Chapter 20
20
Millie
“I’m not a Tamagotchi,” I snap. “You don’t have to feed me every five minutes to keep me alive.”
He takes away the plate he’s just set in front of me. “You’ve only been out of the hospital for two days.”
“Three nights,” I correct him, holding up a trio of fingers. “And you heard the doctor. She said I’d feel a thousand times better and could resume normal activities right away.”
Ezra’s face flashes crimson, like maybe he’s replaying that conversation in his mind.
“Having sex won’t be a problem, so long as you’re feeling strong enough.”
We didn’t ask, but Dr. Renz includes it in her instructions anyway. She spends a few minutes discussing methods of birth control in front of Ezra, which is awkward as hell.
“What do you think?” I turn to Ezra, pretending to involve my husband in this decision. You know, for the show.
“Your body, your choice, honey,” he replies like a perfect spouse. “Whatever you’re most comfortable with. ”
Ultimately, I decided on the pill. The thought of having a miniature pogo stick floating around my uterus sounds dreadful.
“Can we do something fun today? It’s supposed to be our honeymoon, honey .” I bounce on my toes and bat my lashes dramatically. I don’t want to be laid up in bed any longer. Not unless someone is laid up on top of me. Now that my period has packed her bags and taken off, I’m hella horny, and while the man standing before me is a natural caretaker, he’s not helping in the way I want him to.
I briefly think about faking my period for one extra day just to get that nipple treatment again. I’ve got to release this tension somehow, and it’s not going to happen in the bedroom.
“I have some things to take care of for Kane, but after, I’m all yours.” He passes a mug to me, then picks up his own. The bitter notes of coffee and Earl Grey swirl between us. He’s dressed in navy shorts that hug his thick thighs at the perfect length—I secretly call this pair his slutty shorts —and an ivory short-sleeve button-down clings to his biceps like a koala to a tree.
“Do you need me to come with you?”
We still haven’t told Kane our marriage is fake, and I can’t help but worry that we’re doing the wrong thing by keeping the truth from him. But that’s Ezra’s choice to make. His lawyer knows we’re not married, at least. We have zero interest in trying to fool officials or doing anything illegal.
“That’s sweet of you, but I think you should rest.” The space between his brows furrows, the sight urging me to smooth the line with my thumb.
I resist and instead let out a sound of frustration. “That’s sweet of you, sweetie , but I don’t wanna fucking rest anymore.” I consider stomping my foot, but I’d hate to be a cliché.
“How about this?” Ezra steps forward and takes my hand in his, his palm hot from the tea. “Do you have anything to record today? ”
Lips pressed together, I nod.
“If you promise to sit your butt down when you record, I’ll consider that enough rest. Then I’ll take you out for dinner. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Once Ezra heads out, I trade my coffee for water and do my vocal warm-ups. Narrating audiobooks and recording erotic stories for LULU has brought me so much joy and solace since I was basically forced out of my role in Mamma Mia . I get to perform without being judged by the way I look and without panicking because I can’t wiggle into my costumes. The only thing missing is dance. Oh, how I miss dancing.
Besides the night at the karaoke bar, I haven’t moved my body like that in months. Dancing makes me feel the way a good orgasm does—alive and on top of the world.
I record an hour of a paranormal why-choose romance— that was a first —then two scenes for LULU. I thought I’d be exhausted after faking orgasms—the only time I’ll allow a fake one, thank you very much —but instead, I’m energized.
Screw Ezra and his bossiness. Rather than rest, I need to release this pent-up energy.
Headphones on, I scroll through my playlist until I find just what I’m looking for. Once I tap my screen and the first strain of “Unwritten” plays, my hips don’t stand a chance. I can’t not bop around when I hear this song. I turn the volume all the way up, and with Natasha Bedingfield’s voice as my guide, I release all my inhibitions. When it’s over, it starts from the beginning again. Huh. I must have clicked the repeat button. This time, the formally trained dancer in me can’t help but choreograph to the lyrics. It comes naturally, and I’m riding a high when I spin and?—
My heart lurches out of my chest when I catch sight of another person, and when I realize it’s Ezra, my cheeks heat in utter mortification .
“Oh my god.” Wishing the floor would open up and devour me, I whip my headphones off and throw them at him.
With one hand propped on the doorframe, he catches them, his face breaking into a wicked grin.
I slap my hands over my face and whimper. This is almost as bad as the time my roommate in college caught me masturbating. This was before I discovered vibrators, so she walked in on me full-on humping a stuffed animal. ( Not Bunny.)
“Hey,” he says, his tone concerned. “Are you—are you embarrassed?”
“Of course I’m fucking embarrassed.” Hands still covering my face, I drop onto the bed.
He takes a seat to my right and forces them away. “How did you feel?”
“I told you. Embarrassed .”
“No, I mean before I walked in.”
I force my chin up, and when I look at him, his nearly black eyes scorch mine. The delicate creases on the sides contradict the heat there. Instead, they give off a mature kind of comfort.
“I felt… alive. Invigorated,” I reply, embracing quiet confidence that’s trickled back into me.
“You looked spectacular.” He zeroes in on my mouth, and I can’t help but mirror him.
I lick my lips. This feels like the moment in the movie when the heroine gets kissed.
He slips a hand across my lap to the outside of my thigh, his touch hot against my skin. Internally, I cringe at the thought that there’s no cotton layer between his palm and my dimply skin. Ezra’s bare hand is touching my cellulite. I don’t even touch my cellulite.
I clutch his wrist and tug, but that only makes him cling tighter, like an anchor to the ocean floor.
“You looked so beautiful dancing.” He angles in, his nose brushing against my ear. His fingers dig into my thigh, sending shockwaves straight to my core.
I rub my legs together, desperate to stifle the ache.
What are you doing? The question leaps to my lips, but before I can force it out, he ghosts his mouth over my neck, and the words tiptoe off the edge. It’s not a kiss; he drags his skin along mine, like an artist would with a paintbrush across canvas. Only when I swallow does he kiss my pulse point. Once, twice. Then he moves to where my ear meets my jaw.
I subtly push against my pelvis with my intertwined hands, easing the throbbing in my core. Maybe it’s coincidence, or maybe Ezra notices; either way, he moves his hand from my thigh to my hands and presses, adding pressure to the desperate ache.
His lush lips rest at the side of my mouth now, and when he pushes his hand against mine again, my lips part in a silent gasp. He takes this as an invitation, and I don’t turn him away. The tip of his tongue dances across my bottom lip, then slips inside.
I pull my hands from beneath his and spread my legs just enough for him to rub against my throbbing center. With a moan, I thread my fingers through the hair at his nape and brush my thumb against the soft bristles at his jaw. I’m lost in the synchronicity with which he works his tongue in my mouth and his finger at my clit. It’s as if he’s choreographed this duet.
The pressure against my lips has me lying on my back, legs bent and feet planted wide. Ezra folds his body over mine, his erection pressing into me. Fuck . I push my hips up in approval, our mouths never breaking contact, my nipples tight and sensitive and brushing against the thin fabric of my shirt.
I flick my tongue, and he groans into my mouth, and— fuck, do we have a moaner?
The kiss intensifies, and I rock my hips faster, dry-humping him like a feral teenager .
Between my dancing and Ezra’s suffocating seal over my lips, I’m out of breath and dizzy with lust, which only intensifies the torture between my legs. I’m so close, perched on the edge of ecstasy, even though we’re both still fully dressed.
As I work the first button on his shirt, a chime comes from his pants, startling me.
“Shit.” He sits up, still straddling my body, and retrieves his phone from his pocket. “It’s the lawyer,” he says, deflating.
“Answer it.” My voice is breathy, my chest heaving.
With my body still trapped beneath his, he takes the call. Dammit. I wish I could finish myself off right now. Instead, I slide up the length of the bed and slip out to the lanai to give him privacy—and beg the fresh air to slap some sense into me. I nearly got off again, and Ezra has yet to even touch my pussy.
Several minutes later, he joins me outside. In his proximity, instant goose bumps erupt on my skin despite the eighty-five-degree weather.
“Is everything okay? With the lawyer,” I clarify. Asking if everything is okay between us is a loaded question.
“Yes, actually.” He smiles. “Kane is mine.”
My heart stutters. “What?”
“Turns out the judge is an old friend of Val’s. That may have helped the paperwork process faster. I’ve been granted guardianship.”
“Seriously?” I hug him, then quickly pull away. “What about full custody or adoption?”
“That’ll take longer, unfortunately, but the lawyer thinks the odds are in my favor so long as Rob doesn’t change his mind and step up.”
“Do you think he will?”
“No. I don’t.” His arms are crossed, but his face is alight with optimism .
“I think we should tell Kane.” I lean against the railing, mirroring his stance. “About us.”
Lowering his head, he sighs. “You’re probably right.”
“Come again?”
“You’re prob—” He straightens. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Millie.”
With a cackle, I punch him in the bicep, then I slip back inside.
“Where are my bathing suits?” I call from the bedroom. We’re headed out to pick up Kane for a waterfall hike with the hope that it will be the perfect setting to break it to him that we’re not really married. I pray it doesn’t affect their relationship.
“In your drawer.” Ezra comes out of the bathroom in light purple swim trunks and a white muscle tee. There are those juicy biceps, teasing me again. Why did his brother have to live in Hawaii? Why couldn’t he live in coastal Alaska, where it’s sweater weather?
“I only see the white one. Where are the others?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, pulling the tiny white string bikini from the drawer.
“Ezra Whatever-The-Fuck-Your-Middle-Name-Is Miller, give me my bathing suits back.” I hold out my hand.
“Not a chance.” He preens, his large frame towering over me.
“I’m not wearing that.”
“How about this?” With the suit looped over one finger, he swings it between us. “You wear the bikini, and I’ll give you another nipple orgasm.”
“What?” My cheeks flush instantly. “No. That was a one-time thing.”
“Pity.” He shrugs. “Fine. Pick what you want. ”
I want the fucking nipple orgasm .
I worry my bottom lip, assessing him. “Okay… I’ll wear the damn bikini if you do karaoke.”
He smirks. “Easy. Done.”
I hold up a finger. “But I get to choose the song.”