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Just Layla and me.

The penthouse is dark except for the lights of Manhattan spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Central Park stretches beneath us, surrounded by glittering towers and millions of lights.

People would kill for this view.

God knows, I've paid an obscene amount of money for it.

Right now, I couldn't give less of a shit. Because Layla turns toward me. And she's the only thing I see.

Emerald silk.

Thick, glossy hair.

Hazel eyes glittering in the shadows.

Her lips part.

My body responds immediately. I mean, I’ve been half-hard most of the fucking night.

Now there’s no half about it.

Still, I don't move. For perhaps the first time tonight, I make myself stay exactly where I am.

Because this isn't happening unless she wants it. If I touch Layla tonight, I need to know she's choosing it.

Choosing me.

Even if it's only for tonight.

That last thought feels like a lie before I finish thinking it. Because I already know one night won't be enough.

That's the part that should scare me.

It does scare me.

I've spent my entire adult life making sure women understand the parameters before they enter my bed.

No complications.

No expectations.

No promises I have no intention of keeping.

Layla obliterates every parameter simply by standing there.

But if I take her to bed tonight, I won't want her leaving it tomorrow morning. I'll want another night.

And another.

I'll want her perfume on my sheets and her shampoo in my shower.

I'll want those ridiculous questions over breakfast.

I'll want her laptop on my kitchen counter.

I'll want her challenging me from the other side of my desk.