EPISODE 20- He's Buying Me Off
(Layla's POV)
The city is a glittering, indifferent tapestry behind the cold glass. But the heat in front of me… it's a supernova.
Ethan's mouth is on me.
His tongue, hot and impossibly skilled, finds the centre of my need with the first, devastating stroke. A cry rips from my throat, raw and untamed. My hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft, dark strands, holding on as the world tilts off its axis.
He doesn't just taste me. He worships me.
His lips close around the most sensitive part of me, sucking gently, and my knees buckle. The only thing holding me up is the glass at my back and his strong hands gripping my hips, anchoring me. He groans against me, the vibration travelling straight to my core, which clenches around nothing, a frantic, empty ache.
"Oh, God… Ethan…" My voice is a shattered whisper.
He answers with a deeper, more insistent lick. His tongue traces slow, maddening circles, then plunges inside me. The invasion is exquisite. I can feel every ridge, every flicker. My hips roll forward, seeking more, fucking his face in a rhythm as old as time. He lets me. Encourages me. His hands slide from my hips to my backside, gripping me firmly, tilting me to a better angle.
He's relentless. The wet, hungry sounds are obscene in the vast, silent penthouse. My own moans echo back to me, mingling with them. Pleasure coils tight in my belly, a spring wound to breaking.
His mouth leaves me for a second, and I whimper at the loss. But then I feel his finger, slick with my own arousal, tracing my entrance. He looks up, his eyes midnight blue and burning. The city lights reflect in them, but all I see is raw, primal hunger.
"You taste like heaven," he rasps, his voice wrecked. "I could die here."
He pushes one finger inside me, slowly, as his mouth finds me again. The dual sensation—the slow stretch, the hot, sucking pressure—unravels me. My head thrashes side to side. The glass is cool against my fevered skin. I am laid bare, physically, emotionally, under his gaze and his touch.
He adds a second finger, curling them just so, finding a spot deep inside that makes me see stars. A broken sob escapes me. The coil snaps.
My orgasm crashes over me without warning, a tidal wave of pure, white-hot ecstasy. I convulse around his fingers, my body bowing against the glass. A scream is torn from my lungs, ragged and loud. He drinks it in, his mouth working me through the shuddering waves, prolonging the agony and the bliss until I'm a trembling, boneless mess, supported only by his hands.
He gentles his mouth, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses on my inner thighs as I come down, my chest heaving. He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, his own breathing ragged. He's still fully dressed, a stark contrast to my naked vulnerability. The bulge in his jeans is enormous, straining.
His eyes rake over my spent body, a possessive fire in them. He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. "That was just the beginning," he whispers, his breath hot. "I need to be inside you. Now."
He doesn't wait for an answer. He spins me around, my breasts and cheek pressing against the cool window. The entire city is spread out below us, thousands of lights, thousands of people, none of them knowing we're here, that I'm about to be taken against this glass.
His hands are on my waist, positioning me. I hear the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of clothing. Then I feel him, the blunt, hot head of him, nudging against my slick, sensitive entrance. I'm so wet, so open from his mouth, but he's big. I tense for a second.
"Look," he commands, his voice thick with need. He nudges my chin, forcing my gaze out the window. "Look at it all. And know that none of it matters. Only this."
He pushes forward.
The stretch is incredible, a delicious, burning fullness. He slides in inch by torturous inch, my body yielding to him, welcoming him home. A low, guttural groan tears from his chest as he finally seats himself fully, his hips flush against my backside. We are joined, completely. I can feel every throbbing inch of him inside me.
"Christ, Layla," he breathes, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. "You feel… you feel like everything."
He starts to move.
Slow at first, long, deep strokes that drag against every nerve ending. Each retreat is a sweet agony, each thrust a claiming. The glass rattles faintly with the rhythm. My vision blurs, focused on a distant skyscraper light.
"Harder," I beg, the word a gasp.
He obliges. His grip on my hips tightens, his thrusts becoming more powerful, more urgent. The slapping sound of our bodies meeting fills the room. Pleasure builds again, deeper, more intense than before. Being filled by him like this, with the world at our feet, is the most potent aphrodisiac imaginable.
One of his hands leaves my hip, slides around my stomach, and dips between my legs. His fingers find the swollen, aching bundle of nerves. He rubs tight, perfect circles in time with his thrusts.
It's too much. It's perfect.
"Ethan… I'm gonna…" My warning is a choked cry.
"Come for me," he grunts, his pace becoming frantic, pounding. "Let go. I've got you."
His fingers, his cock, the sheer animal possession of him… it detonates me. My second orgasm is a seismic event, shaking me to my foundations. I scream, the sound muffled by the glass. My inner muscles clamp down on him in violent, rhythmic pulses, milking him.
The sensation pushes him over the edge. With a raw, broken shout of my name, he buries himself to the hilt and releases. I feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release deep inside me, triggering another, smaller aftershock of my own. He holds me there, pinned between him and the city, as we shudder through the shared climax.
Slowly, the world seeps back in. The cool glass. The distant hum of the city. The sound of our ragged breaths fogging the window.
He gently pulls out, and I whimper at the sudden emptiness. He turns me around, cradling me against his chest. He's still half-dressed, his jeans and boxers around his thighs, his sweater rumpled. I'm naked, covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He doesn't seem to care.
He kisses my forehead, my cheeks, my swollen lips. "Okay?" he murmurs.
I nod, unable to speak. I'm more than okay. I'm remade.
He lifts me into his arms as if I weigh nothing. My body aches in the best possible way. He carries me away from the window, through the vast space, into a shadowy hallway, and through a doorway into a bedroom. It's as minimalist as the rest—a huge platform bed with dark linens, more windows.
He lays me down on the cool sheets, then finishes undressing himself, his eyes never leaving me. In the dim ambient light, his body is a sculpture of lean muscle and power. He joins me on the bed, pulling me into his side, my head on his chest. His heart thunders beneath my ear.
We lie in silence for a long time, just breathing. The aftershocks of pleasure still hum through my veins.
"This is ours," he says into the darkness, his voice a low rumble. "This room. This night. He can't touch it."
I believe him. For now.
But the real world is a patient predator. And as my mind begins to clear, a sliver of cold logic intrudes. The photo. Mia's warning. His father's calm, certain threat.
Ethan's breathing evens out into sleep. I lie awake, tracing the lines of his chest with my fingertips.
The peace is beautiful. And it feels desperately fragile.
I must have dozed off, because I'm jerked awake by the vibration of a phone. Not a ringtone. A persistent, angry buzz.
Ethan stirs beside me. In the grey pre-dawn light filtering through the blinds, I see his face tense even before his eyes open. He reaches over me to the nightstand, fumbling for his phone.
He looks at the screen, and his entire body goes rigid.
"What is it?" I whisper, a knot of dread forming in my stomach.
He doesn't answer. He sits up, swinging his legs out of bed. The sheet pools around his waist. His back is to me, muscles taut.
"Ethan?"
"It's my father," he says, his voice flat, devoid of all the warmth from just hours ago. "He's summoned a family breakfast. At the house. In an hour." He turns his head, his profile stark. "He says to bring you."
The words hang in the air like a death sentence. The sanctuary of the penthouse evaporates. The walls feel like they're closing in.
"He wants to meet me?" My voice is small.
Ethan stands, grabbing his jeans. He doesn't look at me. "He doesn't want to meet you. He wants to assess you. To look you in the eye while he lays out the terms of your surrender." He finally turns, his expression a mask of grim resignation. "Get dressed. We don't have a choice."
The drive to the Marshall estate is silent. The Audi feels like a hearse. Ethan's knuckles are white on the wheel. The sun is rising, casting a cruel, beautiful golden light over manicured lawns and towering iron gates that swing open silently as we approach.
The house isn't a house. It's a monument. Georgian style, immense, intimidating in its perfection.
Ethan parks at the foot of sweeping stone steps. He turns to me, reaching out to cup my cheek. His touch is tender, but his eyes are stormy. "Whatever he says. Whatever he offers or threatens. Remember last night. Remember this." He leans in, kissing me hard and quick. "This is real. That," he nods toward the mansion, "is the performance."
We get out. My legs feel like jelly. I'm wearing the same clothes from yesterday, rumpled and smelling of us. I feel cheap. Exposed.
A man in a dark suit opens the massive front door without a word. The foyer is a cavern of marble and oil portraits. It smells of lemon polish and old money.
"In the morning room, sir," the man says, his tone neutral.
Ethan takes my hand, his grip vise-like. He leads me through a maze of opulent rooms until we reach a sun-filled chamber with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking formal gardens. A table is set for three with gleaming silver and china.
Gregory Marshall stands at the window, his back to us. He's tall, broad-shouldered, exactly as Ethan described. An aura of power radiates from him, as tangible as the furniture.
He turns.
His eyes are Ethan's eyes, but where Ethan's can burn with emotion, these are glaciers. They sweep over me, a clinical, dismissive appraisal that makes me feel like a bug under a microscope. He doesn't look angry. He looks… disappointed.
"Ethan," he says. His voice is calm, cultured, and it carries an absolute authority that fills the room. "And you must be Layla. Please, sit."
It's not a request.
We sit. Ethan pulls my chair out, a gesture of defiance in this cold place. Gregory takes his seat at the head of the table. A server appears silently, pouring coffee.
"I trust you both slept well," Gregory begins, stirring a single sugar cube into his cup. The clink of the spoon is deafening.
"What do you want, Father?" Ethan's voice is tight.
"Direct as always." Gregory sets his spoon down. He looks at me. "Miss Adams. I understand you are on a scholarship. Philosophy. A noble, if impractical, pursuit. Professor Carter speaks highly of your essays."
My blood runs cold. He's talked to my professor.
"Your dedication is admirable. It would be a shame for that dedication to be… misdirected." He takes a sip of coffee. "Ethan has responsibilities. A future that has been carefully constructed. Your… involvement… is a destabilizing element."
"It's not an 'involvement,'" Ethan snaps. "I love her."
Gregory's expression doesn't change. The word 'love' seems to bounce off him. "A powerful sentiment. And often a fleeting one." He focuses on me again. "I am prepared to be generous, Miss Adams. A fully-funded postgraduate degree at any university in Europe. A substantial living stipend. A clean break, with no academic or financial repercussions."
He's buying me off. The offer hangs in the air, obscene in its magnitude.
"And if I say no?" I ask, my voice trembling despite my effort to steady it.
For the first time, something flickers in his icy eyes. Not anger. Annoyance. "Then the destabilization continues. And I am forced to stabilize it. The photo from the cabin, regrettably, is just the beginning. A young woman on scholarship, engaged in lewd acts, could be seen as violating the moral clause of her funding. Professor Carter would be compelled to review her recommendations. Your academic record, while good, is not unassailable."
He's outlining my ruin, piece by piece, over perfectly scrambled eggs.
Ethan is vibrating with fury beside me. "You can't—"
"I can, Ethan." Gregory cuts him off, his voice still calm. "I am trying to handle this with a minimum of collateral damage. For her sake." He looks back at me. "The choice is simple, Miss Adams. A brilliant future of your own making, unencumbered. Or a protracted, messy end to your current one. You seem like a smart girl. I suggest you choose wisely."
He stands, signaling the audience is over. "The car will take you back to campus. Consider my offer. You have until the Gala tomorrow night."
He walks out, leaving the scent of his expensive cologne and the taste of despair in his wake.
Ethan is on his feet, fists clenched. He looks at me, his eyes desperate. "Layla, don't listen to him. We'll fight this. We'll—"
The door opens again. It's not Gregory.
It's Veronica Thorne.
She's breathtaking. Tall, elegant, wearing a silk blouse and tailored trousers that probably cost more than my tuition. Her smile is polished, her eyes sharp. She glides into the room as if she owns it.
"Ethan," she says, her voice a smooth contralto. "I thought I might find you here." Her gaze slides to me. It's not hostile. It's pitying. "You must be Layla. I've heard so much."
She walks to Ethan, reaches up, and straightens his collar—a intimate, possessive gesture. He flinches, but doesn't pull away. He's frozen.
"The fitting is at two, darling," she says, her hand lingering on his chest. "Don't be late. The tailor is flying in from Milan." She finally looks back at me, her pitying smile intact. "It was nice to meet you, Layla. Good luck with your… studies."
She turns and leaves, the same way Gregory did.
The silence she leaves behind is worse. It's filled with the ghost of her perfume, the image of her hands on him, the crushing weight of their world.
Ethan finds his voice, but it's hollow. "She means nothing. It's all for show."
But I just saw the show. And I saw him stand there, letting her touch him. A puppet, his strings pulled so tight he couldn't even jerk away.
The fight drains out of me, replaced by a cold, clear certainty. Gregory didn't just threaten me. He showed me my place. And Veronica just walked in and put a stamp on it.
I stand up, my movements mechanical.
"Layla, wait—"
I don't look at him. I can't. If I look at him, I'll break. I'll beg. And I can't give Gregory Marshall that satisfaction.
I walk out of the morning room, through the marble foyer, and out into the cold morning sun. The uniformed driver is standing by a black sedan, holding the door open.
I get in.
As the car pulls away from the monument, I stare at my reflection in the tinted window. The girl from last night, the one who screamed in ecstasy against the glass, is gone. In her place is someone who finally understands the cost of the game.
And I have until tomorrow night to decide if I'm going to pay it.
—