She scoffed, and by the time he’d crossed the back of the car, she was pushing out of the car on her own. He clenched his jaw, meeting her fiery gaze. There was something mischievous there. Yes, she was provoking him. The energy crackled plainly between them.
“I don’t need a man to help me out of the car,” she spat and strutted past him into the building. He balled his fists, stilling his hand. He could have grabbed her by the wrist, spun her around, pinned her to the trunk of the car. Pressed himself against her, asked her if what she really needed was a man to make her feel better. In a way only he could. The image passed before his eyes like a movie, and by the time he could clear his head, she was inside the building, heading for the elevator.
He swore to himself, lingering at the side of the car. The woman in that car wasn’t even a little bit the Layla he’d come to know over the past month. Something was seriously wrong—and more than that, he could taste the desire that dripped from her like honey. She might play this part, but it wasn’t working. She needed him—maybe as a friend or maybe as a lover. Either way, he needed to show up.
Zahir poked his head into the car. In Farsi, he said, “Park the car. I’ll let you know soon if I’ll be coming down.”
He hurried into the building, murmuring the apartment number to himself. He’d helped secure this spot, so he knew exactly what apartment was hers. Sixth floor, number 621. A three bedroom with a hot tub and balcony. He’d opted for something a bit more luxurious than he otherwise might have, since he’d known it would be hers.
He tapped his thumb against the elevator panel as the car rose toward the sixth floor, as though the motion might help alleviate some of the tension in his chest. There was no good reason to go up to her apartment, other than his desperation for her. He wanted to take her into his arms and feel that tension melt away, get back to their witty rapport, smooth out whatever this uncomfortable kink was between them.
When he found her door, he took a deep breath before knocking, not allowing any doubts to creep in and remind him what a bad idea this might be.
He was following his gut, and it told him to go after her.
11
Layla leaned against her front door for what felt like an hour, chest heaving as she struggled to rid herself of the memory of Zahir’s heated gaze. What the fuck had just happened between them? It was like teenage rebellion mixed with professional suicide. And there she was, trapped in the middle, desperate to let him in but terrified to admit the truth.
She smoothed her palms against the cool door behind her, replaying the evening in her head. This would make work awkward as hell from now on. She hadn’t intentionally wanted to ruin things between them. But on the other hand, the only way forward might be ruining their sexual attraction. There was just no happy medium with Zahir. She needed all of him or nothing.
Just come back, Zahir. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling tears prick her eyes. She wanted him in a way she could scarcely understand, much less rationalize. But his warmth by her side, the steadiness of his energy…god, that would help right about now.
Knock knock knock.
She jolted, spinning to face the door. It was nearly eight p.m. Nobody visited her without calling first. And her only real visitor was Marian, who had gone home with Omar.
Knock knock.
She gulped, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth, and peered through the peep hole. Zahir stood on the other side, a hand propped up on the doorframe outside. He looked wrecked, gnawing at the inside of his lip.
Holy shit. Holy shit. Her heart raced as she contemplated a plan. But what could she do? She’d come apart with him inches away, inside her own living space. This was doomed. And in a way…she was grateful for it.
She tugged open the door, a shocked silence passing between them. Their eyes locked, Zahir looking at her as though searching for permission to come in. She didn’t move—couldn’t move, when those obsidian eyes absorbed every last ounce of her willpower. Her breaths turned sharp and shallow.
“Layla,” was all he said.
She grabbed his wrist, bringing him inside the apartment. He kicked the door shut behind him, his warm, rough hands cupping her cheeks. Her eyes fluttered shut, whimpering against the tenderness, relief washing through her.
“I needed to make sure you were okay.” His arms slid around her waist, bringing her against him. She palmed the flat planes of his chest, head spinning.
“I wasn’t.” Her forehead dropped to his chest. “But I am now.”
His breath came out hot by her ear. She clutched at the front of his shirt, letting the slow washes of desire consume her. Heat singed her, burned away the last of her resistance. He’d shown up, despite her shitty attitude, despite her coldness. And god, it felt like a sign. At the very least, a sign that it was time to just give in to all the feelings she’d been battling for the past few weeks. Let go of the confusion of the test result, abandon all the what-ifs and what-nows.
Zahir would be her release. The only one she craved.
His hand smoothed over the curve of her jaw, nudging her head back. She looked up at him, drinking in the intensity of his gaze, the dark stubble on his jaw, the tiny mole on his cheekbone.
“So can I come in?” He smiled devilishly, which made her giggle. His lips smashed against hers then, a needy kiss quaking between them, causing a low, strangled moan to erupt from her, one she didn’t even recognize.
Zahir cupped the s
ides of her head as they kissed, one kiss bleeding into another. Her lips tingled, body on fire. This. This is exactly what she’d needed, the entire damn time. Denying it was a sin, one that she was forced to commit for the sake of her job. But tonight, it didn’t matter.
They stumbled into her apartment, Layla leading them blindly toward the couch. They reached the edge and she fell backwards, laughing as her ass met the soft cushion. Zahir stood above her, commanding and dark, his gray slacks bearing a telltale ridge in the crotch.
“Work used to be easy for me,” Zahir said, his eyes on his shirt cuffs as he unbuttoned each wrist. His thick fingers moved to his shirtfront then, undoing each button in turn. “But now, it’s fucking torture. Because every day, you’re there. In the office next to me. And I can’t touch you or kiss you or do fucking anything.”