He tugs at my t-shirt. I lift my arms to help him get it off.
His eyes pass over me slowly. Then it's his fingers skimming my sides. "You should have said hard."
My cheeks flush. "I, um..."
He unhooks my bra and pulls it off my arms. "Um...?"
I plant my hands on his chest and press my crotch into his. Hard. Yes, he is absolutely hard.
Deep breath. Want is rushing through my body, but I can still play this cool. "And my Roman Poetry elective."
He unzips my jeans and pulls them off my ass. "That's a shit choice for an elective."
He runs his fingertips over the waist of my panties. A gasp escapes my lips. Midterms. Electives. They're so quaint, so far away, so much less important than this.
I rub my crotch against his. "It's better than you'd expect."
He shakes his head. "You're making this hard."
"I can tell."
He smirks. "But I'm going to beat midterms."
He runs his hand over my hips and sides. Then it's on my chest, circling my nipples with just the right amount of pressure.
I exhale every bit of tension I have left. Every brush of his fingertips sends a wave of pleasure through me. Midterms? I'm never thinking about midterms again.
He slides my panties down with my jeans. A moan escapes my lips. He's close, and dammit, I want his hands on me. I want every single bit of him I can get.
Miles's fingertips brush against my thighs. Closer, closer, closer. They skim my sex, so light I barely feel it.
"You're wet." His voice is low, throaty.
Whatever his version of midterms is, he's not thinking about it right now.
I shimmy out of my jeans, and plant myself back on top of him. I can feel him, through the fabric of his jeans, and damn, he feels good.
I lower myself onto Miles so my chest is pressed against his. Then it's my lips. He digs a hand through my hair, holding me against him. His tongue explores my mouth. He tastes damn good, and it feels like it's been a million years since I've been here with him.
He moans into my mouth. Tugs my hair a little harder. I need more of that energy. I need to hear him screaming my name, to know I'm driving him as crazy as he drives me.
I suck on his earlobe. He lets out a throaty breath, but it's not enough, not the sound he makes when he comes. I kiss his chest. It's so strong, so perfectly defined. And his skin tastes damn good. I trace the lines of his tattoo with my tongue.
He laughs. "The ink doesn't have a taste."
"How the hell would you know?"
"Fair enough." He runs his fingertips over my neck and shoulders, all the way down to my chest.
Pangs of pleasure shoot through me. I can't wait anymore. I need to hear him screaming.
I kiss my way down his perfect stomach. All the way to the soft hairs below his belly button. His posture changes. No more pretenses. He's at my mercy, and he's desperate.
I unzip his jeans and push them to his knees. His boxers are straining to cover his erection. Fuck, he's bigger than I remembered. I wrap my hand around his cock and stroke him from the tip to the base.
Miles shudders. A groan escapes his lips. I push his boxers out of the way and drag my nails over his thighs.
That sarcastic, smug asshole is completely at my mercy.
I rub my thumb over his tip, feeling every ridge in his cock. Once I'm satisfied with my exploration, I wrap my hand around him and pump him with steady strokes.
He groans. That's a start. I brush my lips against his tip. Then it's my tongue. He tastes good, like Miles.
I take him into my mouth and suck on his tip. His hands dig through my hair. They settle on the back of my head, guiding me over him.
I've only done this the one time, with him, in the shower, but it feels so damn natural.
I run my tongue over his base. I swirl it around his tip.
He lets out a heavy breath and makes a fist in my hair.
That's it. I do it again, again, again. He reaches for my breast and squeezes my nipple hard. Pleasure pools through me. I want him, all of him, but I can't give up being in control of his orgasm. Not yet.
I wrap my hand around his cock and stroke him like it's an extension of my mouth. He groans, so I do it again, and again.
Miles tugs at my shoulders. "I need to fuck you, Meg."
I climb back on top of him, planting my knees around his sides. He bucks his hips so his tip strains against me.
My body floods with relief. It's like I'm coming in from the cold. I look Miles right in the eyes and rock my hips against his.
My clit presses against his pubic bone. And he's inside me, deep inside me, in all those places so desperate to feel him.
"Still thinking about midterms?" he asks.
I lean back, pressing my palms against his thighs for support. "It's all biology."
He laughs. "So it is."
He grabs my thighs and pries my legs apart. I arch back, pushing him deeper, giving him a better view of my sex.
He bucks his hips to meet me. It's deeper. So deep it almost hurts. His fingers skim my thighs. Up, and up, and up, and they're on my clit.
A wave of pleasure rocks through me. I gasp and dig my nails into his thighs.
He does it again. I arch my back as far as it will go, pushing him as deep as I can, rocking my hips as fast as I can. Again, and again, and again. My shoulders go weak. My breath is so heavy. And the knot inside me is so, so tight.
Miles grabs my hips. He flips our position, so I'm on my hands and knees and he's behind me. Our heads bump. It's messy, but it's perfect.
He grabs my hips and holds me steady as he enters me. I press my arms into the bed, pushing him deeper. It's different from any other position. I'm so full, and I'm totally at his mercy.
His hand slides up my thigh. No teasing. He strokes my clit, and he thrusts into me. He moves with a steady rhythm. With just the right amount of pressure.
Miles groans. It's pure animal. Pure instinct. He moves faster. Strokes me harder. My sex clenches. It's all so tight, so much, and I'm so full.
I close my eyes, digging my hands into the sheets to contain the sensation. Miles is fucking me, touching me, about to come inside me.
He rocks into me. Again. Again. Again. The pressure inside me builds. More. More. More. I'm there, at the edge, and his groans are filling the room.
It pushes me over. All that tension releases in a wave of pleasure. I missed this.
His hands tighten around my hips. He moves faster. Harder. His breath is erratic. His groans are low and deep.
Harder. Faster. He digs his nails into my ass. His cock pulses.
"Mhmm." He groans.
And he comes inside me.
Miles slows. His breath returns to normal. He falls on the bed, on his side, and pulls my body into his.
"What was it you weren't supposed to think about?" he asks.
"Hell if I remember."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Thanksgiving morning, Miles arrives at eight a.m., fresh-faced and clear-eyed. He’s the picture of relaxed and rested.
He carries my suitcase for me. Opens the car door for me. It's a car and not his death bike, thank God. There are two cans of green tea in the cup holders. He's mocking me, sure, but I'm not going to pass up the sweet, sweet caffeine.
He slams the trunk, slides into the driver's seat, turns the key. His eyes pass over me. "You look nice."
Nice is hardly the compliment I expect from Miles, but it's exactly right. I'm in my most parent-pleasing outfit—a polka dot cardigan, skinny jeans, ankle boots.
"Thank you." I down half the can of tea. It's cool and crisp, and I can already feel the caffeine surging through my veins.
He focuses on the v-neckline of my sweater. "Are you wearing anything under that?"
"You're about to meet my parents. You're not in a position to ask me to take off my clothes."
He pouts as he pulls onto the freeway. The car moves fast, but it's no
t crazy fast like that first night we met. It's reasonable.
I turn on the radio. It's tuned to KROQ and what do you know, No Way in Hell pours out of the speakers.
Three a.m. and I can't sleep.
A common refrain, I know.
As a sentiment, it's cheap.
Someone to call, to hold,
to love, no way, that word-
She smiles and I drift away—
My cheeks flush. I stammer something incomprehensible and change the station.
"You know, most girls feel flattered when someone writes a song about them," he says.
"I'm not most girls." I press my back against the seat. "And you've never said that it's about me."
His fingers curl around the wheel. "It is."
"Oh."
"You're cute when you're nervous."
"I'm not." I bite my tongue. "What the hell do you think you're doing writing songs about me?"
"Sorry, Meg, but you're not going to tell me who I can or can't write songs about."
I turn my attention to the window, but there's nothing to see. Only overpasses, exit signs, rows of condos. "Why did you write a song about me?"
"Something came over me, an itch, and the song was the only way to scratch it."
Yes, he really is an enigma wrapped in a riddle surrounded by bullshit. I take a deep breath. "That isn't an answer."
"Yes, it is." He turns to me for a moment then his eyes are back on the road. "It's just not the answer you want."
"You don't know shit about what I want."
"You want me to say you inspired me, that you're my muse, that you're so wonderful I want to write a million songs about you."
"Not even close."
"Good."
I fold my arms. "Good."
The radio station goes to commercial. It's for some fast-food restaurant, some supposedly cheap and delicious breakfast item. The hum of the road, the wind leaking through the not-quite-airtight windows, fills the car. This day is already off to a terrible start.
"Is this even your car?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"Then why do you always ride the death bike?"
"I like having something powerful between my legs."
"Clever."
"You want to tell me why you're upset?"
"I'm not upset." My quick pulse disagrees, but so it goes. "I just...I don't like you bullshitting me."
"You want the truth?"
I grit my teeth. "Yes."
His eyes find mine. I blink and they're back on the road.
"It's not complicated. I felt something, I wrote a song. The end."
"What did you feel?"
"If I could explain it, I wouldn't have to write the song."
"Thanks. You really cleared things up." I rest my head on the passenger door. Some explanation. But I shouldn't expect anything better from Miles.
"You're cranky today."
"Fuck off."
"Did you eat breakfast?"
"I don't need you to feed me, okay?"
"You want this?" He offers me the second can of tea. "You must."
"Fine." I take the can, pop it open, and down a huge gulp. "Thank you."
"We can stop for a snack," he says.
"No." I squeeze the can. "I can wait until we get to my parents’ place."
"Suit yourself."
He's affecting me again. I can't let him keep affecting me like this. I close my eyes and pretend to nap. Despite my insistence Miles takes the next exit.
He parks at a Starbucks. "I'm not going to tolerate your crankiness all day."
I flip him off.
"Come on. I'll buy you coffee, green tea, whatever your heart desires." He steps out of the car, slamming the door behind him.
My stomach rumbles. I am hungry. But I don't want to prove him right again. He already has an impossibly huge ego.
I slide out of the car, hugging my purse to my chest. Miles slides his arm around my waist, and we walk into the coffee shop like we're a normal couple on the way to a normal Thanksgiving.
The girl behind the counter recognizes Miles instantly. Her eyes light up. Her tongue slides over her lips. "Welcome!"
Miles smirks. "You want to grab a seat?"
"So you can flirt with the employee?"
He trails his fingers over the edge of my cardigan than over my skin. "I only flirt with you." His hand slides to my lower back. "I just don't want to subject anyone else to your hunger-induced mood."
"Maybe my mood is bullshit induced."
"Only one way to find out." He steps up to the register. Plants his palms flat and leans in towards the employee like he's about to share a secret. "Black coffee for me. Large. And for my friend..." He motions to me.
"Large latte. Extra shot."
"And," Miles says.
"One of the egg sandwiches. The one with spinach."
The girl nods. She stares adoringly at Miles. "I love Sinful Serenade."
He winks at her. "Keep this between us, okay?"
"Would you sign something?" Her eyes go wide. She reaches under the counter and hands him a marker.
He nods, of course, signs a napkin, and hands it back to her. I take Miles's earlier advice and flop into one of the cushy chairs. His display of celebrity does nothing for my bullshit-induced mood.
I check my phone. Nothing but a text from my mom to drive safely. Everyone else is far, far away. Kara is in San Francisco. I text her Happy Thanksgiving. It's not all that much, but it's something.
Miles slides into the cushy chair next to mine. He hands me my drink and my egg sandwich. "Not that you're hungry or anything."
"Were you born this smug or did it develop over time?"
"Fifty-fifty."
Whatever. I get up for sugar and a wooden stirring spoon. I can feel his eyes on me, but I ignore it. Back in my chair, I fix my drink. It's good. Sweet and creamy and incredibly full of caffeine. My eyes meet his. "Why did you really invite yourself home with me?"
"The answer to that question is self-evident."
"Jesus, I forgot you were going to be a lawyer." I take another sip. More sweet, sweet caffeine. How did people live before caffeine? It must’ve been hell.
"Well, if you'd like me to spell it out for you," he leans closer. "I have a million places to go, but only one place where I can hear you come."
"You can hear me come any place with a cell phone connection."
His lips curl into a smile. "The food is doing wonders for your concentration."
I roll my eyes. He says he's here for sex then he's here for sex. It makes almost no sense. No one invites himself over for Thanksgiving, to meet the parents, for sex, but okay. I'm not willing to entertain any other possibilities.
"Wouldn't you rather see your family?" I ask.
"Sinful Serenade is my family."
"That's it."
He nods. "The only family that matters."
"What about the uncle who owns the fancy Malibu house?"
"He owned it. He died last year."
"Oh." I wrap my fingers around the cup, soaking in its warmth. "What happened?"
"Cancer."
"And your parents?"
His voice gets low. "It's not something I usually talk about."
"Oh." I take a sip of my drink, trying to maintain a calm expression. Casual. We're doing casual. There's no reason why he needs to tell me this.
"But I trust you." He leans closer. "The question is if you really want to hear it."
"It's up to you."
His eyes turn to the ground. "Here's the thing, Meg. I'm only telling you this so you understand why I'll never fall in love with you."
My breath catches in my throat. "I know. We're friends."
Miles stares through me. "And you're sure you're okay with that?"
"Absolutely." I press my hand into my jeans. "This relationship is just sex."
"My dad left when I was in middle school. Bored of the whole suburban thing. I was angry, and I did noth
ing but play my guitar and get into trouble. But my mom...she fell apart. She couldn't get out of bed, couldn't even bother to get herself to the shower. It broke her heart. That's what love does, it breaks your heart."
Miles’s eyes fill up with this mix of hatred and frustration. His dad leaving must have hurt so much. And then his mom...he’s never talked about her before.
"But she...now..." I can't bring myself to ask the question. I already know it leads down some dark and stormy path. He has no family that matters. His mom must not be...
His gaze drifts to the window. He focuses on something far off in the distance, like he’s lost in thought. It must be a whole minute before he looks back to me.
"She killed herself," he says.
My stomach drops with a thud. My fingers slip, and my drink tumbles to the ground. The lid bounces off and there's coffee everywhere. "Oh, God. I better..." I jump out of my seat. Napkins. I need napkins. They're by the counter, by the perky employee who doesn't know that Miles doesn't do boyfriend, that he believes love can only break you.
I grab a stack.
The perky employee spots the puddle of coffee. "I can get that."
"No, it's okay."
She's not hearing it. She slides out from the counter with a white washcloth, rushes to Miles, drops to her knees, and mops up the coffee.
His eyes find mine, but he says nothing. I try to turn myself into stone. I try to give nothing away, but everything around me feels heavy.
He went through so much. He hurt so much. And he just mentions it casually in the middle of a coffee shop. By the way, my mom killed herself and that's why I have all these intimacy issues. Want to fuck in the bathroom?
Deep breath. The employee finishes mopping. She smiles at Miles. At me. Totally oblivious to the change in atmosphere.
"I'll make you another. Latte, extra shot, right?"
I nod and return to my seat. "Sorry."
"That's about what I expected." He picks up the remaining half of my sandwich and hands it to me. "You're clumsy when you're hungry."
"I'm sorry you went through all that."
There’s vulnerability in his expression. "I survived."
My heart thuds against my chest. "So that place in Malibu. It's all yours?"
"All mine."
I press my fingertips into the palm of my hand. "It's very nice."
"You don't have to handle me carefully, Meg. I'm fine."
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