Pay Back (The Ferrari Family Book 3) Page 9

  No.

  There was not.

  No one could call me to pull me away, especially since tomorrow was a Saturday. No business was so urgent as to require my attention tonight, and if so, too bad. The return of Layla Ferrari was worth whatever loss of financial revenue I might suffer if a business problem required my attention.

  The only thing that mattered was that I show how I felt about Layla Ferrari, and that came not just in mutual pleasure, but in mutual company through the course of the darkest hours of the day.

  Her hands had reached into my pants, though they had not yet grasped at my groin. But my pleasure would come second to hers; she had experienced so much pain in the last five years that the least I could do was provide the best kind of pleasure possible in the next five minutes. So with the same bold assertiveness that I prided myself on, I took her hands, pulled them out of my pants, and pinned them against the bed.

  “Ohhh,” she said. “Now this is the Pierre I like to remember.”

  And this is the Layla I like to remember.

  I said nothing as I went to kiss her, then moved my kisses down her neck. All these years later, I still remembered how the kisses on her neck were the kind of thing that could turn her on in an instant. We could be lying in bed, sweaty, disgusting, and without a shower for a day and a half, and if I so much as brushed my lips on her neck, it was like she had become the second coming of Aphrodite. For as much as people might have thought I preferred to seduce or charm with my words, there was nothing quite like the act of winning over a woman’s heart and mind with a simple touch in the right spot.

  After I had her riled up enough that she was saying my name less to call my attention and more to beg for me to do more, I had her sit up briefly so I could strip her dress off. With nothing but her bra and underwear still on, I felt like a painter staring at a blank canvas, except I had already worked on my masterpiece and merely needed to retrace it. And like I had said, all of these years later, and I still remembered what made Layla turn on and what didn’t.

  For example, she liked her breasts being played with. She liked her collarbone being kissed. But she absolutely loved when I kissed and licked her belly and made a trail down to her groin. As much as she writhed from the kisses of my tongue, I believe the proximity of my tongue to her sex made her whole body shake whenever I got to her belly. It was like the anticipation on the neck was mostly about what would eventually happen; here, it was what would happen very soon.

  But there was another aspect that Layla so loved.

  She loved to be teased.

  It had worked out rather well the first time we had ever been intimate; it was my natural desire to go slow, on the basis that an orgasm delivered after ten minutes of foreplay had an explosion more than double that of an orgasm that came after five minutes of foreplay. But with Layla, it felt like that orgasm had been perhaps a dozen times greater. Obviously, sexual release had no quantitative measurement, but I swore I never heard a woman say my name in conjunction with the Lord’s name quite so often as that first time I had gotten Layla off.

  Tonight, I would take even more time in teasing her.

  I pressed my face against her underwear, feeling the warmth radiating from her, her wetness just craving my tongue and cock. I made a move to bite on the top of her clothing and remove it, but then stopped at the last second.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Pierre,” she cried out.

  But I knew that just because she asked for one thing didn’t mean that was what she truly wanted. Hell, I wanted to come within three seconds of a woman wrapping her lips around me; that didn’t mean I wouldn’t have enormous pleasure from letting it play out. So instead, I ran kisses up the inside of her thigh, up to her knee, and then back down. She wasn’t much of a foot gal, but the inside of her thighs were like playing the harp of her body.

  I repeated on the other side, and by now, Layla was warm and wet enough that I thought she might just take her panties off herself and force me down there. Certainly, the grip of her hands and the claws of her fingers into my hair suggested that patience was running thin and desire was running thick. Admittedly, perhaps not as much time had gone by, but let’s face it—we’d had five years of hatred and five minutes of forgiveness. I would never say it out loud, but that had to provide some sort of sexual stimulant for the moment.

  So knowing that Layla might murder me if I did not get to the point, this time, I pulled her panties off. For a second, I just stood there, admiring her naked body. No one had curves quite like her; no one had beauty matching her. A man in my position had access to many women that might have been considered hot on social media or by the press, but I had always known that it was the woman in the shadows, the woman who avoided the spotlight, the woman who knew she was worth more than her body that, ironically, very often had the best body of them all.

  And right now, with her hourglass figure, her curvy body, her tanned skin, and her fierce eyes, I knew that I truly was looking at God’s greatest creation.

  “Don’t just sit there!” Layla said, raising her legs up on my shoulders.

  OK, perhaps it is time to get to the point.

  I laid on my stomach, kissed the inside of her thighs, and then kissed the skin just above her clit. I hovered over her, letting just a couple more seconds of anticipation pass. And then…

  I kissed her clit.

  “Oh, fuck!” she screamed, shaking.

  If one kiss was going to get her off like this…

  I smiled. It was not just good to be back. It felt like I was long due.

  I pressed my lips onto hers, sparing no space between her clit and my tongue, and I went to work, sucking, kissing, licking, pressing, and doing everything else I could think and could remember. Layla shook, groaned, and bounced her hips on the bed. She was a lot more active than I remembered her being, but perhaps that was a function of this buildup, this desire that we had not had the chance to live out in some time.

  Actually, I did wonder then how long and how often she had thought of me, but that was a question for another hour. For now…

  I knew I was getting her close when her head tilted back and she grabbed a pillow, putting it over her face. She had never been a quiet one when she came, and though I encouraged her to let it out—it was a bit vain on my part, but I liked to feel the pride of having my work known—she was too shy, too anxious to do that. Maybe when we wind up at one of our respective homes.

  Thinking that far ahead, huh, Pierre?

  Even through the pillow, her gasps and her muffled cries were growing faster, more and more stilted, more and more like a pant. She said my name repeatedly, and her whole body tensed.

  “So close, so close,” she said multiple times.

  My tongue was actually starting to tire out a bit, and her arching her hips so much was making it a tad difficult to breathe. But no matter what, I swore I would not stop until she pushed me off. If I could get her to experience rolling orgasms, all the better; I would sooner pass out as atonement for the last five years than stop mid-orgasm just so I could get a breath of fresh air.

  “Ah, ah—”

  There it was. Right on the edge. I’d driven her to the edge. I took my hands, grabbed the sides of her thighs, and squeezed with all my might. I had originally done this almost by accident the first time, a way to hold her still while she came, but it actually turned out to be one of those things that absolutely enthralled her and drove her mad.

  The instant my thumbs and my other four fingers pressed down, as if trying to pinch together, she let out a shriek. It was a delightful shriek, and I closed my eyes and just concentrated on going as long and as hard as I could. It was like riding a bull, but this was a bull I knew well; I would ride her to the end.

  She writhed. She screamed. She shook.

  And then...

  She pushed me away.

  She panted. She took a few seconds to catch her breath.

  And then she started laughing.

 
“Oh, my God, Pierre,” she said.

  She sounded like she was trying to get more out, but she just struggled so hard to say anything. The breathless statement still held true.

  I used the pause to reach for a condom in my wallet, ready to use at a moment’s notice. I presumed nothing, but…

  “How...you remembered…”

  I kept quiet.

  “You remembered...everything…”

  She sat up, grabbed me by the collar, and pushed me on my back. It was an aggressive move I hadn’t seen her do before; perhaps she had gained quite a bit of confidence in the years since. She straddled me naked, looked right into my eyes, and had the fiercest gaze I had ever seen a woman have.

  “And now,” she said. “I’m going to give it to you.”

  She went down and bit—yes, not nibbled, bit—my neck. It was a little more than I expected, and I had to tell her to slow down. But she just laughed, shrugged, and went back—albeit this time a little more gently.

  Well, that was until she started to take my clothes off. If I had tried to dance around her body delicately, treating everything with the goal of moving slowly, Layla had become like an animal on the hunt. She had found her prey. Moving slow would only let it get away; she had to move aggressively and fast.

  I helped her get my shirt off. When she got down to my belt, she practically whipped it off and snapped it right in front of my face.

  “Yeah? You like it?” she said. “Wait until you see more.”

  Where did this Layla come from? I thought. I certainly wasn’t complaining. It was just so different than the Layla I was used to that I couldn’t help but ask the question.

  She unbuttoned my pants, reached down, found my cock, and began stroking and toying with it immediately. I groaned at the pleasure, especially how she played with the tip. She, too, seemed to remember a thing or two about what best got me off.

  “Oh, fuck me,” I said.

  “You want me to?” she said with a devilish grin. “I am more than ready to have you inside of me.”

  Oh, what a shame. To be skipping getting oral to go straight to being inside of her. What an utmost tragedy.

  “Fuck, yes,” I said.

  I ripped open the wrapper, pushed my pants down, and slid it on, all under the watchful and sexually charged eye of Layla. She looked as if at any moment she might just take the condom, chuck it to the side out of impatience, and jump on me. Or, maybe she’d just get on me even before it was ready.

  But that didn’t happen. Layla may have been sexually crazed for me, but she wasn’t crazy in general. She was never someone I had to worry about “cheating the system,” as it were.

  Once I had it on, she crawled forward, dragging her breasts over my body, before she engaged me in a passionate, erotic kiss. Our lips could barely stay together as we kissed with such vigor and lust. My cock was so hard that I wasn’t sure how long I would last, and already, I could feel the outer edges of her sex grinding on it and half-enveloping it.

  “Oh, baby,” she murmured. “I want you inside me. Fuck yes.”

  Unlike before, when I had closed my eyes right before the big moment, I kept mine wide open. I wanted to see all of Layla as she took me in her for the first time in ages; I wanted to look into her eyes after five years of disappointment and see relief and joy return to them.

  She sat up, her hair falling over her face, as she reached back and grabbed my cock. She slid me in.

  Oh, fuck, she was just as tight as I remembered.

  And her eyes...the way they lit up...with the little soft moan that followed…

  “Oh, Layla,” I said.

  And then she put her hands on my chest, dug in, and worked her hips on mine.

  To describe it as pleasurable was an understatement of impossible proportions. A condom was usually a block for me not so much because it worked, but because the pleasure was rarely great enough to get me to come. It would take something like oral or even manual to get me to release.

  Here with Layla, to be honest, I knew I would not last more than a couple minutes. Right off the bat, the intensity, heightened by the external circumstances, made my goal not so much to feel pleasure as to just not come so quickly. If I could at least last long enough so that she was feeling the hints of a second orgasm, then my job was done.

  Her on top, especially with her controlling everything, was the position in which I was least likely to come fast, so to be frank, I just let her do everything at first. And wouldn’t you know it, it seemed to work quite well—Layla’s cries grew louder and louder, her hips moved faster and faster, and her pussy clenched harder and harder on my cock.

  “Oh, fuck!” she grunted several times.

  And then, once again, I could feel the release of her sex pulsating around my cock as she continued to grind with ferocious velocity over me. Her legs tightened around me. Her body quivered.

  And then she came forward and kissed me. Once I felt enough time had passed, I rolled her over, staying inside of her the whole time, and started to thrust. Knowing I’d now made her come twice, it was simply a question of how much energy I had before she finished.

  Turned out, the answer was “not much.” Almost immediately, I could feel the seed forming at the base of my shaft, and then slowly starting to rise. My grunts turned into high-pitched murmurs and pants, unable to say anything but Layla’s name. Though I was the one thrusting and she was the one lying there, I was under her spell, sucked into her and unable to exit without first finishing.

  “Layla, Layla...oh, baby.”

  I bit my lip, buried my head into her shoulder, closed my eyes, and thrusted as hard as I could. The cum was...right...there...right…

  And with the force of a sudden release, I came into her. I grunted loudly and shook, my whole body quivering and shaking on top of her, as I let loose my seed. Oh, fuck, yes! Yes!

  Oh, my...oh, heavens…

  I hadn’t finished with a condom on in ages.

  But more than that…

  Layla Ferrari.

  She and I had been intimate again.

  And it wasn’t some passionate hate fuck or something ridiculous like that. It wasn’t an encounter based on how much we despised each other. It was…

  It was a reunion after days of regret at seeing the other.

  But I didn’t feel any regret right now. And judging by the way Layla gently ran her hands over my body, I didn’t sense any regret from her. She kissed me very, very gently on the neck and cheek as I tried to come back.

  I pulled out, removed the condom, stood up, tossed it in a trash can, and went back over to the bed, feeling like jelly. I landed on my back, reached my arm out, and pulled Layla in close.

  I had to admit, I had always wondered what the two of us would say after we’d had sex again, if we ever did again. In the years prior, when I’d thought of this moment, I had imagined some sort of epic apology, some sort of profound statement to never do it again, some sort of admission of growth. I couldn’t speak for Layla, but the fact that she had initiated much of today’s encounter told me that she’d probably had this moment in mind for some time too, if only on the subconscious.

  But here, right now, in this hotel room, our response wasn’t to say anything.

  It was to say nothing.

  Because what more could we say that our actions had not?

  Within minutes, I could hear Layla falling asleep. I closed my eyes too.

  It was the easiest sleep I’d gotten in years.

  Chapter 11: Layla

  The first thing I noticed when I woke up was I was naked.

  No, I had not forgotten what had happened last night. I had not somehow gotten so drunk that I’d forgotten everything that went down. I was just not the brightest morning person.

  The second thing I noticed when I woke up was I was naked next to Pierre, who was also naked.

  We’d gone from a full-blown, serious conversation all the way to a night of sex.

  What the fuck did I
just do?

  I didn’t “regret” the action in that I felt ashamed of it or wished I had not done it. I didn’t hate myself for doing it. But it felt like I had defied karma or fate, like the forces of the world had told me five years ago “do not associate with this man” and now I had given a giant middle finger to that idea. I felt like there was bound to be another shoe to drop, and when it dropped, I would discover that it had a giant block of cement inside of it.

  This fear and this paranoia became so great, actually, that a part of me wanted to blame Pierre, to say that I was manipulated or tricked into sex. That part of me, though weaker than it was four days ago, had not disappeared even through our conversation. If Pierre had managed to seduce me again, then he had somehow done the impossible. I would feel even more ashamed of myself, more embarrassed, and I would definitely never return to France if so.

  And it wouldn’t be so much because of Pierre being a potential dick, but because I had chosen to do this. I was the one who initiated the kiss. I was the one who first grabbed him in a way that told him to push further. I was the one who had taken this from intimate conversation to intimate physical pleasure.

  Clearly, five years of hatred were not so much a sign that I’d never sleep with him again as they were a sign that I had never let go of my feelings toward him.

  He rolled over, and for a second, I thought he might awaken. I had to admit, seeing his supple body, his toned shoulders—even if they weren’t broad or shaped like boulders—and his bearded face was enough to get me tingling and aroused again. It was rare for me to look at a man’s physical appearance alone and feel excited, but Pierre could do it.

  But then what?

  My flight was on Monday morning, so I had, at most, a little under forty-eight hours left to do whatever I wanted before having to head to the airport. Were we just going to repeat what had happened five years ago, except with a less abrupt goodbye? Were we just going to fuck each other’s brains out for the remainder of that time?

  Or were we trying to see if there was something a little more there? It sure seemed like for all of the conversations that we had had and all of the connection we had developed in the past day or so, it would have been a damn shame if this culminated in nothing more than a twice-a-year weekend of sex at the most. There was no doubt that we had the potential for much more, but…