A Ride Home (1/2)

Derek stole a glance at the beautiful woman in the car next to him. That asshole had deserved more than a single punch to the face for the way he'd insulted her. Derek was beginning to worry that his attachment to her was much greater than her attachment to him.

He had never felt so real.

"I'm beginning to think I should hire you as a chauffeur." Layla turned her head where it rested on the headrest of her passenger seat and smiled.

She'd sobered up some after he forced her to eat and take a walk down Main Street, but she'd still been in no condition to drive after leaving The Rooster. This time Derek wasn't going to let her rely on a friend of a friend to get her car home, and he wasn't going to let her crash in the music store, either.

The bar wasn't very far from Layla's place. A walk back to the main road so he could get his own car after he dropped her off would be good for him. Clear night, bright stars, and crisp air with just a lick of warmth to it. More than you could hope to ask for in October.

If he'd bought a damn bed for his own house, he could have invited her back there. He made a mental note to go furniture shopping. What was so wrong about enjoying the house he'd paid cash for? You needed a bed for that, right?

He was tired of other people making his decisions for him.

"Okay, but I should warn you...I don't charge money. You'll have to pay me in kisses." Derek said it as a half-joke, but his dick stirred just at the thought of her lips against his.

He pulled her car up close to her porch and turned off the ignition, feeling an awful lot like a horny teenage boy bringing home his date past curfew but still hoping to cop a feel before they got caught.

"Wait." She grabbed his arm as if to hold him in place. "Leave the radio on."

Derek did as she said and watched as she connected her phone to the radio. Her fingers moved on the screen, the glow from it dancing in her dark eyes.

"There," she said. The opening notes of the first movement of the Chopin sonata that had been playing the first time he drove her home and that he'd played for her in the music store filled the car. She unbuckled her seatbelt and shifted in her seat, angling her body toward his. "Perfect. This is our song."

The statement punched him in the chest as surely as if Brody had taken an actual swing at him back at the bar, awakening a keen sense of longing. He couldn't tell if it was the alcohol making her say something like that, so open, so intimate when every other time they spoke she would say almost anything to keep him distant. He couldn't tell her that he'd been thinking of it as their song since she'd kissed him on the piano bench.

"We have a song now?" He tried to make it sound like he was teasing, but even he could hear the hope in his voice. Yup. He was definitely in over his head with her.

"Yes." She nodded, oblivious to his inner turmoil. "All four movements. Obviously the last one is my favorite..."

"Obviously." Derek wanted to hold her hand. Isn't that what people did when they were listening to "their song?" And then maybe he could kiss her. Just a little.

They were old enough to be out past curfew.

"But tonight I think we should listen to them in order." She lifted her chin. He could see the challenge in her eyes, even in the dark. God he loved that about her.

He gave himself a mental shake. He needed to stop loving things about her.

She was acting like they hadn't fought the other night, and that was fine with him. He didn't want to fight with his Ms. M.

But he just knew that in the light of morning she'd begin to see things her way again. She'd make sure he knew loving anything about her was an impossibility because she had him all figured out.

"You defended my honor. I think we deserve a song to commemorate the occasion."

Derek nodded solemnly. "Nothing says punching a guy in the face quite like Chopin."

"Precisely." She grinned at him.

His heart thudded in his chest. "I probably should go."

He didn't want to go.

"Don't you dare disrespect the sanctity of our song by leaving." Layla grabbed his arm again, her fingers soft and warm against his skin.

He reclined his seat and made himself comfortable. "Yes, Ms. M."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the music wash over them in that way that seemed to come so naturally to them. He wanted to touch her, to taste her, but he wouldn't. It was so fucking hard to be that close to her and not touch her...but he needed her to know that he wasn't that guy.

That Chopin in the dark was more than enough for him. Just being with a woman like her was more than he was used to.

His dick didn't care about his resolve, though, and the silence gave him plenty of time to remember what it was like to be inside her, nothing between them at all. The warmth, the tightness. The way she'd looked in the moments before, down on her knees in front of him. All that hair, that dark silk around her face, brushing his thighs.

Her fingers on his arm right now, tracing lines on his skin in time with the music as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he almost couldn't bear it. If Layla looked down at his lap now, she'd be able to see exactly what he was thinking about.

Before he could stop himself, he reached over and wrapped the ends of her hair where it fell over her bare shoulder around one finger. Just a little touch couldn't hurt.

It was a compulsion, the need to have his fingers in her hair, and he didn't know where it came from. He'd never felt the need before with any of the other women he'd been with. It was just with her.

It was beginning to feel like so many things were just with her.

Her eyes drifted shut as he twined her hair tighter, and he could tell she liked the sensation. His dick hardened even more, straining uncomfortably against the confines of his pants.

And just like that, she was on him, climbing over the armrest so she could straddle him in the dark. As she settled in with her knees braced on the driver's seat, her skirt rode up high on her thighs, taunting him. His hands instinctively found her hips, and it was everything he could do not to force her down onto his lap so he could grind into her.

"You shouldn't...this isn't a good idea. You've been drinking." It was a brilliant fucking idea. Bad, but fucking brilliant.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she wouldn't regret this tomorrow when she remembered who she thought he was.

"Shut it, Mr. Fancy Pants. I'm not drunk, and I know exactly what I'm doing." She grabbed the hem of that sexy-as-hell sweater and pulled it over her head.

It was dark, but there was just enough light from the almost full moon and the porch light to knock him speechless. He knew the moment he saw her she wasn't wearing a bra, but the sight of her bare breasts, nipples puckering at the sudden exposure to the air, stripped him of even the pretense of resolve.

He needed to be inside her. Just one more time.

Layla tossed her sweater on the empty seat, then grabbed his hands, pushing one palm into each breast. He spread his fingers out, testing their weight as she leaned slightly over him. She was full and soft, overflowing the span of his hand just a little. He squeezed and she arched her back, her nipples rolling in the palms of his hands.

She leaned over and kissed his neck, her mouth wet and hot against his ear. "You said you'd make me pay you in kisses. Think of this as a well-earned bonus."

"Are you sure about this?" His words, raspy and raw in his own ears, trailed off to a groan because she nipped at his neck as she began to frantically work on opening his fly.

Layla smiled triumphantly when it gave under her fingers, and her hand found his dick. She wrapped her fingers around the length with one hand, while trying to pull down his pants with the other. He lifted his hips, and she released him just long enough to yank his pants down, exposing him completely.

Somehow she managed all this while crammed into the driver's seat on top of him. Talk about determination.