Turning to Yolanda, Layla made up an excuse about needing to take off. “I forgot, I have a meeting with my editor.”
“OK,” Yolanda said. “We’ll have to talk again before you leave Atlanta.”
“We will. Just give me a call,” Layla said as she grabbed her purse and turned toward the exit. Reed followed her outside, to her dismay and delight. She wanted to talk to him, but she needed to get away from him. Away from the heat that she felt when she looked at him and the yearning in her chest. She hated Zora Daniels and she’d never met the woman. It wasn’t as if Zora had taken anything from her. She and Reed were the past and if Zora was his future, congratulations to her.
“Layla, wait,” Reed said.
He closed the space between them, pulled her into his arms and kissed her like a man who wasn’t getting married. Like a man who wanted to make love to her on the hood of her car. Layla’s body responded in kind as she pressed her hips into his, marveling at the hardness pressing against her thighs. His tongue invaded her mouth and she surrendered to it. When his hands roamed the small of her back, Layla moaned. He remembered. Knew what that touch did to her. She wanted to wrap her legs around him and feel him thrusting inside her.
But. He. Was. Engaged. To. Someone. Else! Layla snatched away from him and glared at Reed. “What the hell was that?” she demanded.
“You don’t have to ask what that was. I’ve missed you.”
“You missed me so much you’re about to get married, huh?” she snapped.
“Layla,” he moaned.
“Don’t do that. And just for the record, I’m not about to be your last romp before you marry your model chick.”
“You walked away from me, remember?” he said.
“I did the same thing you did, I followed my dreams. What was I supposed to do, turn down the Washington Post because you wanted to come to Atlanta?”
“You didn’t even give us a chance to try and make it work.”
Layla shrugged. “Too late now,” she said. “Think about it like this, after this interview, we never have to see each other again.”
“What if that’s not enough for me?”
“What would Zora think?” Layla asked then stomped away. She couldn’t get in her car fast enough. How in the hell was she going to conduct this interview now?
Zora rolled over on her side and sighed. She loved Paris. She loved Parisian men more –especially the one in her bed. He whispered sweet French words in her ear as he massaged her breasts and she pressed her taut ass against his erection. The sexy model, who’s name escaped her, entered her from behind. Arching her back, Zora bounced against him until he howled and gripped her neck as he came. Rolling over, she pushed him on his back and mounted him, holding his arms above his head.
“I’m not finished with you yet,” she moaned as she began to ride him until she reached her climax. He cried out in French, shivered and clutched her hips, trying to slow her down. Zora’s sensual torture was more than he’d expected and could handle.
“Stop, stop,” he cried. She licked his neck, then bit his bottom lip as she released him from her grip.
Rising from the bed, she looked over her shoulder and said, “You can go now. Like right now.” Zora walked into the bathroom to take a shower. She needed to go get fitted for her wedding dress.