Layla

She responds in kind, threading her fingers through my hair, tilting her body more toward mine. She presses her breasts against my chest, and a sensational pull rolls through me. I want on top of her, inside of her. I want my mouth to cover every inch of her. I want to hear every single sound she’s capable of making, and I want my hands and my tongue to be responsible for those sounds.

The kiss has only gone on for a matter of seconds, but it’s long enough that an ache inside of me builds and builds to the point that the kiss becomes painful.

It becomes sad.

I’ve never had so many emotions run through me during a single kiss before, but I run through every feeling my body and mind are capable of until the one I want the least consumes me the most.

I ache everywhere, but it’s the most prominent in my chest. It hurts so much I’m forced to pull away from her and suck in air because I feel like my heart is being strangled.

I roll onto my back and try to catch my breath, but there isn’t enough air in this world to ease this feeling.

I find Willow’s hand, and I hold it, but it’s all I can do. I can’t kiss her again. I can’t go through that with her again, knowing she’s not someone I get to keep for the rest of my life.

I shouldn’t have done that. Now I don’t want to leave. The only thing that feels important to me now is making sure Willow doesn’t have to spend another day alone in this house.

I’m full of an immense need to find answers for why Willow is stuck in her world, because I desperately need her to get stuck in mine.

I tilt my head to look at her, and when I do, I wish I wouldn’t have. It just makes it worse because she’s looking back at me with a broken heart. She rolls toward me and tucks her head in the crook of my neck, curling herself around me. “Every time I have to leave her body, it feels like a punishment. Every night, over and over. It’s torture.”

I wrap my arms around her, wishing I could fix everything for her. But I can’t.

I’ve just made it all so much worse.CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The bed is empty when I wake up. I touch Layla’s pillow and run my hand over it, as if Willow is still lying there. Maybe she is.

I sit up to check the time, but I can’t find my phone. I look on the floor. On the bed. It isn’t in here.

Did Layla take it?

I rush downstairs to find her, my fear two steps ahead of me as I wonder why she took my phone and what she might be seeing on it. A conversation with Willow, the app for the security system. I rush into the kitchen, but Layla isn’t there. I search the Grand Room, the downstairs bedrooms. I open the back door, but she isn’t out by the pool.

I run to the front door and swing it open.

Layla is sitting on the porch steps, staring out over the front yard. There’s a cigarette in her hand.

“What are you doing?”

She doesn’t turn around to look at me, which makes me wonder what she found out. There are so many things. The cameras, the conversations on my laptop, the kiss last night.

I walk tentatively toward the steps and watch as Layla takes in a slow drag of the cigarette. “I wasn’t aware you smoked,” I say.

She blows the smoke out. “I don’t. But I keep some hidden in my purse for when I’m stressed.” She cuts her eyes at me, looking over her shoulder. I’m not sure what it is that caused that betrayal in her expression, but she definitely uncovered something.

I keep my voice steady when I say, “What’s wrong, Layla?”

She looks away from me again. Her voice is flat when she says, “Why didn’t you tell me you were buying this house?”

I lean my head back and blow out a silent breath of relief. I thought maybe she might have found the security footage. I wouldn’t have been able to explain that.

But I expected her to be mad about this.

I’m even okay that she knows about it. I planned to tell her today anyway. “How did you find out?”

“The Realtor just stopped by.” Layla jams her cigarette onto the wooden step next to her, and it feels like an insult. “The contract is on the kitchen counter. She’d like it back by the end of the day.”

I’ve never seen her this angry. Her sentences are tight, and she won’t look me in the eye. “Layla. It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“The hell it was,” she says. She stands up and brushes past me, then makes her way into the house and up the stairs.