I rock my hips against his, sliding my crotch over the hardness in his jeans. The denim is rough, even against my cotton panties. I can't believe I ever cursed physics. Friction is an amazing thing.
He releases my breast and brings his lips to mine. It's fast this time. Hard and hungry. His tongue plunges into my mouth. His hands move to my thighs.
His touch is just as aggressive. He slides his hands over my outer thighs, over the sides of my panties. Then under the sides. He pulls them as far as they'll go. It's only a few inches with our bodies pressed together.
He grabs me, his hands squeezing my hips. "Get on your back on the bed." His voice is heavy. Breathless.
I have every intention of complying. I lie down on my mattress. He positions himself next to me, his body propped up on his elbow. I slide my hand under his t-shirt.
His abs feel damn good. I trace the lines of his muscles with my fingertips. He presses his lips into mine again, but it's a little softer. Patient.
I don't want softer. I don't want patient. I want his hands on my body. I want him inside me.
His hand starts at my forehead. He slides it over the side of my face, my neck, my shoulders, my breasts. He stops to circle my nipple again, and again, and again. I press my hand against his chest. Just as hard. Just as perfect.
He grabs my hand and presses it against the bed.
My tank top is scrunched up at my stomach. He pulls it down, over my hips, over my skirt, all the way over my knees and toes.
Then it's a heap on the floor.
My breath is heavy. I'm shaking. I need him so badly I don't care about anything else.
He brushes his fingers against my ankle. The inside of my calf. Then the inside of my thigh.
My sex is aching for his touch. He's closer. Closer. Almost. I close my eyes, sinking into the bed, melting into a puddle. No shape. No form. Nothing but a thing for him to touch.
He runs his fingers over me, over my panties. "Fuck, I can already feel how wet you are."
His hands are on my hips. He pulls my panties over my hips, leaving them around my thighs.
And his hand is back. On me. Nothing in the way. I gasp as he slides his fingers over my clit. It's better than anything I've ever felt before. So, so, so much better than my hand. So much better than I imagined.
Heat spreads out from my core. To my stomach, thighs, and breasts. All the way down my arms and legs to my toes and fingertips. He strokes me again. Again.
And he slides two fingers inside of me.
I gasp, reaching for his shoulders. My hands catch on to something. His hair. His messy hair. I dig my fingers into it, tugging hard.
He slides his fingers deeper, and I groan.
I don't care how much he'll brag when we're finished. This feels too good. I have to groan.
The tension inside me builds. And I'm almost there. I moan. I pant. I arch my back as far as it will go.
He groans, grabbing my thigh with his free hand, digging his nails into my skin.
But the worst thing imaginable happens.
The phone rings.
It's not my ringtone. It must be him. And it's so, so loud.
He groans. "Ignore it." And he slides his thumb over my clit.
There's a knot of pressure inside me, and it feels so damn good. Better than it has ever felt before. But that stupid phone is ringing again, and this horrible voice inside my head is screaming what if something is wrong? What if something is wrong and you're too late, again?
My body tenses, and everything in Miles's posture changes.
"You okay?" he asks.
I shake my head. "The phone. You should get it."
"You're about to come, and you'd prefer I use my hands to answer the phone?"
I nod. "Do you doubt your ability to get me back here?"
"No, but I'm going to scream if I'm not inside you soon."
The air escapes my lungs. God, that sounds amazing. But not if something is wrong. Not if someone needs us.
He pushes off the bed with a heavy sigh. At least this is as painful for him as it is for me.
He pulls his phone from his pocket and looks at the screen. Shakes his head. Answers. "Yes." It's strained. Like he can barely think, much less speak. "Give me an hour." He sighs. "Fine. But I can’t teleport. It’ll be at least half an hour." He ends the call and places his phone on the counter. His eyes find mine. "It's nothing you need to worry about. Just some drama at the Hollywood place."
"And you'll be there in half an hour?"
“Around that.”
"You really think we're going to...in thirty minutes?"
He shakes his head. "That’s not enough time to do this right."
"Oh." Suddenly, I feel cold, exposed, and not at all right. I'm wearing only my skirt and Miles is still dressed. He never bothered to take off a single article of clothing.
“I guess you’re leaving then,” I say.
This relationship, arrangement, whatever it is, is already off on the wrong foot. He's holding all the cards, and the only thing I can do is hope.
“I’d really hate to leave without making you come,” he says.
His eyes find mine. I press my thighs together and slide back on the bed until I'm pressed against the headboard.
I take a deep breath. Relax, dammit. I can't let him have this much power over me.
I consider asking him to leave now. I can finish his on my own. It won’t be as fun, but it won’t leave me in knots either.
I look into his eyes. He’s not smug. If anything, he seems sorry.
I can handle this.
"You have a serious time crunch there," I say.
He smiles, sits on the bed, and slides his body next to mine. He feels so warm, so hard to the touch.
His fingertips slide over my chest, brushing against my nipples. In an instant, the heat in my body is back. It's like he's painting it on me, pulling it through me.
His hand slides down my stomach, coming to the waist of my skirt. Then his hand is on my inner thigh, and every other thought flees my brain. I have ten more minutes with Miles tonight. I'm going to enjoy every single one of them.
He presses his lips against mine as he slides his hand over me. Yes. Right. There.
His tongue slips into my mouth. I kiss back, hard. It's a desperate plea for him to continue, to make good on all his smack talk.
He presses his lips against my neck. Slides his fingers over my clit. His touch is soft at first. Then it's harder. Harder. Then it's perfect. I groan and dig my nails into his shoulders.
He reads me like a book, rubbing me with that same pressure, same speed. It's perfect.
The ache inside me is building fast, so fast I can barely contain it. I moan. Almost. There.
His mouth closes on mine again. I dig my hands into his hair, kissing him as fast as I can. Kissing him like this is the only chance I'll ever have to kiss anyone.
An orgasm rises up inside of me. All that pressure, all that tension, builds and builds and builds. It's so good, so tense, so much I can barely take it. I moan into his mouth.
He pulls back. He brings his mouth to my nipple and sucks hard. So hard, it hurts, but that only makes it feel so much better.
And all that tension releases in a torrent of pleasure. That heat building between my thighs spreads out through my body, and bliss follows it. Everything he's touching feels good.
I groan.
He sucks harder on my nipple. I dig my hands into his hair, something to contain the feeling, the pang between my legs. I squeeze my thighs together reflexively. His hand is still between them. His hand is still on me.
He's not stopping.
He strokes me, again, and again, and again. He trails his lips over my chest. Slides his tongue over my nipple. And then he's sucking again. And hard. So hard, I think I might scream.
So hard, I do scream.
His touch is harder. Faster. And it feels so much better. I'm almost there already. I let go of anything I want to
hide from him. I groan, pant, and shake.
He pushes me over the edge again. All that tension in my body releases in a perfect wave of pleasure. I exhale every ounce of air in my lungs.
I melt into the bed. Pure puddle. Utterly shapeless.
Miles looks up at me. His lips curl into a smile, that same smug smile, but I can't bring myself to care about his bragging. Not when I feel this good.
He kisses me again. It's soft, fast, a goodbye kiss.
"Fuck, Meg," he says. "I guess I don't need to ask if you'll miss me."
He's bragging, and I don't give a damn. I shrug, and I release any control I have over my shoulders.
He slides off the bed. "My cock isn’t going to forgive me for leaving."
I stifle a grin.
"I’ll make this up to you next time." He collects his things and takes a step towards the door. "Sleep tight."
"You, too. I mean, after you get home."
He waves on his way out the door.
It takes every bit of energy I have left—almost nothing—but I drag myself out of bed to lock the door.
I slide the window open. The room fills with cool breeze and quiet sounds. It's so late the street is nearly dead.
Miles brought me to orgasm. Twice. The two most amazing orgasms of my life. And now, he's on his way home.
I take a deep breath, but the calm I had a moment ago escapes me. We're friends. With benefits. Nothing like boyfriend/girlfriend.
No reason there should be an uneasy feeling in my stomach.
It's late. I'm tired. I ate almost nothing for dinner.
That's it. That has to be it.
CHAPTER SIX
"Sweetie, Futurama movies do not count as movies," Kara says. "I'll let you have it because I love you, but you have to know it's total bullshit."
"You're so obsessed with rules."
She glares. "You're the one who came up with the idea of taking turns. I don't give a damn. We can watch sci-fi every week. Anything except Battlestar Galactica."
My phone buzzes. I ignore it. "It's not the show's fault everyone called you Starbuck in high school."
She raises an eyebrow. "You gonna check your phone?"
"It's probably nothing."
"Uh-huh." She shakes her head and moves to the kitchen. "Frosted Flakes or Cocoa Puffs?"
"Both."
She arranges our snacks in the kitchen. Kara and I have this weekly routine. Sunday brunch. It's supposed to be for homework, but mostly we watch movies and eat cereal straight from the box.
Last year, our weekly meetings were the only time I wasn't studying. I was so focused on that stupid MCAT. It was the only thing I paid attention to. It's why I didn't notice Rosie's slip into addiction. It's why I let it slide when she told me she was fine, even though that uneasy feeling in my gut screamed that she was lying to me.
My phone buzzes again.
Fine.
It's a picture message. An STD test with Miles's name in the corner. He's clean.
Miles: I don't want to assume you're on birth control.
Meg: The pill. I’m clean too. I don’t have a test, but I am.
Miles: You don’t have to be shy about being a virgin.
Kara plops next to me. She hands me a can of green tea and a bowl of puffed corn coated in sugar and coco powder. I pop open my can and take a long sip.
"Earth to Meg?" She taps my shoulder. "Is that who I think it is?"
"We're just talking."
"That is 100 percent grade-A bullshit.” Her eyes are sincere. “You have any details to share?”
“I’m working on it.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I can handle it.”
She stares me down like she's challenging me to tell the truth.
"If I can't, I'll talk to you," I say.
She plays with her t-shirt. "After what happened with Rosie, I don't want to see you get hurt again. You deserve people in your life who’ll really care about you."
My gaze goes back to my phone. “Good thing I have you.”
"If you're going to text during the whole damn movie, I'm going to put in something I like."
"Okay."
“Something with subtitles.”
“Go for it.”
She shakes her head like I'm hopeless. But, still, I turn back to my phone.
Miles: I can bring something if you want to be careful.
Miles: Since it's your first time and all.
Meg: Whatever.
Miles: We have a show next week. Why don't you come? Then you can come and come and come.
Miles: That was three. But three is the bare minimum.
I turn my phone over and slide it into my pocket. "There's a Sinful Serenade show next weekend?"
Kara taps the remote, starting play on some independent film with stark scenery and a minimalist soundtrack. She raises an eyebrow like she's challenging me to explain. "Friday. Starts while you're at work, but I can wait."
I shake my head. "I'll take the bus."
"You can't take the bus to Hollywood that late. No way in hell. I'll pick you up."
"You'll miss—"
"It's decided," she says. "And you'll text me if you decide to leave with someone?"
"I promise."
***
My shift at the ER ends at ten on the dot. By 10:05, I'm in Kara's car, in one of her bodycon dresses, applying makeup with an unsteady hand. The black eyeliner is messy, but it still brings out my brown eyes.
My chestnut hair is its usual frizzy mess. I run a comb through it, but that doesn’t help much. At least the dress is nice. A little short for my long legs, and I certainly don’t fill it out well, but it looks better than I’d expect given the six inches I have on Kara. Or the three cup sizes she has on me.
I read over Miles's texts again, just to be sure I'm not dreaming all this up.
Miles: We have a show next week. Why don't you come? Then you can come and come and come.
Miles: That was three. But three is the bare minimum.
Kara parks three blocks from the venue at an expired meter. She smiles. "Here goes nothing."
I take a deep breath, pulling in all the confidence I can manage. The walk to the venue nearly undoes me. What kind of sadistic person invented high heels, and why did he make it so damn hard to walk in them?
We flash our passes to the bouncer and step inside the club. Sound echoes against the high ceilings. It’s loud. Really loud. It’s like all the energy is focused on the stage. The band is lit with a bright white spotlight. Everything else in the club is black.
There must be three or four hundred people squeezed into a space meant for far, far less. Mostly girls, mostly screaming their lungs out.
Miles stands on the edge of the stage, his fingers wrapped around a microphone, his eyes closed as if he's feeling the song so much he can't bear to keep them open. I'm immediately drawn in by the music. The drums and bass pound with a steady rhythm. The guitar is doing some amazing thing I can't begin to explain.
But that isn't what has my attention. It's Miles. His voice is beautiful. Not just beautiful. It's breathy, and throaty, and wounded as all hell. Every word comes out with a thousand pounds of emotional force behind it. It's like his voice is seeping through my skin and bones, all the way into my soul. It's like I can feel whatever it is that made him write this song.
And it hurts. Not as badly as In Pieces, but enough.
The songs ends. There's no break. Sinful Serenade transitions right into the next number. This one is faster, harder, louder. It's more upbeat, but there's still this undercurrent of hurt in Miles's voice. I catch a few of the lyrics. They're beautiful little wisps of poetry. Who would think a guy like him could write things like that?
Who would think a guy like him could make me feel things like this?
My heart is heavy. I'm hurting with him. That's not all there is. There's an elation, too, like it's bittersweet, like it's getting better. I close m
y eyes and lose myself in his voice. There's so much sound around us—the screaming, the guitar, the bass, the drums—but all I can hear is Miles. It's like he's singing to me.
The song ends. I open my eyes, startled by the quick return to reality. The massive room is dark except for the blue and white stage lights. Miles smiles at the crowd with that same cocky expression on his face. He waves and blows a kiss. A dozen girls squeal, sure his adoration is meant for them.
He looks back at his band mates as if to check in. Can't say that I'm paying much attention to the other guys. They seem to be in some kind of blissful, meditative state. They're all so effortlessly cool.
Miles looks back at the crowd. "I'd like to dedicate this next song to a very special girl. I'm not sure that she thinks much of me, but, Meg, I wrote this song, too."
The drummer brings his sticks down hard on his drum kit. "Only the lyrics, Romeo."
Miles sends the drummer a sweet smile. Must be some kind of inside joke. The drummer shakes his head, stands, and pulls off his shirt.
The screams are so loud I can't even think. The crowd likes him sans shirt. They like it a lot.
Next to me, Kara laughs. She's eying Drew like she hopes it will start some kind of chain reaction. I don't call her on it.
Miles tugs at the bottom of his t-shirt, teasing the crowd to a chorus of cheers. He walks over to the bassist, Pete, and hands him the mic.
Miles’s eyes go back to the crowd. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he's looking at me. I'd swear he's doing this solely for my benefit.
He pulls it higher, higher, higher. And then it's off his head and on the ground.
The cheers are deafening. Mr. Miles Webb is certainly the object of lust. Hard to blame the girls staring at him with their eyes wide and their jaws dropped. No doubt, there will be a dozen pairs of panties on stage by the end of the song.
Not mine, of course. Those are staying on. At least in public.
But later, when we're alone...
Miles takes the microphone back. He brings it back to his mouth. "Is it hot in here, or is it just me?"
The crowd screams.
"So, it's just me?" He winks at the crowd. He points to the guitarist then to the bassist. "Only two songs to go. Think we can get the string jockeys shirtless by the end of the show?"
There's another set of cheers. Every guy in the band has his fans.
Sing Your Heart Out Page 4