by Sierra Hill
I rush down the hallway, dropping to my knees next to Miles, whose head is bent so far forward in his chest it’s hidden in the fold of his legs. Instinctively, I throw my arms around his sunken form, cradling him into my breasts, feeling the sobs racking through his body.
“Miles, you’re okay. Whatever it is, you’ll be okay.” I promise without considering what could cause of this terrible, gut-wrenching sadness.
He shakes his head back and forth, at war with himself, muttering words and phrases that stab me in the heart.
“It’s Mel’s birthday. I miss my sister.” He sobs in my arms for long moments, grief pouring out of him.
As if just now realizing where he is or that he’s being held, he raises his head, eyes red-rimmed and barely slits, sweat and tears coating his face and temples. Our eyes meet when he turns his head, and he heaves a sigh—of relief? Gratitude?
Whatever I see in his eyes, it fills me with confidence, knowing I’m giving him what he needs at this moment. Offering him comfort and support in his time of need.
Stretching my legs out in front of me, I prod him with a nudge of my hand to lay his head down in my lap. There’s a moment of hesitation, but then Miles complies and finds a comfortable resting place in the cushion of my thighs.
I stroke my hand over his scalp, fingers gently massaging through his dark thick hair, slicking it back from his forehead so I can see the outline of his face. The perfect slope of his nose with a small scar at the bridge and his chiseled jawline that’s usually clenched in severe concentration. So far from the Miles I grew up with.
That Miles was a big goof who teased his sister and me mercilessly, keeping us in stitches with laughter. But looking at him now, the outward sadness stapled across his tear-stained face, I see no visual reminders of the boy I used to know. He’s either lost his way or hidden away deep inside him. Or, he’s just been replaced by a callous, gorgeous stuck-up bastard.
“I know who you are,” Miles mumbles accusingly out of the blue, scaring the shit out of me because I thought he’d fallen asleep from the way his breathing had evened out.
My mind reels. Does he finally remember who I am? That I was part of his sister’s life years ago, and by proxy, part of his?
I swallow, the lump lodging in my throat thickly, because I worry that he’ll be upset with me that I said nothing before now. That I’ve been hiding the fact that I know him.
“You do?” I ask, my voice reticent over what he might say.
But what he says doesn’t seem to reflect the truth at all. At least, not all of it.
He tries to sit up, pressing one palm to the floor and another on the top of my bare thigh, but seems to think better of it and lays back down with a plop.
“Yeah, you’re Ben’s cousin. I work with Ben.”
Wait, what?
Well, this is surprising and completely unexpected news. I mean, I know Miles is Graham and Soraya’s neighbor, but I didn’t know he works at Morgan Financial or that he knows my cousin, Ben.
“You work with Ben and Graham?”
He hums a response. “Mmm-hmm. I asked about you.”
Curiously, I bend at the waist, peering over to look at his face. Miles’s eyes are closed, and there’s a little sliver of a smile across his mouth. A thrill flutters in my belly, and I suppress a grin as I press back against the doorframe.
Miles asked about me. What does that mean? Is he interested in me? Does he like me? It feels relatively juvenile, but whatever the reason, Miles was curious enough to want to know about me to ask.
That makes me giddy beyond belief, and I want to know more.
“You did? Why? You don’t even like me. You certainly haven’t been very nice to me.” I can’t help but poke him in the shoulder with my finger. He groans and rolls forward.
I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel the barest of touches on my shin, his fingers feathering over my leg and then back down again, tracing a sensuous, invisible pattern.
Holy moly. Miles Thatcher, the boy I used to have the worst crush on, is touching my leg. Caressing my skin. And all I can think about is what if those fingers move further up my leg and press into my center.
Goosebumps break out across my skin, and I clench my thighs together to keep from moaning like a wanton, needy girl.
His fingers absently continue to play, and my legs part infinitesimally on their own accord, as I drop my head back with a quiet moan and a thud.
“I like you,” he reveals, fingers stroking gently and so damn delicious. “I’m just an asshole, a prick to everyone. You’re not special that way. Believe me, you want to keep your distance.”
My body stiffens with anger. “Well, I don’t agree with that. You haven’t always been such a stuck-up jerk. You used to be nice.”
Realizing what I just said, I slap a hand over my mouth to stop any more confessions from slipping out. But it’s too late. Miles pushes himself upright and shifts to face me, his expression solemn, eyebrows furrowed as he stares at me.
“How would you know? We only just met. Didn’t we?”
My chin drops to my chest, and I screw my eyes shut to hide them from his assessing gaze.
“Sutton,” he commands in warning, his voice gravelly and thick from his emotional state and something far more masculine. “What aren’t you telling me? Was I right? Do we know each other?”
I open them but keep my eyes downcast, avoiding his judgment. But his finger slips under my chin and brings it up, our gazes locking in silent opposition. Each of us holding firm in our respective corners.
“Tell me.”
He may have the upper hand, but I remain resolute, flicking my eyes away, stubbornly refusing to look him in the eye.
“Yes, you’re right about me. We grew up together in Mystic. I was Melodie’s best friend when we were kids.”
“Holy fuck,” he bellows. He jabs a finger at me judgmentally, but his voice softens when he says with wonder, “I knew it. You’re Button.”
I wilt with a feeling of nostalgia as he uses the nickname he’d given me when I was just a kid. Sutton Button. Or just Button for short.
He inspects me, his eyes taking me in from several angles as if he doesn’t believe what, or who, he’s seeing.
“I knew you were familiar.” He slurs drunkenly and even that’s done smugly. “Why didn’t you ever correct me?”
I shrug my shoulder noncommittally, which his eyes track and follow, the intensity of his glare sending shivers down my spine. In fact, his entire gaze lingers over my skin, sparking flint across the dry surface, until it returns to my face, homing in on my lips. I chew nervously on my bottom lip and swallow.
“I was embarrassed to tell you.”
I don’t offer more because it would unearth the one memory that I both cherish and want to forget. The day of Mel’s funeral when he kissed me and then promptly forgot me.
His palm lands on the outside of my thigh, cupping over the flesh and pressing his fingers firmly into the curve of my hip.
“Why would you be embarrassed to tell me you were friends with Mel?”
I stare at him blankly. Incredulously. Does he not get it? Does he not realize how painful it is to be so invisible to him and so easily forgotten?
I move out of his grasp and work to get to my feet, standing far enough away to give me the distance I need from his touch. From his scrutiny and judgment.
“I’m not ashamed to have been friends with Mel. It’s you, Miles.” My voice rises, nostrils flare with intensity. Ire. Indignation. “It’s the fact that you kissed me seven years ago and have completely thrown it out of your memory. It meant nothing to you. I was just convenient, easy to use, and forgettable.”
From the look across his face—eyes wide and dazed and jaw dropped open—it appears my confession has thrown him, and he might be sick. Or that could be the booze. The man smells like a whiskey barrel.
He fumbles to gain his balance, pressing up on his hands and knees and then pushes to a stand
, reaching for the doorframe to steady his balance. When he finally straightens to his full height, he clears his throat and looks me over carefully. With reverence.
My body turns from ice to a melted puddle instantly. I back myself against the door, my fingers gripping at the woodwork behind me, digging into the frame to keep myself in place. Miles surveys me like a predator stakes out its prey, inching forward, his body eating up the distance between us until there is no more space.
It’s just us and the molecules that circulate between us. The pheromones in our blood bubble and burst like lava, ready to escape the volcano's core. Our breaths mingle in a heated exchange.
Miles moves so quickly I’m not prepared for it, and I gasp aloud. He places one hand over my head, caging me in, while the other cups my jaw, holding me firmly in his hand as he hovers over me.
“Make me remember, Button. Show me how good it felt.” His thumb glides softly over my cheek, and I lean into his touch. “I need that. I need something good in my life now.”
12
Sutton
This must be a dream. It’s not real. There’s no other way to describe it.
Miles. His touch. His voice. The desire reflected in his eyes. Directed at me.
It’s utterly reminiscent of what happened between us after Mel’s funeral, when I found Miles in her bedroom, sitting in her closet, an open whiskey bottle at his side.
And because I know just how well that turned out for me, I should run. I should make my escape and not allow myself to make that mistake again. I should return to the apartment and shut him out. Leave him to deal with his demons and memories on his own and avoid being just the warm body he uses to ease his pain.
I should do all of that.
But I don’t.
Miles has too much pull over me. He always has whether or not he knew it or used it to his advantage.
The sad truth is, I’m just a girl who is secretly in love with him. And no matter how much I want to fight that realization and avoid succumbing to the attraction, I would give anything for one more touch of his lips to mine.
To feel his mouth meld with mine. To moan against the slick sweep of his tongue and feel the heady rush of his warm breath mingling with mine.
I part my lips in invitation, and his hesitation is gone.
He leans forward, the hot press of his body against mine so deliriously decadent it feels unreal. I melt like ice cream in Central Park on a hot summer day.
And then his lips brush against mine, gently testing, tasting, and savoring. But only for a moment, when he rears back, eyes blazing as he stares hungrily at my lips.
“Button,” he says again as if reminding himself of who I am and presses his lips to mine once more.
His kiss does crazy things to my body, my brain, and my heart. Taking me on a journey into the past with dizzying effects. Flashes of my youth appear unbidden through my mind: Miles chasing Mel and me around the backyard playing monster, pushing us on the park swing and making us fly high into the clouds and then catching us in his arms as we jumped off.
And then I recall the memory of his senior night party, when he winked at me from across the room, giving me a smile usually reserved for the girls his age. A devilish grin that made every girl giggle with undeniable pleasure to be the object of his affection and only focus.
The memories mix and mingle with the present as I push to my tiptoes and loop my arms behind his neck, opening my mouth wider, moaning when he locks his lips with mine. Miles lets out a cocky chuckle when he pulls back unexpectedly, my arms dropping to my sides, chest rising and falling in fast pants as I try to drag in the air to breathe him in. His hooded lids drink in my face as if committing it to memory.
“You’re beautiful, Sutton.” He traces a finger over the cushion of my lips where his were just planted, traveling the pattern of my jaw until finally, his open palm encircles my throat.
It’s not tight, but it sends a shot of adrenaline through my bloodstream.
Something primal flickers in his eyes, clearly expressing the menu of his sexual appetites. His hand clutches tighter, and he buries his face in my neck, turning my chin to angle my neck away from him as he bites at the sensitive flesh underneath my ear. He sucks and nibbles—sending ripples of pleasure to my tightening nipples—and the sting of pain is both alarming and so incredibly electrifying.
The hard bulge in his pants nudges between my thighs, and his other hand drops between us, fingers skimming the slip of skin exposed between my pajama top and sleep shorts.
Letting out a half moan, half gargled exhale, I punch my hips forward, desperate for his touch.
As if just realizing that we’re still in his open doorway, he lifts his head and nudges us inside, tugging me in with the pinch of my waistband. We round the corner, and he slams the door shut with his foot, his hand burrowing underneath the elastic of my shorts, knuckles rubbing over my sensitive flesh.
Miles arches an eyebrow in appreciation. “Beautiful and so fucking sexy. I’ve wanted to do this to you since the night you made me dinner.”
I’m shocked by his admission, but my thoughts are stolen when his lips smash against mine. Simultaneously he runs his tongue through the seam of my lips, shoving his tongue inside my parted lips as his fingers brush through the wetness of my folds.
Holy smokes, this is so much better than any of the teenage fantasies I ever had of Miles. Exceeding every hope and wish I’d made that he would finally kiss me.
Miles is both rough and tender as his fingers graze between the seam of my entrance and flick over my throbbing clit. All this is too much. I’m on sensory overload, between his kisses and his touches, and the compliments he keeps throwing out about how beautiful, sexy, and sweet I am.
“Miles,” I cry out, uncertain of what I’m trying to say or ask.
But then all capacity for coherent thought and speech vanishes when he thrusts a finger inside me, curling it to find that perfect spot, and grinds his thumb over my swollen nub. All I can do is moan and sob out a cry of pleasure with long-awaited relief, as my body is racked with the deepest and most intense orgasm I’ve ever had.
My legs tremble as I come down from the high, releasing a shuddering breath, leaving me bereft as he removes his hand from my shorts. Stepping back, that same cocky smirk affixed to his mouth, he beckons me to his bedroom with the crook of his finger, still glistening with my release.
“Come with me. It’s bedtime.”
Based on the sultry look in his eyes, I’m pretty sure that bedtime might encompass a lot more of what he just did to me. Miles turns, not waiting for an answer, and weaves slightly down the hallway, removing his clothes along the way.
Unanswered questions that are too big and too difficult to answer right now weave through my mind. Does Miles honestly like me? If I sleep with him tonight, will he remember me tomorrow? What happens then? Will he return to act like the same stuck-up jerk he’s been toward me? Or will it be different?
And what would Melodie think if she were still alive about me sleeping with her older brother?
She’d hate it. It’s the very reason I never told her about my crush on Miles in the first place because she would’ve hated me. Mel was the jealous type and would have been upset having to share my attention.
But I’m not a kid anymore, my conscience reminds me. And Mel is gone, leaving only sexy adult Miles waiting for me in his bedroom.
Inhaling a deep breath, I exhale it slowly and make my decision, as I begin my walk down the hallway toward the room where he disappeared. Turning the corner, I hitch my shoulders back in resolve, ready to tell him I can’t sleep with him tonight.
There are far too many emotions swirling inside me and having sex with Miles would only create a very uncomfortable situation, seeing as we’re neighbors in the short-term. And honestly, he seems pretty out of it, and I’d prefer this happen between us when we’re both sober.
But everything I’m about to tell him is a moot point because there,
lying face down on his bed, an arm and a leg dangling off the side, is Miles. His jeans are still partially on, with one leg bare and the material bunched at the ankle of his other, and his shirt crumpled on the floor next to him.
Loud snores expel from his lungs, and I stifle my laugh.
This is the man who just gave me a mind-blowing orgasm and kissed me like I was something he wanted more than anything in the world, and not five minutes later, he’s passed out on his bed.
I quietly enter his room and walk to the edge of his bed, grabbing the bottom of his jeans and tugging them off. I wait for a second to see if it wakes him, but he’s out cold. Nudging his leg back onto the bed, which proves difficult because of how muscular he is, I work to move him away from the edge, so he doesn’t roll off in the middle of the night.
As I bend down to pick up his discarded shirt, his arm pops back out and accidentally clocks me in the shoulder. I jump, whipping my head up to see his eyes are still shut, but his lips move slowly.
“I’m sorry, Mel. I’m so fucking sorry.”
13
Miles
There’s hammering going on in my head right now. The pressure and pounding are so painful against my skull, it wouldn’t surprise me if someone was using my head for batting practice.
With a low groan, almost too loud for my own ears, I pry my eyelids open, squinting at the ceiling above me. There’s some semblance of relief to know I’m in my own bed, but hazy recollections loiter at the outer edge of my mind, leaving lingering questions as to how I got home, who I was with, and what happened.
I’m just thankful I’m home and seem to be in one piece.
The days when I could party until three a.m., sleep until noon the next day, and then do it all over again the next night are long gone. I curse at my stupidity over last night’s pity party and overindulgence. Somehow back in college, through the miracle of youth, I could bounce right back the next day with ease and enthusiasm. Now, however, it could very well take days before I’m feeling like my old self again.