Chapter 3 – Miranda
"I need to—" I start, then stop, because what I need is him, and saying that out loud feels like stepping off a cliff.
"What do you need?" His voice is lower now, rougher, and the way he's looking at me makes my skin feel too tight.
He stands slowly, like sudden movements might spook me, and extends his hand.
His palm is warm and slightly rough when I take it. He helps me up from the chair, and the blanket pools at my feet like shed skin, leaving me standing there in my damp sweater and jeans, painfully aware of how the fabric clings to every curve.
But Corey doesn't look away.
"Show me to your room?" he asks, but his hand is already settling at the small of my back, fingers spread wide and warm through the wool.
The walk to the staircase feels endless and too short all at once. His hand stays anchored against my spine, thumb tracing small circles that make me arch slightly into the touch without meaning to. When we reach the bottom of the stairs, he stops.
"Miranda."
I turn to face him, and suddenly we're so close I can count the gold flecks in his eyes, can see where he cut himself shaving this morning, a tiny nick just below his jaw that I want to kiss.
"What?"
Instead of answering, he cups my face in both hands, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones like he's memorizing the shape of me. Then he leans down and kisses me, soft and slowly as I rise on my toes to meet him halfway.
He tastes like coffee, and when I part my lips under his, he makes a sound low in his throat that goes straight through me. His tongue traces mine, slow and thorough, and I fist my hands in the front of his uniform shirt to keep myself upright.
When he pulls back, we're both breathing harder.
"Upstairs," I manage, and he nods like I've just solved a complex equation.
But instead of stepping away, he presses me back against the newel post, one hand braced beside my head while the other settles on my hip. The wood is cool against my back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body as he leans into me.
"I need you to know," he says, voice rough and quiet, "I don't usually do this."
"This?"
"Want someone I just met. Want them this much it makes me stupid."
The admission sends heat pooling low in my belly. "How stupid?"
"Stupid enough to follow you upstairs." His thumb traces the waistband of my jeans, just barely slipping under the fabric to brush skin. "Stupid enough to not care that you're leaving soon."
His mouth moves along my neck, finding every sensitive spot I didn't know I had, and when he nips gently at the place where my shoulder meets my throat, I gasp and arch into him.
"Corey." His name comes out breathless, desperate.
"Yeah?"
"Upstairs. Now."
This time he doesn't hesitate. His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing, and he leads me up the stairs with purpose. But we only make it halfway before I can't stand the distance anymore. I tug him to a stop and push him back against the wall, rising on my toes to kiss him again.
This kiss is hungrier, messier, full of teeth and tongue and the kind of desperation that makes you forget where you are. His hands slide down to cup my ass, pulling me harder against him, and I can feel how much he wants this, wants me, hard and insistent against my hip.
"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth, and the curse word sounds filthy and perfect in his voice.
I rock against him, just slightly, and his grip tightens. "Don't," he warns. "Not here. Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because when I get inside you, I want to take my time."
I grab his hand and practically drag him the rest of the way up the stairs, fumbling with my key card when we reach my door.
"Let me," he says, taking the card from my shaking fingers, but instead of opening the door immediately, he crowds me back against it, using his body to pin me in place.
"You sure about this?" he asks, even as his hips press forward, trapping me between his hardness and the unyielding wood at my back.
"Are you seriously asking me that now?"
"Just want to be sure—"
I cut him off by grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down for another kiss, this one designed to leave no doubt about what I want. He groans into my mouth, one hand sliding up to tangle in my hair while the other works the key card.
The door opens behind me, and we tumble inside together, mouths still connected, hands already reaching for clothes. He kicks the door shut while I work at the buttons of his shirt, fingers clumsy with want.
"Easy," he murmurs, catching my hands in his. "We've got time."
"Do we?" Because suddenly it feels urgent, like if we don't do this right now, the spell will break and I'll remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
"All night," he says, and then his hands are at the hem of my sweater, warm fingers brushing my skin as he starts to lift it. "Can I?"
Instead of answering, I raise my arms, letting him pull the damp wool over my head. It hits the floor with a soft sound, and then he's looking at me, his gaze traveling over my soft stomach, the full curves of my breasts in their simple white cotton bra, the way my jeans hug my hips.
I fight the urge to cover myself, to apologize for taking up space, because the expression on his face stops me cold.
He looks hungry. Reverent. Like I'm exactly what he's been hoping to find.
"Christ," he breathes, hands hovering just above my skin like he's afraid I might disappear. "Look at you."
Then his mouth is on my collarbone, pressing hot kisses along the ridge of bone before moving lower. His beard scrapes against my sensitive skin, leaving trails of fire in its wake, and when he reaches the swell of my breasts above my bra, I thread my fingers through his hair and hold him there.
"More," I whisper, and he responds by reaching behind me to unhook my bra with practiced ease.
The cotton falls away, and then his mouth is on me properly, tongue circling one nipple while his hand covers the other breast. I arch into the touch with a sound that's half gasp, half moan, and he makes an answering noise against my skin that vibrates through me.
My hands work at his shirt buttons, needing to touch him, needing skin against skin. He helps me, shrugging out of the uniform shirt and the white t-shirt underneath, revealing a chest that's broad and solid and perfect.
There's dark hair across his pectorals, trailing down to disappear beneath his belt, and I follow it with my fingertips, feeling the way his muscles jump under my touch.
His fingers find the button of my jeans, working it open with deliberate slowness. The zipper follows, and then he's hooking his thumbs in the waistband, tugging the denim down over my hips.
I have to sit on the edge of the bed to get them all the way off, and he kneels to help, pulling them past my ankles along with my socks. When I'm sitting there in nothing but white cotton panties, he sits back on his heels and looks up at me.
Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to my inner thigh, just above my knee, and I have to brace my hands on the bed to keep from falling over. His mouth moves higher, alternating between soft kisses and gentle scrapes of teeth, and by the time he reaches the edge of my panties, I'm trembling.
"Corey, please."
"Please what?"
"Touch me. Properly."
He hooks his fingers in the elastic and looks up at me, waiting for permission. I lift my hips, and he slides the cotton down and off, leaving me completely bare.
For a moment, he just looks. Then he spreads my thighs wider and settles between them, hands gripping my hips to hold me steady.
The first touch of his tongue makes me cry out, back arching off the bed. He's thorough, methodical, using his mouth and fingers to map every sensitive spot until I'm writhing beneath him, one hand fisted in his hair and the other gripping the quilt.
"Oh god, oh fuck—" The words spill out of me, incoherent and desperate, and he hums against me in approval.
He finds my clit with the tip of his tongue, circling it with exactly the right pressure, and I feel myself getting close, the familiar tightening low in my belly that signals I'm about to come apart.
But then he pulls back, leaving me gasping and empty.
"Why did you stop?"
"Because I want to be inside you when you come." He stands, hands going to his belt buckle. "Want to feel you fall apart around me."
I watch him undress, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the way his jeans hang low on his hips, the impressive length of him when he finally pushes his boxers down. He's thick and hard and beautiful, and suddenly I need him closer.
"Come here," I breathe, reaching for him.
He moves over me, bracing his weight on his forearms, and the first touch of skin against skin makes us both gasp. He's warm and solid above me, all muscle and strength and control that I suddenly want to shatter.
He reaches between us, the head of his cock brushing against me, slick and hot. "You sure?"
"God, yes."
He pushes forward slowly, carefully, letting me adjust to the stretch and fullness. It's been so long that the sensation is overwhelming.
"Fuck," he groans, forehead dropping to rest against mine. "You feel incredible."
When he's fully seated inside me, we both go still, breathing hard. I can feel my body adjusting around him, muscles relaxing to accommodate his size, and when I experimentally clench around him, he makes a sound like I'm killing him.
"Don't," he warns. "Not yet. Need a minute."
"Are you okay?"
"Too good. You feel too good."
After a moment, he starts to move—long, slow strokes that light up every nerve ending I have. I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, changing the angle so he hits that perfect spot inside me with every thrust.
"There," I gasp. "Right there."
He adjusts his rhythm, hitting that same spot over and over until I'm seeing stars. His mouth finds mine, swallowing my moans as he moves inside me with increasing urgency.
But I want to see him lose control, want to watch his face when he comes apart. So I press against his chest, encouraging him to pull out, to let me move.
"What—?"
"Turn over," I whisper. "Let me."
He rolls onto his back without argument, and I straddle his hips, taking him inside me again from this new angle. The position lets him go deeper, and we both groan at the sensation.
I start to move, finding a rhythm that works for both of us, my hands braced on his chest for leverage. From here I can watch his face, can see the way his jaw clenches when I roll my hips, can hear the way my name sounds like a prayer on his lips.
"God, Miranda. Just like that."
His hands grip my hips, guiding my movements, and when I lean forward to change the angle, his mouth finds my breast, tongue circling my nipple until I'm gasping above him.
The new position puts pressure on my clit with every movement, and I can feel myself getting close again, that familiar tension building low in my belly.
"I'm going to—" I start, but the words get lost in a moan as he thrusts up to meet me.
"Do it," he growls against my breast. "Come for me."
But before I can tip over the edge, he's rolling us again, pinning me beneath him with renewed urgency. This time when he enters me, it's with purpose, driving deep and hard until I'm clinging to him desperately.
"Need to feel you," he pants against my ear. "Need to feel you come around me."
The orgasm hits like a tidal wave, rolling through me in pulses that make me cry out and dig my nails into his back. I clench around him helplessly, body shaking with the force of my release.
"Fuck, yes," he groans, and then he's following me over, driving deep one last time as he spills inside me with a hoarse shout of my name.
We collapse together, both breathing hard and slick with sweat. He's heavy on top of me, but I don't want him to move. Don't want this perfect moment to end.
After a few minutes, he lifts his head to look at me. "You okay?"
"More than okay."
He brushes a strand of hair away from my face, thumb stroking across my cheekbone. "Good. Because I'm nowhere near done with you yet."
The promise in his voice sends a fresh wave of heat through me. "No?"
"Not even close." He presses a soft kiss to my lips, then my jaw, then the sensitive spot below my ear. "We have all night, remember?"
"All night," I repeat, like a vow.
And when he starts to move inside me again, already hardening despite having just come, I realize he might be serious about that.
The second time is slower, more exploratory. He takes his time mapping my body with his hands and mouth, finding every spot that makes me gasp or arch beneath him.
We move together with increasing urgency, and when I hook my leg over his hip to change the angle, he makes a sound of pure appreciation.
"Like that," I breathe, and he responds by gripping my thigh, holding me open for him as he drives deeper.
This time when I come, it builds slowly, starting as a warm glow in my belly and spreading outward until every nerve ending is singing. I whisper his name like a mantra, and when he follows me over the edge, I swear I can feel it in my soul.
We lie there afterward, tangled in sheets and each other, breathing slowly returning to normal. His arm is around me, my head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
"I should probably go," he murmurs eventually, though he makes no move to actually leave.
"Should you?"
He's quiet for a long moment. "Probably not. But I should want to."
"Why?"
"Because this is supposed to be temporary. One night. You're leaving tomorrow."
I trace patterns on his chest, following the trail of dark hair with my fingertip. "I am."
"So this is—"
"Just tonight," I finish, even though something in my chest rebels against the words.
"Just tonight," he agrees, but his arm tightens around me as he says it.
Outside, snow continues to fall, and somewhere in the distance a clock chimes the hour. Christmas Eve is well underway now, and I'm lying here naked with a man I met hours ago, pretending this doesn't feel like the beginning of something instead of the end.
But temporary can be perfect too, can't it? This moment, this warmth, this feeling of being exactly where I'm supposed to be. Even if it can't last.