EPISODE 15- That's My World
Layla's POV
I feel him everywhere. The hard, deep pulse of his thrusts. The scrape of his stubble on my neck. The desperate clutch of his fingers in my hair. My body is no longer my own—it's a vessel for the raw, shuddering waves of pleasure he's pulling from me. My second climax is a slow, deep, unravelling, a molten unspooling of my very core around the relentless thickness of him.
He feels it, too. His rhythm shatters. A guttural, broken sound tears from his throat, harsh in the quiet cabin. "Layla… fuck…"
His hips piston, losing all finesse, driving into me with a final, desperate urgency. I can feel the exact moment he comes—a hot, rhythmic surge against the barrier of the condom, the full-body tremor that wracks his frame, the way his entire weight sinks onto me as he buries his face in the crook of my neck with a shuddering sigh.
We are a tangled, sweat-slicked mess of trembling limbs. The only sounds are the crackle of the fire, the wind outside, and our ragged, mingled breaths.
He is heavy. Solid. Real. I don't want him to move. My arms are weak as they come up to circle his back, my fingers tracing the tense, damp muscles. My legs are still loosely hooked around his hips, holding him inside me. I can feel him softening, but the intimate, full feeling is profound.
Minutes pass. The heat of our bodies under the wool blanket is stifling, but I'd rather suffocate than break this connection.
Finally, he shifts, his weight rolling to the side. He pulls out gently, and I feel a sudden, empty chill. He disposes of the condom in a small trash can by the bed, his movements slow, weary. Then he's back, pulling the blanket over us both and gathering me against him, my back to his front. His arm is a steel band around my waist, his nose buried in my hair.
"Jesus," he murmurs, his voice gravelly and spent.
I can only hum in agreement, my mind blissfully blank, my body humming with a deep, satisfied ache.
We lie there for a long time, just breathing. The firelight dances on the wooden beams above. I've never felt so sated. So… peaceful. The rumours, my mother, Veronica Thorne—they're all ghosts from another world. Here, there is only this. His heat. His scent. The steady beat of his heart against my spine.
His hand strokes idle patterns on my stomach. "You okay?"
I nod against the pillow. "More than okay."
"Good." He kisses my shoulder. "Because I'm not done with you."
A fresh, delicious tremor runs through me. Not done. The words shouldn't thrill me this much. My body is sensitive and overstimulated. And yet, a low, answering thrum of desire sparks deep in my belly. Yes. More.
He must feel the subtle tightening of my muscles. His hand slides lower, his palm flattening over the thatch of curls between my thighs. He doesn't press. Just rest it there, a heavy, possessive weight.
"Still so wet," he observes, his voice thick with a new hunger. "Even after that."
I bite my lip. My hips give a tiny, involuntary rock against his hand. A silent plea.
He chuckles, a dark, warm sound. "Greedy girl."
His fingers part me, finding my swollen, hypersensitive flesh. I gasp as a single finger glides through my slickness, circling my clit with a feather-light touch that is pure torture.
"Ethan…" I moan, pushing back against him.
"Shhh," he soothes, his mouth on my neck. "Just feel."
He explores me with a lazy, maddening patience. One finger, then two, sliding inside me with an easy glide. I'm so open, so pliant from our coupling. He crooks his fingers, finding a spot that makes me jolt and cry out.
"There," he whispers, like he's cataloging it. He rubs that spot in a slow, circular motion inside me while his thumb takes up a relentless rhythm on my clit.
It's too much. It's not enough. My third orgasm builds not as a crashing wave, but as a slow, rising tide of pressure. It's deeper, more diffuse, a warm, golden glow spreading from my core out to my fingertips and toes. I'm panting, writhing against his hand, my own hands gripping the hard muscle of his forearm.
"Let it happen," he urges, his breath hot on my ear. "Just let go. I've got you."
His words are the final key. The tide crests and spills over in a soft, continuous cascade of pleasure. It's less violent than the others, but longer, a sweet, shuddering release that leaves me boneless and whimpering.
He holds me through it, his fingers gentling but never stopping until the last tremor fades. Then he withdraws his hand and brings his fingers to his mouth. I hear him suck them clean, a low sound of appreciation that sends a fresh blush across my skin.
He spoons me tighter. "You're incredible."
I'm too spent to speak. I just nuzzle back into him.
I must drift off, because the next thing I know, the fire has burned lower and the room is cooler. Ethan is asleep behind me, his breathing deep and even. Carefully, I extricate myself from his arms. He mutters something but doesn't wake.
I need water. And, I realize with a sharp, sudden urgency, I need to see him. All of him, in the light. I pad naked to the kitchen, drink deeply from a tin cup under the pump sink. The water is cold and pure.
I turn, leaning against the rough counter, and look at him.
He's sprawled on his back now, one arm flung above his head. The wool blanket is tangled around his hips, leaving his chest bare. The lantern light etches every defined line of his abdomen, the powerful cut of his shoulders. His face, in sleep, is younger. Softer. The arrogant mask is completely gone. This is the boy behind the smile. Vulnerable. Beautiful.
My heart clenches with a feeling so fierce it steals my breath. It's more than lust. It's a terrifying, tender ownership. Mine.
As if he feels the weight of my gaze, his eyes flutter open. They find me instantly across the shadowed room. No confusion, just a slow, sleepy focus that sharpens into a blue flame.
"What are you doing over there?" His voice is rough with sleep.
"Looking at you."
A slow, lazy smile spreads across his face. It's a real smile, reaching his eyes, crinkling the corners. It transforms him utterly. "See anything you like?"
I push off the counter and walk slowly back to the bed. "I see everything I like."
I stop at the edge, looking down at him. The power dynamic has shifted. He's supine, exposed. I'm standing over him. I see the flash of understanding in his eyes, and then pure, unadulterated heat.
"Your turn," I say, my voice barely a whisper.
His smile turns wicked. "My turn for what?"
"To be looked at. To be tasted."
His chest expands with a sharp inhale. He doesn't move. He just watches me, his gaze blazing a trail over my naked skin. "Then get over here and do it."
I don't climb onto the bed. I sink to my knees beside it, on the cold plank floor. His eyes track my every movement, darkening with intent.
From this angle, he's a feast. I start with his feet, running my hands up the strong cords of his calves, over his knees. I lean in and press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of his thigh. His skin is warm, salty. I feel the muscle beneath jump.
"Layla…" It's a warning, a plea.
I ignore it. I continue my slow, deliberate exploration. My lips brush over his hip bone. My tongue traces the line that arrows down from his navel, through the crisp, dark hair. He's already hardening again, lying thick against his stomach. I watch, fascinated, as it twitches under my attention.
I don't take him in my mouth immediately. I breathe him in—the musky, uniquely male scent of his skin and our sex. I nuzzle the base of his shaft, planting soft kisses along its length. He groans, his hands fisting in the blanket.
"Please," he grits out. The word is ragged. Perfect.
I finally take the head into my mouth. He's silken, velvety. I swirl my tongue around the crown, tasting the faint, clean salt of him. His hips buck off the mattress slightly.
"Fuck… yes…"
I sink down, taking more of him. He's large, and my jaw stretches. I use one hand to stroke what I can't take, setting a slow, deep rhythm. My other hand cups him beneath, my fingers grazing the sensitive skin of his sac. He is utter, primal masculinity in my hands, in my mouth.
His groans are a continuous, low soundtrack. One of his hands comes down to tangle in my hair, not pushing, just holding. Anchoring. "Look at me," he rasps.
I tilt my eyes up, meeting his burning gaze. The connection is electric. He's watching me take him, his expression one of awed, desperate lust. It's the most intimate thing I've ever done.
I increase my pace, hollowing my cheeks, using my tongue in ways I've only read about. His breathing becomes ragged pants. The hand in my hair tightens.
"I'm gonna come… you have to stop…"
I don't. I take him deeper, humming around him, swallowing against the head of his cock.
That's his undoing. With a shout that echoes off the cabin walls, he comes, hot and pulsing into my mouth. I take it all, swallowing every drop, milking him with my mouth and hand until he's shuddering and spent, collapsing back onto the bed.
I release him gently, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I stay on my knees, watching him recover. His chest is heaving. He looks utterly wrecked. By me.
After a moment, he opens his eyes. They are soft, dazed. He reaches for me, his arm trembling slightly. "Come here."
I crawl up onto the bed and into his arms. He kisses me, deep and searching, tasting himself on my tongue. "You are full of surprises," he murmurs against my lips.
"You bring them out in me."
He arranges us so we're facing each other, our legs tangled. He strokes my cheek, his touch reverent. "No one has ever… no one has ever made me feel like I'm coming apart and being put back together at the same time."
The confession, raw and unguarded, hangs between us.
"What happens when we go back?" I ask the question that's been lurking in the shadows of this perfect room.
His jaw tightens. The mask tries to slip back, but he fights it. "I don't know. He'll be furious. There will be consequences."
"The gala…"
"I'm not going with Veronica." His voice is final. "I'll deal with my father. That's my world. My fight." His eyes search mine. "But I need to know you're in this. That you're not scared of the fallout."
I am terrified. But looking at him, feeling the echo of his body in mine, the fear is a distant thing. "I'm in this."
He pulls me closer, crushing me to him. "Then we face it together." He kisses my forehead. "But not tonight. Tonight, this cabin, this bed… this is ours. The rest of the world doesn't exist."
He's right. For now, it doesn't. The fire dwindles to embers. The deep silence of the wilderness wraps around us like a cloak. And in the dark, with his arms around me, I finally understand what it means to be completely, devastatingly his. And for him to be, just as completely, mine.
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