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A woman I needed close enough to watch.

Then I kissed her.

Touched her.

Made love with her.

Woke up with her long hair spread across my pillow.

Then I did it again.

And again.

Seven fucking nights so far.

Every morning I tell myself we'll establish boundaries. Every night she ends up in my bed.

Now when I walk into my bedroom, I’m expecting to find her things there.

A book on the nightstand.

Her earrings beside the sink.

That ridiculous charger she keeps forgetting to unplug.

Last night, I woke up at three to take an international call and when I came back to bed, I found her asleep diagonally across my bed with her laptop open beside her.

I should've woken her.

Instead, I stood there staring like a fucking idiot because something about finding Layla asleep in my bed made the entire goddamn house feel different.

Then she woke up, squinted at me, and whispered, “You look tired. Come back to bed.”

Like she'd been waiting for me.

And fuck if I didn’t crawl in beside her, placing her laptop on the floor.

Did we sleep? Not right away.

Not until after I made her come once on my mouth and then again on my cock—both times, screaming my name.

Only when she was limp, legs trembling, did I allow us both any rest. And even then, I had her wrapped in my arms.

Like I couldn’t bear even an inch between us.

Jesus.

I'm so fucked.

Because what started this wasn't real. Not entirely.

I mean, my attraction was real. Hell yes from the first second I saw her.

Everything that's happened between us since? Painfully fucking real.

But the reason I invited her into my life? That was strategy.

I wanted to know what she knew about Granddad. I wanted access to her while she thought I was giving her access to me. I wanted to control the story before she could write it.