Title: The Unrequited
Author: Saffron A. Kent
Genre: Contemporary/Erotic Romance
Cover Design: Najla Qamber Designs
Release Date: July 13, 2017
Blurb
Layla Robinson is not crazy. She is suffering from unrequited love. But itâs time to move on. No more stalking, no more obsessive calling.
What she needs is a distraction. The blue-eyed guy she keeps seeing around campus could be a great oneâonly he is the new poetry professorâthe married poetry professor.
Thomas Abrams is a stereotypical artistârude, arrogant, and broodyâbut his glares and taunts donât scare Layla. She might be bad at poetry, but she is good at reading between the lines. Beneath his prickly façade, Thomas is lonely, and Layla wants to know why. Obsessively.
Sometimes you do get what you want. Sometimes you end up in the storage room of a bar with your professor and you kiss him. Sometimes he kisses you back like the world is ending and he will never get to kiss you again. He kisses you until you forget the years of unrequited love; you forget all the rules, and you dare to reach for something that is not yours.
NOTE: Please be aware that this book deals with sensitive topics like cheating and death. 18+ Only.
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Thomas & Layla's First Kiss
Itâs Saturday and Iâm at The Alchemy with Emma, Dylan, and Matt. We find a table in the middle of the room and Emma thumps the big bag of goodies down on it. Itâs prompt night for the Labyrinth and Emma is in charge of producing the prompts.
âExplain to me one more time why you need this giant-ass bag again?â Matt says, taking off his coat and hanging it on the chair as he takes a seat.
Dylan gives him a disdainful look. âSheâs got her prompts in it, dumbass.â
Emma smiles in pleasure, her eyes on the bag as she looks for something. Itâs adorable how shy she is in front of him when sheâs normally so self-assured. Dylan and Emma have gone on a few dates this week. Turns out, Dylan loved the tangerine. I knew it.
âAnd why canât you show them a picture or something on your phone?â He bumps his shoulder with mine. âBack me up here, Layla. This freaking bag is a monstrosity.â
âI donât have a problem with it, actually,â I say. âItâs kind of fun to look at something while writing about it.â
When Emma told me about the Labyrinthâs prompt night, my first reaction was panic. I didnât think I could be a part of it. I wasnât prepared. I havenât even read all the books I own.
Reading has become a vital part of my life, now. In the past week, Iâve only roamed on the street once. I havenât been to Thomasâ house at all. I stay up late reading. Thereâs so much to discover, and Iâve been living inside this fog for so long. I feel like time is running out on me. Iâll probably die before reading all the books out there.
I try to calm myself. Iâm here to be a part of something greater than meâartâand I donât have to be perfect. The only thing I should be worried about is seeing Thomas.
Itâs been six days since I cried in front of him, told him my ugly love story, and sort of licked his hand, trying to taste him. Since then Iâve seen him all around campus, at Crème and Beans with Nicky, in the corridors at the Labyrinth when Emma dragged me to a play reading. Iâve even seen him in the park, at the bench, the one time I went out at night. He was smoking and battling with himself, as usual, and I was hiding behind the tree.
Itâs like heâs everywhere. My secret keeper. The one person who knows what I did.
And he is disgusted by me. He never looks at me. To him, Iâm invisible. Somehow, this hurts even more because deep down I thought he could relate to me, but he doesnât.
I really am a freak of nature.
The front door of the bar opens and in strides Sarah Turner, followed by Professor Masters and Thomas. The snowflakes swirl behind his back as he enters and the door swings shut.
âHello children,â Professor Masters greets us in a jovial voice as he saunters forward. There is a chorus of chuckles and Hi Professor around the room.
Without paying attention to anyone, Thomas breaks off from the trio and heads for the bar. Sarah throws him an annoyed look but Professor Masters steers her toward their destination.
Thomas orders a drink and sits on the barstool, his long legs straddling the small seat. He takes off his jacket, revealing a plain grey t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders and biceps. His jean-covered thighs bulge as he bounces his right leg with impatience.
The bartender sets down a chocolate martini in front of him and I look away, embarrassed. His weakness for chocolate awakens something raw and melty inside my stomach. I havenât thought about what Iâll do come Monday. Will I go back to class? Will I hide and never show my face again?
Emma gets up from beside me, greets the room, and explains the instructions. She digs inside her bag and fishes something out. âSo the first prompt is this bottle of hot sauce. You have to write a short poem, no more than twenty lines, with whatever comes to mind when you see a red bottle with H.O.T. written on it. Iâm going to pass this around for a bit so you guys can look at it.â
My first thought is that I hate hot sauce. Iâm more of a sweet-loving person. In fact, Iâm the only sweet-loving person in my family or the families Iâve had over the years. My mom, Caleb, my dad, Calebâs dad, even Henryâthey all shy away from sweet things.
The thought of Caleb makes me aware of the phone in my jacket pocket. Since those missed calls at Crème and Beans, heâs called several times, but I havenât picked up. I was hoping heâd leave a message or something so Iâd know what itâs about, but he hasnât.
Why does he keep calling me? As impulsive as I am, a strange fear is keeping me from taking his call.
Emma bumps my elbow and tells me to get writing.
Right, hot sauce. I nibble at my pen, trying to thinkâ¦no, trying to feel. How does hot sauce make me feel? H.O.T. Feel. Feel.
I close my eyes and the first thing I see is Thomasâ face. His beautiful, intense gaze. How every molecule of my body, every inch of my flesh burns when he is near. How he has the power to change the weather, cold to hot.
Gasping, my eyes whip open. Thomas Abrams is a fire-breather. He breathes flames and lust, makes me forget everything and say yes. Yes to obsession. Yes to stalking. Yes to insanity. Yes to licking.
With shaking hands, I begin to write and capture him in words. The pen moves and the words flow out. They keep flowing without my knowledge. All I can feel is the heat seesawing through my body.
Next thing I know Iâm jolted by Emmaâs clap and shrill voice. âAll right guys, itâs time to stop. Put down your pens.â
Murmurs escalate and the room breaks out in conversation, as Emma asks someone to volunteer their poem first. With flushed cheeks, I pocket my small notebook. While the entire room is busy, I get up and shuffle into the hallway in the back. I need to get to the ladiesâ room and calm myself down.
I rub my arms at the unexpected chill in the dank hallway and take a deep breath. My legs can barely support themselves. Is this how poets feel when they put feelings into words? Is this how Thomas feels? Itâs like bleeding. Itâs like running for miles and running out of breath.
Before I can reach my destination, Iâm being hauled into a dark, tiny room. I donât even have time to squeal before the flimsy wooden door is shut, and Iâm surrounded by a very familiar heat.
Itâs Thomas.
He has me trapped inside what looks to be a storage room, his hand banded around my elbow, pushing me back against the dank wall.
âT-Thomas.â Iâm panting. âWhat⦠Whatâs happening? Whatâre you doing?â
His chiseled face is a study of thick shadows and thin slices of light under the flickering yellow bulb. The only bright spots on his features are those fire-starting eyes of his. I can smell the delicious smoke rising from my body, can feel the sting.
Now that the initial shock is gone, my body sags, relieved to be the center of his attention after days. He sees us. There are things to worry about, I know that, but I canât muster the energy to.
âThomas?â I whisper when itâs clear he wonât say anything. âWh-What are you doing?â
His breaths are choppy, short jabs of air inhaled and exhaled as he stares at every inch of my face. âDo you still love him?â
âWhat?â
âDo you still love that guy?â
âI⦠Yes.â
âHow much?â
My breaths match his, succinct and sharp. I study him, this man in front of me. Thereâs a hint of vulnerability to him. His usually cool persona is frayed. Is it because I told him my story? Maybe he relates to me after all.
âThomas, whatâs going on?â
âHow much do you love him, Layla? Do you love him so much that you hate yourself? That you canât stand your own sight? Do you constantly think about how to fix it? How to make it better? How to be better?â
He isnât merely frayedâheâs coming apart. Naked agony dances on his features. Itâs too bright and glaring. Itâs too similar to mine, but Iâm not worried about that right now. Iâm worried about him.
âYes,â I whisper. I lift my hand and press it to his stubbled face. His cheekbone is arched and high, seemingly made of granite as it pulses beneath my palm. âBut Iâm so tired of it,â I admit, and his eyes flare. Fire-breathing eyes. I wonder why I didnât notice it before. Itâs so obvious now. They never fail to start a fire in my soul.
He crowds me against the wall, as if sinking his hard body into mine, but there isnât any touch involved. His frame sort of hovers over me, heating me up, jumpstarting my nerves. Iâm a mesh of live wires, firing lust and adrenaline. Iâm sticky as sugar and drunk as whiskey.
Thomas arranges his body and places both his palms on the wall, caging me in. The vein on his bicep becomes taut, a purple string tugging on my senses.
I watch him watch my parted lips, and suddenly, itâs the only piece of my body I can feel. My mouth, throbbing, puffy, swollen with the need.
âMe too,â he whispers, almost to himself.
I wasnât meant to hear it, but I did. Again, Iâm hit by a storm of desire to kiss him better. Itâs a tornado, an avalanche in my body, and in one breathless moment, I decide to go for it. Itâs okay. I can take the blame for it later.
I break the rules and reach up and kiss him. A feathery peck on his plump lips, itâs a kiss of solidarity, a kiss that intends to tell him I understandâbut one isnât enough. It only manages to ratchet up my lust. So I give him another, this time on the corner of his mouth, and then another one on his jaw.
Itâs not enough, these small, barely-there touches. I want more, but I wonât take it. Iâll be good; Iâll only give.
Abruptly, he fists my curls and stops me. I look at him fearfully, ready to apologizeânot for the kiss, but for being the kisser. His gaze reflects passion, stark, raving need, and I shiver, despite wearing layers and sweating with his heat.
âAre you trying to kiss me, Layla?â he rasps, flexing his fingers on my makeshift ponytail.
He couldnât tell? Blush rises to the surface and I know Iâm glowing like a neon sign. Swallowing, I nod. âYes.â
He inches closer to me, still not touchingâas impossible as that isâbut infinitely closer. âYou want to kiss me, Miss Robinson, you do it right.â
Oh God, does he have to call me that? Now, here? My spine arches on its own and my heavy tits graze the contours of his shuddering chest.
âH-How?â I ask innocently, belying the daring action of my body. His stern, professor-y voice is doing things to me, making me wild, uncontrolled.
For a second, heâs silent, just watching. Iâm afraid heâll back out from whatever this is, whatever insanity weâre about to commitâbut then I sense the shift in the liquor-laced air as he opens his mouth and growls, âLike this.â
Twisting my hair in his grasp, he swallows my lips in his mouth. He sucks on the shape of my sensitive flesh and all I can do is let him. I put my palms on his shoulders, feeling the heated muscles under the soft material of his t-shirt. His chest shifts and slides over my breasts, like a wave of water. I want to be drenched with it. I want every drop of his sweat, his lust on every inch of my skin. I pull him toward me so he can crush me with his massive weight.
He doesnât budge though. He stands there, unfazed, still devouring my lips, immobile. His tongue thrusts in and licks me from the insideâthe roof of my mouth, my tongue, my teeth. He is after my essence, the special taste that lives deep. He growls when he gets it, my flavor, and the pressure of his grip on my hair increases tenfold.
Itâs painful, but not enough to tamp down my arousal. I give up my attempts to bring him to me. Rather, I go to him. I lift my leg and wrap it around his waist. My hands creep up and lock around his neck. I climb him like an ivy, toxic and poisonous and shameless.
I press my body to his and kiss him back with everything I am. I pour my soul into it. For these few moments, I become a balm to his pain.
But it doesnât last long. My selfishness and my need for him take over. My core starts leaking and it becomes hard to remember Iâm only meant to give, not to take.
I rotate my hips, searching for that magical friction against the ridged planes of his body. Then I feel itâhis erection against my upper tummy. Itâs huge. Hard. A heated rod. Itâs alive, and when I move against it, I feel it throb. A tortured moan rips out of his chest.
Thomas tears his mouth away from me and even my soul mourns the loss. We stare at each other, gasping for breath. Iâm still clung around him and his cock is still nestled between our aroused bodies. I adjust my thigh around his hip, and it throbs with the small movement.
âDonât fucking move,â he tells me, emphasizing it with a tug on my hair.
âOkay.â I swallow. âIâm sorry.â
A pained chuckle. âFor what?â
âI made you kiss me.â
The legendary tic makes its appearance at the heel of my words. It drums on his jaw like a secondary heart, or maybe a time bomb. âYou did, didnât you?â
Unable to talk, I simply nod.
In answer, he lodges his thigh between my legs and presses on my core. Itâs an electric shock multiplied by a strike of lightning, and I almost burst into flames.
âWh-Whatâ¦â I try to speak but he increases the pressure, eliciting a moan from me.
âWhy?â he whispers, noting my lusty reactions. âWhy did you make me do it, Layla?â
âBecause Iââ
Again, he repeats his movements, reducing me to wordless, needy moans. What is he doing?
âBecause you what?â
âBecause I do this kind of thing. I-Iâm selfish and badâ¦â I moan, doused in shame and arousal. âI take what I want because I canât control myself. I donât want to.â
âAnd you want me, donât you?â When I donât answer, he tugs on my hair sharply. âYou want me, Layla.â
Itâs not a question, but still I nod my head. Yes, I want him. Iâve wanted him since the first time I saw him. I want him more and more with each passing day. I want him because heâs like me. Heâs in unrequited love and I want to save him, somehow.
His eyes shine with satisfaction, a sense of victory at my answer. He loves my desperation and it makes me hornier.
Weâre so fucked, my omniscient heart says. I agree.
âI can do whatever I want with you and youâll let me. Isnât that right, Layla?â He licks his lips as if savoring his own words. âI can tell you to jump and youâll ask how high. I can tell you to strip and youâll strip as if your clothes are on fire.â
âYes,â I moan.
He rewards me by grinding his muscular thigh and my cunt pulses. My lust-addled brain commands me to move, to chase the friction, and I do it. I slide up and down his maddening leg, digging my nails into his scalp as the pleasure mounts.
I feel the angry and rhythmic jerk of his cock on my stomach and I love it. I love the fact that Iâve shed all my inhibitions and am reduced to this, a lust-drunk puppet. I love that it gives Thomas pleasure. He isnât sad anymore, or vulnerable.
Yes, I love all that.
His pain has become my pain, and itâs going to make me come on his leg. I watch Thomas with hazy eyes. I watch the arrogant slope of his flushed cheeks. I watch his dilated pupils, his wet, parted lips. All the while, Iâm moving, humping his leg. Up and down. Up and down.
âOf course you will,â he rasps. âWill you come for me, Layla?â
I jerk out a nod. In the back of my mind, I know how wrong this is, how shameful, but I canât stop myself. As Thomas said, Iâll do anything for him in this moment.
My movements are haphazard now, jerky, epileptic. I want it so bad. I want my cum to gush so hard it seeps through my panties and leaves a wet patch on his jeans.
The graphic, vulgar thought pushes me over the edge. Hard and moaning, I come, just the way I wantedâno, just the way he wanted. I was simply following his orders. My mind is filled with cotton and shooting stars and static. I want to bask in it forever.
Oh God, itâs so good. So good.
The pressure on my body eases. I donât feel his muscles between my legs, and the harsh grip on my hair has vanished. In the wake of my orgasm, Thomas has let me go, and in turn, forced me to unwind my body from his.
Iâm still recovering from my climax, leaning against the wall for balance, but I try to focus. Thomas is watching me, intensely, his flaming eyes working double-time to take me in, his hands on either side of my head.
âDo you understand what Iâm telling you, Layla? Can you hear your heart beating? Is it trying to pound through your chest? Do you think you can control it? Tell it to calm down? Your hips are still shaking. I bet youâre still leaking cum, arenât you? Do you think you can control any of that?â
I shake my head.
âYeah, thatâs right. Youâd be surprised to know how many things arenât your fault at all.â His eyes bore into mine, as if telling me the importance of his declaration.
For a second, I canât make the connection between what heâs telling me and what happened here, but then I get it. Heâs absolving me. Heâs rendering me blameless for kissing him, for making him kiss me. I wonder if this absolution includes what happened with Caleb. Am I free of those sins too?
My heart scoffs. Are you kidding? We tricked him into having sex.
âI saw you,â I blurt out without thinking.
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know in my bones that this will destroy whatever kindness heâs harboring toward me.
âThrough the window,â I add, because I canât handle not being blamed.
Everything is always my fault. The broken vases at home. Muddy footprints on the tile floors. The missing bottles of liquor from the cabinet. Calebâs missing underwear. The fact that he ran off to college a month early and wonât even visit home. The fact that I shoplifted, drank and drove numerous times, crashed parties, broke my momâs ice sculpture.
Itâs all my fault. Itâs just like me to do those things. I want Thomasâ accusation too.
âI saw how lonely you were. I saw the anger on your face, the way youâ¦the way you paced around the room, like you were trapped.â The scene plays in my head: his frantic steps, his hands tugging at his hair.
Then the scene changes and Iâm outside his bedroom window. âAnd-And then you were with herâHadley. I⦠You were talking and you looked so sad and angry, and then she left. I kept watching your back and your shoulders. They were so tight and I could see the effort it took you to keep yourself together. Then you picked up a vase and I thought youâd throw it against the wall, break it, because I know your heart was breaking, but you held on to it. You set it down gently. You were better than me. I-I could never have done that.â
Nothing moves on his body. I donât know if heâs breathing, if heâs even seeing me.
âThomas, I-Iâm sorry. I didnât mean to see it. Iâ¦â
Then he shifts on his feet and the overhead light slashes his face into two halves of shadow and light. He appears beastly, like an animal with bright eyes and hard face. For the first time since I began my confession, I feel a tinge of true fear.
I can see he wants to do something, maybe harm me physically. His body is taut with violence. He looks bigger, enlarged with the barely leashed control. For a second, I think he does lose control. His hands jerk and ball into fists, but then he takes a shallow, choppy breath.
âStay the fuck away from me,â he says softly, deadly.
With that, he marches out of the storage room.
Author Bio
Writer of bad romances. Coffee Addict. White Russian Drinker. Imaginary Ballet Dancer and poetess. Aspiring Lana Del Ray of the book world.
I'm a big believer in love (obviously). I believe in happily ever after, the butterflies and the tingling. But I also believe in edgy, rough and gutsy kind of love. I believe in pushing the boundaries, darker (sometimes morally ambiguous) emotions and imperfections. The kind of love I write about is flawed just like my characters. And I hope by the end of it, you'll come to root for them just as much as me. Because love, no matter where it comes from, is always pure and beautiful.
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