against his cold fire pit. “That is not the damn point, Layla!”

  “Mollie…”

  “Do you love him?”

  The question had Mollie’s eyes sharply focused on her best friend, had Layla’s hand shaking and she didn’t know why or how four words could unravel her composure until she was left with an abundance of useless emotions. And so, Layla did the only thing she could. She laughed. Hard, loud, rolling belly laughter. Laughter so piercing that Mollie looked around the patio, to the back entrance of the sunroom as though she expected someone to come outside. Layla laughed because if she didn’t, she knew fat, leaking tears would fall from her eyes. Donovan did not deserve her tears. No man did.

  “No. God, no! I just… Mollie…” and then Layla fell into the patio chair, slumped against the back with her long arms hanging over the side. “God.” She’d tried to buffer her humor, to make that shocked, wary expression leave Mollie’s face, but the laughter continued until her best friend came to her side, stilling her with small fingers over her wrist. “I’m… I’m just like Buffy.” The metaphor was stupid, juvenile, but Layla thought, highly accurate. A few seconds to rub her face with her cold palms and her humor had vanished. “I swear I am. Donovan is my Spike.”

  Mollie’s smile was brief, barely moved her lips. “Buffy slept with Spike after crawling her way out of a six month old grave.” She’d pushed Layla’s head up, forced her to look at her. “Digging out of graves lately and not telling me?”

  “No. God. I don’t know what I’m doing, Molls. Honestly. I have no idea.”

  “Sweetie…” then her best friend had hugged Layla, brought her face against her shoulder and held her tight. “Do you like him at least or is this just some, I dunno, weird sexual power play?”

  “No. God, I don’t know.” Layla stood, eager to pull herself together in case anyone heard them outside. “Mollie, it just sort of happened. That night Walter and I fought, I ended up at McKinney’s and Donovan, he was there and we drank and then I went home with him and…” she waved her hand, not thinking Mollie needed to hear all the stupid things she’d done with Donovan. “It’s been going on for weeks and weeks. We aren’t together. Neither one of us want that. It’s just sex. It’s just really good sex.”

  “Layla, it’s really good sex with someone who is, for better or worse, a part of our circle. Trust me, I have zero room to judge anyone, but if something happens, something bad and this doesn’t work out, it could complicate an already weird situation.” Layla frowned, not certain what point Mollie was slowly meandering toward, but her best friend knew Layla better than anyone. She must have caught that confused expression and hurried to explain herself. “Quinn being here, messing up our little dynamic; Sayo struggling with her cousin’s illness and now this? Did you ever consider what Declan would do to Donovan if he finds out? I know you said you don’t love him, but you have to at least care about him a little if you’re sharing naked time with him. You really want Declan kicking his ass?”

  “It’s not Deco’s business.”

  “Yeah and when has that ever stopped him from bullying his way into everyone’s relationships? They’re best friends, honey and if Donovan so much as thinks about screwing you over, Declan will go at him. It won’t be pretty. More to the point, something that doesn’t make sense to me is that you have hated Donovan for so long. I mean, I know we picked on you two about all the ridiculous pranking but how do you go from hating him one minute, to sleeping with him the next?”

  “It just sort of happened.”

  “That’s the thing, honey. You are not a ‘just sort of happened’ kind of chick.” Mollie had kept her voice even, the shock and anger completely gone as she’d brushed Layla’s hair off her face. “You want the fairytale. You always have. Since you were fourteen, Layla, you talked about the ridiculous girly romancey type things. Will Donovan give that to you? Do you want him to?”

  “No… I… I don’t think so.”

  “Then why are you giving yourself to him when you know it doesn’t mean anything to him? And I know you, Layla. You’ve been my best friend since we were middle schoolers. This means something to you.” Mollie had stopped Layla’s protest with a quick wave of her hand. “Even if you don’t see it, this thing with Donovan, means something. You deserve the fairytale.”

  She’d known Mollie was right. It was a fact in Layla’s daily life that Mollie had an annoying tendency to always be right. Layla thought she wanted the hearts and flowers and love and romance bullshit. She wanted someone to treasure her, to think she was precious. She wanted all those things still, but God help her, she didn’t know if she could walk away from Donovan. She didn’t think she had the strength to stop going to him.

  But she knew she had to try. “It’s just sex,” she told herself, promising that this would be the very last time. She’d listen to Mollie, she really would, after tonight, after one last taste of his body and feel of his hands. It would be a parting, a goodbye and Layla had no intention this time of leaving without a good-bye kiss.

  Donovan loved the way her hips curved into her waist and how easily his hand fit right in that spot. He liked her hair falling down between her shoulder blades and the subtle
dip of her back, the muscles he had kissed over and over and how she responded to each touch. But tonight she sat too stiffly on his bed, body rigid, the tension of her day working into her shoulders.

  “I should go,” she said, moving her neck to stretch the strain that had built up. “I don’t know why I bothered coming here.”

  He heard the fight dying in her voice, those excuses she made to convince herself he wasn’t good enough for her. But she had come, like she had every night for weeks, and in the low whisper of her words and the weak grip Layla held on her denial that she liked Donovan, he heard the small request that he take away the things she didn’t want clouding her mind.

  “You’re here because no one else is.” Donovan came behind her, took her hair between his fingers but did not pull it or use it to direct her movement. His fingers were gentle, slow and the closer his touch came to her shoulders, to lowering the zipper at her back of her shirt, that stiff bearing in her shoulders fell, loosening the tension from her muscles. “You’re here because in this room, it’s just the two of us, just our skin.” She didn’t fight him as he lowered her shirt, as her bra loosened hook by hook with a slow twist of Donovan’s fingers. “You’re here because this is where we hide from the fuckers who try to control us.” A kiss, a graze of his teeth against her shoulder and Layla leaned back, letting Donovan push her onto the mattress. “You’re here, Layla, because your body wants mine, because when I’m inside you, the world stops spinning.”

  Her moan was like a melody, rich, heavy with something that ached from her skin. “Donovan,” she said, trying one last time to deny him. “I don’t think we should do this anymore. It’s getting too complicated.”

  “Why? What happened?” Sliding his finger up her naked chest, Donovan pulled her shirt off, watching her eyes, trying to measure if she really didn’t want him touching her. But that concern, that hesitation disappeared and he took the opportunity to kiss her throat, to inhale the decadent scent of her body. “Talk to me, brat.”