Twelve #2
It hadn’t until that moment occurred to me that perhaps no one had sent Miles the flowers in his apartment. That perhaps he had bought them for himself because he liked them – a realisation somehow even more profound than him buying some for me too.
Stepping close, I dropped a knee either side of him and settled on his lap, chest to chest. “And if I love them?”
“Then I’ll buy you more,” he said, his fingertips sliding lightly up my back, and by god it had been a stupid question because now my heart was thundering.
But this was just Miles being Miles, a generous gesture like bringing Katie a mountain of sushi and tipping the courier so much the man had felt compelled to thank him.
I knew it, yet my heart went on racing and I forced out a laugh. “Every time I win, perhaps. Victory flowers. Drenched in the blood of my enemies.”
“That may be taking it a little too far, Princess.”
I lowered my lips to his – kissing him the best way to hide my face.
He tasted faintly of pastry, and smelt like clean laundry and sun-warmed skin, everything about him from the soft waves of his blond hair to his sleeveless shirt like a perfect summer’s day.
He leaned back against the couch, pulling me with him, our slow kiss deepening as he tightened his hold.
I might have succeeded in hiding my face, but the intimacy of sitting wrapped around him, of being held like a precious thing he didn’t want to relinquish, now sliced me open.
It had been a tiring week, I told myself, this just more of Miles Callahan’s generous heart, but I needed to shift us into something hotter and easier before I drowned.
Thankfully, it was easy to get Miles going, needing little more than to strip off my shirt and rub against him, and I soon had both our cocks out, stroking them together in one hand.
Like a man running away and refusing to look back, I was thinking of nothing but getting us off as fast as possible, but while I worked, he pulled a tube of lube from beneath a cushion.
“Oh, prepared, were you?” I laughed, far more comfortable now this was about our dicks.
“I did tell you I had ideas. No, you keep . . .” He let out a soft groan. “. . . doing that. You’re very good with your hands.”
It was embarrassing how much I liked his compliments, and that I adjusted my grip to hit even more sensitive spots in the hope of earning another.
But his attention was caught by the task of slicking up his fingers, of pushing down the waistband of my shorts, of running his palm around the curve of my arse.
The brief moment he paused was left for me to object if I wished, before he slid in a finger.
“Oh, fuck,” I said, my hands suddenly far less skilled than before. He was gently rubbing inside me and I was gently losing my mind. “Another. Please.”
Miles groaned, his expression a wild, amazed thing as he said, “fuck you’re hot when you ask for things,” and added another finger.
Caught between the desire to rock back against his hand and keep working us both, my rhythm faltered.
He closed his free hand over mine, our fingers entwining as he picked up my pace and thank fuck he did, because my attention was fast narrowing to nothing but the sensations racking my body.
Losing myself to the moment, I was soon lying on my back while he fucked me with one hand and stroked me with the other, my fingernails clawing at the couch as I came with a cry torn all the way from my toes.
After the day’s stress, I’d desperately needed it, but the moment it was done, an apology for getting so absorbed in my own pleasure leapt to my tongue. Only to be swallowed when he took hold of himself and unloaded onto my stomach with an expression I wanted to capture for eternity.
“Oh my god, watching you let go like that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, slowing his stroking to a few final, lingering pulls of his amazing dick.
“I could say the same about that.” I nodded to where he’d added his cum to mine. “That happened pretty fast.”
His laugh rasped out as though from a roughened throat. “I thought I was going to come without even touching myself for a moment there. Your idea was much better than mine.”
“It wasn’t an idea. Just . . . something that happened.”
“Things that just happen, happen a lot around here.”
Miles spoke lightly, yet something in his expression seemed to take us right back to the moment I’d been sitting in his lap, and I looked away. “I should shower before Katie walks in and has to see me like this. I know you said she was going out, but knowing my luck, she’ll change her mind.”
From the floor, his phone buzzed. Ignoring it, he set a hand on my leg to stay my escape and said, “Speaking of Katie being out, we should celebrate too.”
“Didn’t we just do that?”
“Sure, but I mean like go out for dinner rather than heating up frozen food and camping on the couch. My treat.”
“Flowers and cakes and orgasm and dinner?”
He shrugged one shoulder, smile a little amused, a little defensive. “What can I say? You deserve it and I’m proud of you. So, what’s this favourite food of yours?”
Because I couldn’t handle thinking about the rest of what he’d said, I answered with a shake of my head. “It’s a secret.”
“Fine, let’s go out for . . . Indian.”
“All right.”
“Vietnamese.”
“You changed your mind very quickly.”
“Mexican.”
I frowned up at him. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to guess. Your face is a bad liar, so I’ll get it eventually. Wait, Katie will know, I’ll ask her.”
“That’s cheating!” I cried, and kicked him playfully as I got up, ready for that shower. “Just pick something. I like food, so it’s impossible to go wrong.”
I TOOK ONE look at the restaurant and glared at him. “You asked Katie, didn’t you?”
“No.” Miles tried to suppress a grin and totally failed. “I just finally thought about your name for more than three seconds and it seemed like a decent bet.”
I laughed at that. “What can I say, my nonna likes to keep traditions alive, and by traditions, I mean food. She’s about as stereotypically Italian as you can get without turning into a cartoon.
Dai, dai nipotino, you need to eat more.
Mangia, mangia! Oh, Matteo, when are you going to bring home a nice man? ”
We hadn’t moved since stepping out of the taxi, and still standing on the footpath, my reply seemed to give Miles pause. “She knows you’re gay?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Everyone knows. I told her maybe a year or so before I came out to the press.”
Despite being a Thursday night, the street was busy, people passing back and forth along the footpath around us like we were rocks in a colourful stream. “You weren’t worried she would dislike it?” he asked. “Dislike you?”
“Of course I was. But the idea I was supposed to think there was something wrong with me also made me angry, so everyone got very aggressively informed.”
His lips twitched into a fresh smile. “Ah, so you were just entirely yourself about it.” He gestured to the door. “Shall we?”
The place he’d chosen looked nothing like a traditional Italian restaurant.
With red booth seats, mirrors everywhere, a black and white striped ceiling, and neon lights, it was more like something out of Alice in Wonderland.
It even had a bar at the back seemingly made entirely of bottles, and was full of bright chatter and even brighter cocktails.
No one paid us the slightest attention as we were shown to our table, though Miles seemed to have requested one a little out of the way, no doubt in the hope no one would trouble him for an autograph.
We took our seats, and as the waitress left us with a pair of menus, I looked across the table and realised I was out for dinner with Miles Callahan.
Superstar tennis pro, Miles Callahan. Gorgeous cover model, Miles Callahan – a man whose package had sold a thousand pairs of Calvin Klein underwear.
He deserved his full name tonight too, freshly-shaven in a casual, tailored button-up worn open to the collarbone, with a hint of that expensive cologne lingering about him.
He was sharp and perfect, while I’d had to dig my emergency shirt from the bottom of my suitcase and roll up the sleeves.
Despite this, he still looked entirely satisfied with his choice of evening plans.
It was hard to stop staring at him, so I dragged my gaze to the surrounding tables to check out the food instead. When a waitress came to ask if we wanted drinks, I pointed to a plate a few tables over. “What’s that? It looks like a shark fin.”
The waitress glanced over and grinned. “The incomparable lemon pie,” she said. “It’s lemon meringue, but well . . . the meringue is huge.”
“Are you already thinking about dessert?” Miles turned his menu over. “Oh no, there’s chocolate mousse. No, a chocogasm mousse, dear god. I see this place might become an annual pilgrimage.”
I imagined him returning next year, bringing his sister and pointing out the ridiculously tall lemon meringue. By then, inviting me likely wouldn’t even occur to him.
“Mat?”
Miles had tilted his head, his brows drawn close. Beside him the waitress stood patiently waiting.
“Sorry, um . . .” I stared down at the drink menu.
“Can you give us a few more minutes?” Miles said, glancing up. “I think he’s having a crisis.”
The waitress laughed and said she would be back soon, leaving me to glare at him. “I am not having a crisis.”
“Then you’re overthinking something. I told you, your face is a very bad liar. What were you thinking about?”
“It’s not important.”
“It was important enough to matter just now.”
“Damn it, Miles,” I laughed, the sound painfully nervous. “It was just a stupid thought I had, all right?”
“All right, so tell me.”