Broken Rules: (Broken Duet #1)

Layla sits on the floor in my bedroom, surrounded by ten bags filled with clothes, shoes, and cosmetics.

“Still mad?” I hand her a cup of steaming hot chocolate.

“I’m not mad. Just not happy that you didn’t let me pay.”

We argued at the till for five minutes over who’ll pay for her new clothes until she threatened to put everything back and go to Frank’s for the night. That didn’t sit well with me. I snatched the bags, paid the cashier, then dragged Layla to five more boutiques until she hit the daily spending limit on my card. She stopped waving her card around but didn’t stop huffing.

I open the walk-in closet to make some room. “Don’t take out your wallet when you’re with me. Forget you own a fucking wallet. Money is my area.”

“And what’s my area? Looking pretty? Agreeing with everything you say?”

“I’m still waiting for you to agree with me on something. Anything, really. All you do is argue.”

She rolls her eyes, placing the sweaters on a shelf. I swear she was folding them just now, but it looks as if she just threw them in there.

My OCD gets the better of me. Everything in my closet is carefully planned; shirts hang by the jackets, all color-coded. Sweaters, t-shirts, and pants are neatly folded. Not one piece of clothing is out of place.

“I like teasing you,” she says, smirking under her nose.

“Give me that.” I grab the sweaters.

“Am I disrupting your Feng Shui?”

“Sit or go take a bath.”

She hooks her thumbs in the belt buckles of my pants, rising on her toes to reach my lips. “I’m not allowed to pay; I can’t fold clothes properly…” she whispers, biting my lip. “Is there anything I do well?”

“You’re a great kisser; you smell delicious, and you’re incredible at getting on my nerves.” I slap her butt, pushing her gently toward the ensuite. She dives under my arm, snatching my white shirt off the hanger. “You bought two nightgowns, but you’ll sleep in my thousand-dollar shirt?”

“I didn’t buy those. You did. And…” She wrinkles her nose at the see-through nightdresses waiting for her on the bed, “I’ll be cold in that.”

“I’ll keep you warm. Give back the shirt.”

A mischievous grin twists her lips, and her eyes sparkle as she holds my gaze, ripping off the top button. “Oops… I don’t think you’ll wear it again. It’s no good,” she fakes a sad face. “I’ll sleep in it, baby. Okay?”

Little devil.

I grip her by the waist and throw her on the bed, hiding my face in her cleavage. Desire tingles every inch of my body when I graze my nose up the valley of her breasts, sliding my hand up her waist. “Incredible,” I whisper, ripping her blouse down the middle, exposing her stomach. “At getting on my nerves.” I kiss her ribs, inhaling her sweet scent, on the verge of bursting out of my boxers when she arches back, exhaling slowly. “You’re so soft, Star… so warm.” I kiss around the edge of her bra, grazing my nose between her boobs to reach her lips before I roll over to the side, handing Layla my no-longer-favorite shirt. “It’s yours, but I’ll strip you down when you fall asleep.”

She smiles, seeing through my bullshit. I’m too fucking worried to jeopardize her growing trust in me to put a foot wrong. The water in the bathtub starts running a minute later once Layla leaves me to fold her clothes. She keeps tugging on the door handle, checking if she locked the door.

“If you check again, I’ll knock the door down,” I shout.

She giggles, tugging again. The closet is again immaculate when she comes back half an hour later, hair wet, skin rosy, no more than three buttons fastened on her breasts. Her pebbled nipples press against the fabric, standing proudly. That sight, the hint of perky breasts, coupled with my wild-running imagination, turns my brain to mush.

I lock myself in the bathroom and spend ten minutes under ice-cold water, reining my craving for her body. I’ll enjoy sex more once Layla trusts me. I’ll appreciate her more once she’s ready. At least that’s how I’m pep-talking myself ahead of holding her close all night.

She stares at the ceiling, her body hidden under the satin sheets, when I crawl beside her, resting on my elbow, my other hand tracing the flawless curve of her hip. My desire is safely capped, but there’s no way I won’t touch her while she’s right here in my arms, almost naked. She pushes me onto my back, drawing a line of open-mouth kisses from my shoulder up my neck until she finds my lips.

She’s tense, but the touch of her hands and how she sinks into my lips feels greedier tonight. Desperate, somehow.

The overwhelming need to feel her naked, warm skin on mine resurfaces. My hands disappear under the hem of the shirt. I glide them up until my fingers frame her breasts. Once again, she goes perfectly still in my arms. Her lips no longer work with mine, but she doesn’t jerk away, which is half the success.

“Good girl,” I whisper, working my way back to her lips, exploring the silk of her mouth with my tongue as I move my hands lower, caressing her ribs.

She’s not ready for much, but she’ll trust me more with each step we take. Her breathing quickens, matching the rhythm of her heart when I flip her onto her back, hovering over her frail, warm body. I can fucking feel how wet she is when I touch her lacy panties with my thigh. I want to dive between her legs, lick her bottom to top and finally check how she tastes. I want to feel her vibrating beneath me as she comes, losing her goddamn mind from the influx of ecstasy.

Her long nails draw lines along my shoulder blades when she yanks me down, flush against her hot body. A fire roars in my head, the touch of my hands more urgent every second, but I tame the primal hunger. She might act courageous, ready, and willing on the outside, but inside, she’s not ready. She tenses every time my fingers graze the alluring roundness of her breasts or the inside of her thighs.

And so she throws me way off when she pops the first button on the white shirt she wears. Her hands tremble, and she stops breathing, biting her lip nervously, staring at her fingers touching the second button.

The air around us thickens, growing hotter by the second. Desire runs through me, a flame intense enough to vaporize diamonds. My primal instincts fight to take over and bury myself deep inside. Claim her. Mark her as mine. I fight to see reason and do the right thing when she pops the second button, letting out a shaky breath. She quivers like a frightened baby deer but moves her hands lower again. The growing panic rooted in her expression works like a bucket of water over my head.

I catch her wrists before she dooms us both. “Don’t,” I snap, my voice rough but the authoritative note clear. “I’m not taking that first tonight.” No fucking way. Not with hesitation and fear looming in her beautiful, big eyes. Not while she’s shaking like a timid kitten.

“Let me go,” she whispers, kissing my jaw, looking everywhere but my face. “You said you’ll be my first. It’s just a matter of time. Why not tonight?”

“Because you’re not ready, and you don’t trust me. Because you’re scared and one button away from bolting out of here. Because you’re only doing it for me. Should I keep going? I said I’ll be your first, Layla, but I also said I’ll wait.”

I’m expecting a phone call from the Academy in the morning because I just won the Nobel Peace Prize by a landslide. I’m twenty-eight. There’s nothing unusual about sex, nothing that’d justify making such a fuss. Sex is normal. Natural. It’s an inseparable companion to any relationship. There’s nothing extraordinary about it.

For me.

Layla’s innocent, untouched, and that makes sex a big deal. I won’t fuck this up for her. Or let her fuck it up. Especially if first thing tomorrow morning, my status would change from in a relationship to it’s complicated or worse, single.

“But—”

“You can’t even look at me, Layla.”

Her cheeks flush pink, but she meets my eyes, pecking my lips. “You care about me…” A mixture of embarrassment and glee flashes across her face.

I let her go, jerking to a sitting position. Lust deflates from my body with a hiss, leaving no trace to prove it was there five seconds ago. “Was that a test?”

“No! of course not.” She wraps her hands around me, her cheek pressed against my back. “I just want to do something nice for you. Reciprocate somehow.”

“Reciprocate?!” I jump out of bed, ready to punch the fucking wall. “What for? A few dresses?!”

“Dante—”

I slam the bedroom door behind me hard enough to rattle the frame. Pinching a cigarette between my teeth, I march outside in nothing but boxer shorts despite the cold evening. I tug on my hair, digging my fingers into the nape of my neck, feeling fucking powerless. She drives me up the wall, that girl. She’s not supposed to think she owes me anything.

She’s mine.

I take care of what’s mine.

Always.

I hang my head low, inhaling and exhaling the smoke. Five deep drags clear my head enough that I start seeing past the rage. The freezing air helps too. Sex was my go-to thing whenever I needed to let off some steam, but that’s not been an option since Layla stumbled into my life. My temper rears its head more often, the pent-up frustration kicking my crazy into overdrive.

I throw the cigarette over the balcony railing, heading back upstairs, expecting to see Layla packed and ready to leave.

Nothing further from the truth.

She’s right where I left her, sitting on the bed, all buttoned up, legs under the sheets. She’s nineteen. Nine years younger than me, but she’s much more mature. It’s true what they say about men. We only mature up to a certain age and then grow old. Women, on the other hand, mature throughout their lives.

“I’m sorry, it came out wrong. I just—”

“I’m not a horny teen, Star.” I sit beside her, running my hands through my hair. “Sex can wait. There are plenty of appetizers before we move onto the mains, and we won’t until I know you’re ready. Until I know you want to take that step. Understood?” I kiss her head. “Don’t ever tell me you want to reciprocate. I’ll spoil you because you’re mine, not because I expect something in return.”

She bites her lip, playing with her fingers. “I probably believe you’re here for me and that I’m Switzerland.”

“Probably?” I smirk. “You have to know it. Believe me, baby, when you’re ready, I won’t let you out of bed for a very long time.” I fall back, my head hitting the pillow, and I tie my hands under my head.

Layla lays down beside me, her lips swollen from my kisses. “You’re not making this easy, are you?” She nuzzles into my side. “I shouldn’t want to love you.”

Love?

She wants to love me?

One sentence and the arrogant fucker I am turns into a plush toy. “You’re delirious, Star. You must be exhausted.” I wrap my arms around her, kissing her head.

I hope she’ll love me.

I hope she won’t be able to live without me because I sure as hell can’t imagine my life without her.