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This wasn't supposed to happen.

Thirty days. An investigation. A reporter I needed to keep close so I could figure out what she knew about my grandfather.

That's what this was supposed to be.

Controlled. Calculated. Strategic.

There is absolutely nothing strategic about the way I'm touching Layla now. Nothing calculated about the way my pulse pounds when her sweet pussy tightens around me, sucking me in deeper.

And there sure as fuck isn't anything controlled about the possessive satisfaction tearing through me every time she arches closer.

“Take it. Take me,” I growl and pound into her, cradling her head with one hand while the other remains firmly on her hip.

She’s clutching me to her, holding me so close I can feel everything—all of her. And it’s not enough.

I want her to come all over me. I want her to open up and swallow me whole. Fuck—I just want her. All of her.

My cock slides in and out of her, and I know when I find that secret special spot because my girl is vocal. She moans. And her whole body starts to tremble.

I don’t stop. I can’t—not yet. Not until I’ve wrung every last drop of pleasure out between us.

“Oh God, Mitchell!”

Her pussy tightens, milking me so good—too damn good.

I come with a roar.

And I’m not sure how long I stay like that, clinging, kissing, gripping each other. And yeah, I’m still moving because I can’t not—small, shallow thrusts—until we’re both so sensitive I’m forced to still.

For a few seconds, neither of us says anything.

Layla's breathing hard against my neck. I'm not doing much better.

My forehead drops to hers, and I close my eyes, trying to remember how the fuck breathing works. Or thinking.

Thinking would probably be useful.

Eventually.

Right now, I can't seem to make myself move away from her. That's new. Usually, the end of sex is exactly that. The end.

Pleasure achieved. Need satisfied. Parameters intact.

Clean. Simple. Controlled—just like everything else in my orderly life.

But nothing about this feels finished.

If anything, holding Layla like this only makes me want more.

Her fingers move lazily against the back of my neck, and the tiny, absent touch lands somewhere dangerously close to my heart.

I open my eyes.

She's watching me. Her eyes are heavy-lidded and hazy, brown and green and gold bleeding together beneath the lights from the city.

She looks wrecked. Beautiful.

Mine.