Layers(57)

We’re all settled around the tiny spring-green kitchen counter digging into our plates of “poor” while Ian entertains us with hilarious anecdotes from his work at the travel agency, seasoning it Ian-style with drama and comic spikes.

I can hardly get my food down; there’s a knot in my stomach from excessive laughter. “Shut up for two seconds, Ian, let us chew some food without the risk of choking to death, for f**k’s sake,” I beg.

“That would be my line,” Daniel mumbles my way, making me giggle. Ian flashes me his boyish I-am-so-the-center-of-attention smile to which I respond with an air-kiss.

“Stop that,” Daniel scolds me quietly and I chuckle. Is he serious?

“You guys should hear some of Ian’s legendary runway show adventures,” Tasha says. Ian smiles at her approvingly, eager to continue his entertainment of the audience. Daniel tilts his head and raises a curious eyebrow at me.

“Ian sometimes participates in modeling gigs,” I inform him. He shrugs, indifferent to the information. He resumes picking at his plate with one hand, nonchalantly resting the other on my inner thigh, making my blood surge toward the center of my body. And this is only with a casual touch; D, can’t wait to get you in my room.

Being an offspring of a Japanese father and a Scandinavian mother, Ian has such a unique, exotic look that gets him constant offers to participate in random fashion events. I run my eyes over him as he tells the story of the time one of the models got her long curly hair caught in the mechanical epilator, his entire posture signaling I am Mecca. He looks way too young to be twenty-six. His slender figure and his angelic, nearly girlish facial features certainly help. He sits casually opposite us, his tall figure hunched on one of the orange stools, a head taller than me, almost Daniel’s height but not quite. His almond-shaped aquamarine eyes now twinkle in a lively way in response to our laughter. As dinner progresses Daniel seems more at ease. He’s sociable with Tasha and Ian, though he doesn’t grace Rob with a single look or any form of attention whatsoever, for that matter. Well, it’s not like I expected Daniel to hold hands with him and chant Kumbayaa. Guess ignoring will do in this case.

“We’ll clean up,” Tasha declares, smiling at Rob. Nobody protests. I am slightly repelled at the few lonely morsels left floating in oil at the bottom of the depleted containers and can’t wait to get away.

“There’s a phone call I need to make,” Ian announces.

“Alerting the media,” Tasha and I respond simultaneously.

“Biatches,” Ian snarls with a smile as he turns on his heels toward our wooden decked balcony for privacy. Booty call? I amuse myself. Familiar with Ian’s lifestyle, I am probably right.

“You …” I front Daniel, who’s sitting next to me wearing a white button-down shirt. He has two buttons undone, revealing a part of his tanned neck and a small triangle of soft, golden hair. His jeans enfold his pelvis in the most salacious way. I take a deep breath, drinking him in. My palm runs across the prickly bristles that decorate his cheek. “You are coming with me.”

“Am I now? Where to?” He smiles, causing a pang in my chest at his marked lip and those adorable wrinkles that form at the edge of his eyes when he grins.

“My room,” I answer softly, and pull him by the hand to follow me. He casually lifts himself out of the stool, obediently following my lead.

As soon as he closes the door behind us, Daniel empties his jean pockets. Phone, wallet and an Alfa Romeo key fob all settle on my bookshelf. He turns to embrace me, pushing us both back so we fall on my bed. I tilt my head back giggling. With the weight of him between my legs I sink into my white down-filled comforter. He raises his upper body by straightening his arms. Staring at me with his glittering, rebellious eyes, making me anxious, but yearn for him at the same time.

“You played nice with the worker bees,” I tease, lifting my head to graze his square jaw with my teeth.

“Mating, licentious worker bees that is,” he murmurs to my lips.

I start to chuckle, but stop when his tongue insistently invading my mouth becomes the only thing that matters.

“Hold on, baby,” he breathes, grabbing the remote from my nightstand, tapping play to bring my iPod to life with Snow Patrol’s, “Make This Go on Forever.” This song and you, D, what more can a girl ask for?

“This will give us some privacy with all your moaning,” the curve of his lip, pure tease. I roll my eyes and he smirks.

“Where was I,” he mumbles into my slightly parted lips, covering my body with his. He brushes my hair to the side then leans into me slowly, fluttering his lips on mine. He pulls back to look at me, his eyes a tender hazel. His touch is now deeper, more demanding, as his tongue rejoins mine in a stimulating dance that starts pulsing currents in my very depths. I slide my hands under his shirt to stroke his firm back with the tips of my fingers, sensing his warmth against them, savoring the feeling.

He rises to his knees and pulls me up to face him; we stare at each other with the slightest gap between us, our faces almost touching. He grabs my pink tee by its hem and pulls it over my head. I undo his buttons, parting the fabric, freeing him of his shirt, then hastily help him out of his white tee. I gaze at his bare, chiseled body, his molded chest, three even, alluring pairs of square muscles just above his tanned navel, the seductive maze tattoo wrapped around his shoulder, and I quiver in anticipation. He moves his gaze from my baby pink bra to my eyes with a scorching stare, liquefying my insides.