by Tash Skilton
“May I have your ID and your phone?” the concierge asks. Zoey hands them both over. He taps her phone on a device and hands it back. “You’re in room 922. Just tap your phone to the door to unlock it.” He says this smugly, as if he’s expecting us to ooh and aah at the hotel’s fancy tech.
“Like when I pay in Walgreen’s?” I ask innocently, and am gratified when I see the flash of irritation in his eyes.
“The elevator is that way,” he says brusquely. “Enjoy your stay.”
Zoey hugs the box to her and we step away from the concierge and go around a corner to where a shockingly normal elevator is. I was half expecting to be sent up in a wicker dumbwaiter.
“Wow, this place is … something.” I’m actually feeling sorry I won’t get to go up to Zoey’s room and experience the rest of this bizarro world with her.
“That’s one word for it,” Zoey says, as she takes out one of the massage gift certificates from the envelope. “Here. This is for you. For all your help.”
“It was nothing. You don’t have to do that,” I say.
She laughs. “Am I supposed to get two massages at once? I think it was always meant for you, actually. She wanted you to have it.”
“She … Mary she?” I can hear my own voice squeak at her name.
“Yes, Mary.” Zoey rolls her eyes. “Maybe when you’re getting your massage you can pretend it’s from her, from her.”
“No, it’s not that … just, why would she want me to have it?” I can see Zoey blush a little, but she waves it away. “Who can ever really know why Mary does what she does? But anyway … thanks. For bringing me all the way here.” She holds the box up. “Looks like I’ll live to be on the outside for another day.”
I point to the box. “Does it reek?”
She sniffs it. “Hmmm … not really. Actually it smells like …” She peeks inside. “Sugar. Damn it, Mary! It’s brownies.”
“Brownies?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure they’re pot brownies.” She sniffs inside the box. “They definitely are. But I wouldn’t have thought it was that urgent if I didn’t think there was an enormous lump of marijuana just sitting here!”
I laugh. “You know what, I’m glad you did. This was fun.”
She smiles at me. “Yeah. It was.” She opens the box up and holds it out to me. “And one of these for your troubles?”
I look at the tempting little squares. “Why not?” I take one and bite into it. “Wow, these are good,” I say in surprise. “A little herbal but almost … I don’t know. Like it could be a fancy mint flavor or something. Nothing like the atrocities my roommate used to make for parties back in college.”
“Well, we are refined potheads, Mary and I.” Zoey takes one too.
I can’t help but realize that she hasn’t called down the elevator yet so we’re both just standing there, chewing, the scent of chocolate hanging between us.
I’m hit with this overwhelming urge to kiss her, to see if she tastes different from me even though we’re eating the same thing. Something tells me she does. And the way she’s looking at me, I wonder if she would want me to.
Then she reaches out and touches my bare arm and keeps her hand there as she says to me, softly, “Thanks for making this fun for me today.”
I look down at her arm. It doesn’t move. And then I look up at her face, at the tiny bit of chocolate stuck in the corner of her lips. Our kiss at the café was sugar-tinged, too, as though our kisses make up for the way we scrape and fume at each other. If I kiss her right now, it could be a continuation of that sweetness, of being good to each other. I want to show her we can be good to each other—that I can be good to her.
I bring my hand to her face and my lips down to hers.
CHAPTER 28
ZOEY
The elevator dings and we tumble inside, still kissing. I manage to slap at the button for floor three, and we kiss while gliding past the first and second floors—thankfully, no one gets on—and we don’t break apart until we reach our destination. The doors open behind me and I pull him backward into the hallway. Before I fall from our shared momentum, Miles wraps an arm around my waist to steady me, and before I can blink, my back’s flush against the wall as we make out like it’s prom night. Anyone could walk by and we wouldn’t notice.
Miles’s lips are the best combination of soft and firm, his hands are warm as they skim up and down my arms, and his tongue is a cool, subtle peppermint mixed with chocolate. The taste of him spreads awareness throughout my body, a cascade of sensation.
I’m not sure how we get through the door and into the room; one of us must have slammed the special key card of the fuuuuuture against its panel, but once we’re inside we’re back at it, kissing with renewed vigor.
Breathless, my hands splayed on his chest, I hold him at bay for a moment.
“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” I whisper.
He looks amused. “You’re not.”
“I drugged you, and now I’m having my way with you …”
“We drugged ourselves,” he reminds me. He slides his fingertips against mine, the barest movement, yet it sends tiny shockwaves through my hand. I close my eyes, in thrall to his touch. A ball of heat unfurls in my belly.
“Besides,” Miles says, “doesn’t the weed take a while to, like, overcome us?”
My eyes pop open. “‘Overcome us’?” I quote back, laughing. “You mean, ‘kick in’?”
He grins. “Right.”
“It’ll take at least an hour before we’ll feel the effects,” I admit, “but West Coast weed is way stronger than you’re used to.”
He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “I can handle it.”
“Famous last words.”
He’s the one who steps back this time, putting distance between us. “But obviously we can stop if—”
“I don’t want to stop,” I say quickly. “Unless you want to stop—”
In response, he moves back in and sweeps his mouth lightly across mine. He feels so damn good, so strong yet gentle, that I have to fight down a moan. It’s been way too long since I’ve been kissed like this: reverently.
“What if we set a timer, thirty minutes to be on the safe side, so we’ll know when to cool things off?” I ask. “After that we go back to the way we were before. Except stoned.”
“Sure, if you like.” He looks adorably disheveled. “But how will we pass the time?”
“I’m game for whatever feels good,” I clarify softly. “Do you have a condom?”
Miles nods, a wicked smile curling his lips.
With my phone timer up and running, we’re kissing again, and I cannot, cannot get enough of his mouth.
One of his hands cups my chin, gently, like I’m something precious to be kept safe. His other hand spans my hip, hauling me closer, and there’s nothing gentle about the way his thigh presses flush between my legs. The moan that escapes my lips belongs entirely to him.
He turns me in his arms so my back is pressed against his front.
“Just so you know,” he murmurs in my ear from behind, his words languid and full of promise, “I’m going to make every second count.”
My pulse jumps and my knees threaten to buckle. I swivel again in his arms so we’re facing each other, and I run my hands roughly through his hair. It’s just as thick, and soft, and perfect as I imagined it would be. It’s time to admit I’ve been thinking about this for a while.
So many emotions flicker through my mind. All the anger, all the hours I’ve spent glaring at him from across the café (wanting him, I realize now), needing him, or at least needing to grip his hair in my hands and tug, hard, the way I am now. But it’s tempered by the realization that what’s happening between us isn’t spontaneous lust, or at least not just spontaneous lust; it’s grounded in something real—for me, at least. We’ve had more than two dozen “coffee dates,” we had that dinner with my parents, we’ve had hours and hours of flirtatious banter online, at night, in my head
, as I walked around the High Line … He’s unaware of the last half, but the way he’s kissing me, like nothing could ever separate us, tells me he’s happy to be here in this moment.
I glance at my phone.
“How’s the countdown going?” Miles asks into my neck, nuzzling it. His warm, strong hands coast over my body, and I lean into his touch, craving it, wondering why I’ve spent my life thus far without it.
“Twenty-seven minutes left.”
He yanks his shirt off and I help him.
“Hurry, hurry,” I urge him. Holy hell, his abs are firm. I can’t take my eyes off him. His runner’s body, lean and smooth, is a gorgeous canvas. I drop to my knees so I can paint his chest with my lips.
“You’re—you’re—” I stammer.
“Less talking, more stripping,” he teases me.
I rise, kiss the smirk off his face, and proceed to remove my shirt and jeans.
Now it’s his turn to gaze, and the heat of his eyes—centered on my black bra and lacy panties—makes me flush all over.
“You’re stunning,” he says quietly.
“Less talking, more stripping.”
He tugs his jeans off, and his boxer briefs are black too, as though we planned it that way. I grab his sculpted butt and grind against him in a rhythm he matches stroke for stroke.
“I wonder how many times I can make you come in twenty-seven minutes,” he muses. His finger traces my bra strap and he lowers his face to run the tip of his tongue along my collarbone. “I’m going to bet three.”
“Someone’s got a healthy ego,” I remark, but I’m breathless when I say it.
“Are you really going to argue with me about this?” He lifts off my bra and his mouth encircles the tip of my breast, pulling at my nipple agonizingly slowly.
“You’re right,” I gasp. “Go Miles. Go team.” I’ve decided he can lord it over me as much as he wants as long as he keeps doing what he’s doing. I clutch the back of his head and only then does he kiss his way down my stomach the way I’ve been silently pleading for him to do. His mouth is soft and feather-light as it grazes my skin, but when his face moves between my thighs, his tongue is strong and firm, his movements assured. Dammit, he’s right, I’m so close to coming …
He circles his thumb leisurely, then persistently, faster and faster until I shatter around him.
“Oh, God,” I cry out, going boneless.
Pleased, he rises up off his knees and holds one finger up for me to see. I can barely focus on his triumphant expression.
I kiss his fingertip and glide his finger into my mouth. I’m still coming down from the heights he sent me to, and not even his gloating will ruin it. “There’s no way you’ll get two more out of me, though, not with the time left …”
Five minutes later, condom in place and me poured over the side of the couch, Miles proceeds to prove me wrong. His hands grip my hips while he thrusts, and I’m rounding the corner on orgasm number two when suddenly, a blue light pops on from under the couch’s armrest.
“Um,” says Miles, his voice strained. At our stillness, the light blinks off again.
“Are those—motion lights?” I ask.
He thrusts again. The light goes on.
“I … think so?”
We stay still, testing it out, and I give him a squeeze with my inner muscles.
“Oh, damn,” he moans, his hand sliding along the small of my back as he steadies himself.
I squeeze again.
He thrusts again. The light comes on.
It’s strangely beautiful.
We continue our dance, our movements—and corresponding light show—gaining speed. I reach between our bodies to rub myself, and Miles covers my hand with his so I can guide him, show him what I like. The extra warmth and pressure of his hand sends me over the edge again.
My heart trips over itself, and when I recover enough to speak, it’s to say, “My turn.” We change positions on the couch so I’m in his lap, riding him, and it’s beginning to feel plausible that I might actually have orgasm number three—so annoying! so good!—when I notice the time—
“Miles—” My voice is a purr I didn’t know I could make. “We have a minute left, so …” We change positions again. The time limit inspired us to get creative with a wide variety of them, but now it feels right to take things to the bed.
“You want me to time it just right?” he says, above me, pumping deep.
Can he do that? Because that would be unbelievably hot. The sound I make is a muffled affirmation into his neck.
The seconds pulse down around us as we mentally make our count, together.
I breathe the final seconds into his ear, encouraging him. “Five, four, three, two, one …”
“Zoey,” he gasps. His mouth falls open and I arch up to kiss him as he comes, joining me at last. His arms tighten around me, cushioning me from his reckless movements. The sound he makes flatters my ego.
The alarm’s buzzing but we both ignore it. The weight of his body feels good, but soon enough he’s shifting off me to fall on his back beside me. Our bodies cool while twin smiles linger on our faces. Eventually I get up to shut off the alarm.
“Remind me, I’m just curious, how many did you have?” he asks once we’ve tidied up and regrouped on the bed. He ticks off one, two, three on his hand and shoots me a questioning look. I want to flick him on his smug nose. But I feel too relaxed to muster the effort.
“I lost track,” I admit, ducking my face, my cheeks warm.
“I’d be happy to make you a chart. I know how much you love charts,” he says, smiling.
I laugh. What would we call it? Sex Champion?
“Still sober, by the way,” he adds.
“I’m sober, too,” I reply. “Just … high on life.” Giddy, if we’re being accurate.
“Same.”
We’re still basking in the afterglow when a weird thought hits me. “What if Mary only told me she was sending pot, but these are just regular brownies?”
He looks appalled. “Would she do that?”
“She would do just about anything, but, probably a good idea to hang out for a while either way. I don’t want to send you anywhere before we know.”
“Yeah? You sure?” he double-checks.
“Make yourself at home. Or should I say, make yourself at ‘Home the’?”
“Out of curiosity, is this”—he vaguely motions with his hands—“a normal day with Mary?”
“She had her ‘meds’ delivered weekly, if that’s what you’re asking.”
His eyes bug out. “Wait … did Mary pay you in weed? Does she use weed as currency?”
“No, but it was a job perk. Like health insurance.”
“Is that really what you miss most about LA?”
At the moment? I think, shocking myself, I miss nothing. “Don’t say the beach or the weather or the people,” he adds. “Did you just tell me how to answer?”
“I’m narrowing the scope. Those are too obvious. Surprise me.”
“Okay … I miss beer-can chicken from A-Frame in Culver City. Pork fried rice, and pickles, and street corn.”
“Can I tell you a secret? A little-known fact about New York?” Miles motions for me to come closer, and when I lean in, he continues, “We have restaurants here too. Crazy, I know.”
“Do you ever,” I concede. “I got takeout from this amazing place, Remedy Diner, the other day. Next time I order, we could split something.”
He blinks and I realize I’ve assumed way too many things about our situation. I quickly backtrack. “I mean, you wouldn’t have to come over—it would just be convenient to share if I’m already calling them. You know, split the delivery cost.” I don’t give him time to respond before I continue. “As for LA, what I miss is awards season.”
“Awards season?” he teases me. “Since you don’t have weather seasons?”
“Do so. But I like the Golden Globes the best, the most freewheeling one—”
“The drunk one,” Miles clarifies.
“… and the most likely to purchase Mary’s jokes.” She rarely attended in person, preferring to stay home with me, create themed menus, and break out the champagne cocktails at eight a.m. We’d make a day of it, beginning with red-carpet coverage and taking note of which of her submissions made the cut. A couple of her fans on Twitter always tried to guess which zinger had Mary’s name on it.
The room is dark now that the furniture’s motion detector light isn’t being, er, activated.
“Where are the lamps in this place?” Miles wonders, getting up.
“I thought I saw a switch by the mirror … .”
He moves toward it and flicks the switch. Oddly, the mirror remains dark but a chair on the other side of the room lights up.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Miles says under his breath. It becomes a game; who can find the most pointless light source.
I locate a switch under a desk. Does it correspond to the desk lamp? Of course not; it’s connected to the headboard. We spend the next few minutes turning on the furniture. The room remains mostly shadowed.
“Let me guess, the coffee machine connects to the TV,” Miles says.
I spin in a circle, taking in the small, frightfully hipsterish room. “There is no TV.”
He falls dramatically to his knees and raises a mock fist. “Nooooooo.”
I flop back onto the couch, triggering the armrest light, and laugh.
“I have a very serious question for you,” I say. “Are your legs floating? I think mine are.”
“Not at the present time. No, let me check.” He giggles.
It’s so endearing I have to actively stop myself from kissing him. That part of the evening’s over now. We had our thirty minutes and now we’re done.
I flash on Bree’s selfie with her and Jude, and a wave of guilt crashes over me. Miles doesn’t know I’m Bree, or that I know he’s Jude. I should tell him, but why complicate things when this is a singular event? It’s never going to happen again.
The day with him has been lovely, and I don’t want to risk ruining it for no reason.
“What is it you do, again?” Miles says. “For money.”
“What do I ‘do for money’?” I throw a pillow at him. “You make it sound sordid.”