That night, Layla lay in her four poster bed, staring up at the dark ceiling above her.
Her thoughts were a muddle, a never ending vortex of images and sounds and sensations. His warm fingers touching hers, so gently, his grey eyes smoldering.
But he was mean, to other people at least. He was troubled, strange. But Layla wasn't exactly average either.
She sighed and rolled over, pressing her face into her pillow, heart aching. It was wrong, she knew it deep down. He wasn't good, good for her or for anyone. But just the thought of never seeing him again made her chest hurt.