Layla sat on the wide, cushioned windowsill, staring wonderingly through the tall glass at the vast rockface outside. The room was a comfortable temperature, but she could see the outside was chilly, the shining exterior both beautiful and unique. Light poured from an opening above; they were deep underground.
The night had been tumultuous, frustrating, exciting and self-indulgent. The new day came with fresh realisations that Layla struggled with in the wake of it all. Her eyes slid to the large, sleeping man in the big luxuriant bed, knowing he'd wake immediately if she left the room.
Romantic preoccupations aside, Layla hadn't decided what to do about The Poker, known more casually as 'Zole'. She'd seen plenty of him on TV, a toxic soul concealed in the shell of an attractive man. The contrast between his nature and appearance fascinated the public; his charming smile, tidy blonde hair, a polite, British accent. Normally dressed in a pin-striped suit and carrying an ominous cane with a knife end.
Layla's refocused to perceive her reflection in the glass. Her long, blonde hair had been roughly raked to the side, wide green eyes, often described as cat-like, which pleased her. She was fresh-faced, her lips artfully curved and delectably pink, the same pale tinge as her nipples.
People considered her elegant, graceful and finely educated; a daughter to be proud of. Not witty or practical. Certainly not kick-ass.
Layla glanced to the bed and started when she locked eyes with Truce, watching her on his side, his head resting on one palm.
"Pretty as a picture," he smiled gently, his dark eyes smouldering.
Layla looked away. No longer distracted by adrenaline and her sex drive, rationality crept in, and she accepted there was a silent understanding between them. She had nowhere to run, or means to escape, and they both knew it. Truce would be a dutiful host, as long as she proved herself a genteel guest.
It was, ironically, a temporary truce.
Truce cleared his throat. "What have you decided?"
Layla didn't bother pretending not to know what he referred to. "Is there a thirty-day guarantee for change of mind?" she replied, still looking out the window.
"Wow," Truce laughed. "You are your father's daughter."
Layla kept her steady gaze on the glistening rockface, soothed by the streams of water running down it, the consistent flecks of moisture raining from above. She heard the sheets shift as Truce left the bed to sit behind her, his delicious warmth made Layla feel that she'd been cold before then. Truce carelessly draped an arm across her front to ease her snugly against his bare chest.
"Would it be such a terrible thing to be mine?" He murmured by her temple.
"I'm not interested in leaving one cage for another," Layla said firmly, still staring out the window. "I won't settle."
"We grow as we live, Layla," Truce chuckled. "Goals don't just drop into your lap, especially a dream as big as yours. You could consider me a stepping-stone."
"And then what?" Layla said cynically, her eyes hardening at the view. "You'd let me leave, if I wanted?"
"If that's what you wanted, yes."
At his serious tone, Layla glanced back with surprise. Truce solemnly stared back. Registering her astonishment, amusement crept into his eyes. "What?" he smirked.
"I expected you to say something more...aggravating," Layla said, and noticing his attention zero in on her mouth, quickly turned back to the window.
"You should see me as an opportunity, not a dream-crusher. I know what it's like," Truce said distantly. "To grow up privileged and have your future dictated to you."
Layla made a derisive sound, but Truce went on before she could contradict him.
"I didn't inherit this lifestyle, Layla. Before my parents died, my father told me I was to take over the business. That my talents were in stocks and finance and investment. I wanted to be a vet." He paused, and Layla felt his body tense behind her. "I was belted for even mentioning it. After a while, I learned to stop saying it aloud."
Layla sensed the shift in the air; his childhood sorrow. Her parents were controlling, but dotingly so. Her father would never raise a hand to her.
Truce coughed to clear his throat. "When they died, I couldn't abandon the business. I know my father only wanted what he thought was best for me. So, I created two lives. I kept the business running in a way that would make him proud. But outside of that..." he broke off with a chuckle. "I decided to pursue something fucking outrageous that would have delighted my mother."
"Oh," Layla said, unsure how else to reply.
"I recognised it in you, the basis of your resentment toward me," Truce grinned, kissing her hair. "It didn't excuse your behaviour, approaching me like you did. You were fucking asking for it, you little brat."
Layla cringed, remembering indulging in too many champagnes at a party she didn't want to attend. She found him alone and unguarded, surveying a newly acquired painting from abroad. A searing, alcohol-fuelled anger possessed her just from looking at him. In the moment, Truce was despicable.
It wasn't fair. He was so relaxed, tall and handsome; carefree in beige slacks and a black shirt, the world at his feet. His expression was serene, his complexion ridiculously healthy; no stress lines or signs of exhausting all-nighters. At the very least he could have appeared a little worn and bitter.
Unabashed, she'd stormed right up to Truce, taking some satisfaction from his bewilderment when she dared initiate rude unpleasantries. But not ten seconds passed before his bemusement shifted from a surprised politeness to an almost savage interest.
He'd bantered right back, shouldered every sarcastic barb with delight, leaving Layla feeling impotent and irritated. Before she could make a scene that might draw the attention of other party guests, her father noticed Truce's wicked grin and guessed the content of Layla's conversation.
Rightfully alarmed, George hastily intervened and herded his daughter away from the town's most powerful man. When Layla turned to cast a last glare of contempt at Truce, she was startled that he was still staring at her, with an unnerving glint in his eyes that made her knees weak.
"I was drunk," Layla muttered in lame defence.
"And I'm eternally grateful for it," Truce replied, his other arm wrapping about her. "So? Will you give me a try?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Presently, no," he teased, nibbling her ear, his groin tightening when she shivered. "But you will, when it matters. When you experience a life that only I can provide for you, I highly doubt you'll want to abandon it."
Layla's retort morphed into a gasp when Truce smoothly adjusted position and managed to stand with her in his arms. The movement was swift, and next thing Layla tumbled onto on the bed facedown, Truce's hard chest flush against her back.
"Fuck! You can't just fuck me whenever you want!" she complained, uselessly wriggling against his erection poking her buttock.
"What if you want it, too?" Truce cheerfully countered, his hand smoothing down her thigh and up between her legs. "I'm all about mutual pleasure Layla, you should know that by now."
Layla bit her lip, but a small moan slipped out when his fingertips traced her wet folds.
"Now, why are you so wet, kitty?" he whispered against her neck.
The heat flaring up her body was sudden; Layla tried not to sound breathless and failed. "It's from last night," she hoarsely lied.
"Mm-hmm," Truce said, feeling her slightly arch as he slipped two fingers into her. "Tight and wet. I really love how you respond to me. It's so fucking hot, it's almost toxic."