Chapter 10
ABBY
The second my door clicks behind me, I’m discarding my bathing suit. I drop it as I walk straight into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I don’t wait for it to heat up before I step in, leaning my back against the cold tile as the water slowly heats, filling the room with steam.
My breathing evens as I finally still. I rest a hand over my heart, as if I could slow the beating of it to a normal pace with just a gesture.
That was…electric. We kissed like we remembered each other, as if eleven years hadn’t passed. As if we haven’t kissed other people over those years. It felt exactly like it did in college. Better.
And god, if I don’t want to do it again.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt desired, so long since I felt that sexy.
My skin is sensitive to the touch, and I run my hands up my arms, letting the shower water wash away the hot tub water.
I want to keep that feeling alive for a little bit longer.
I’m not ready to let go of it yet. I trail my hands over my shoulders and down my chest, chasing the sensation of my own hands on my wet skin.
I slide my hands down, cupping my breasts, my nipple pinched between my fingers.
I arch into my own touch, imagining larger hands holding and playing with me.
When I skate one of my hands down between my legs, I’m not thinking about the way my own fingers slip inside of me; I’m thinking about what his fingers would feel like.
And as I circle the most sensitive part of myself, my fingers wet with the evidence of my encounter with Miles, it’s his mouth I’m thinking about, our kiss, the way he held me against him.
A distant, intentional banging noise gives me pause, and I wait, my hands stilled. Is it my neighbors?
The noise happens again, but it doesn’t sound like it’s coming from above me. I think someone is at my door.
What if…what if it’s Miles?
My heart beats harder at the thought of it.
I’m shaking, my nerves getting the best of me as I half dry myself with a towel and slip on my black silk robe. It’ll have to do. I’ll have to finish what I started before I go to sleep. I don’t think I’ll be able to wind down otherwise.
There’s no peephole, so I’m cautious as I open the door, just cracking it open as I clutch my robe around my body to see who is on the other side.
It’s not my butler or a member of the staff.
Sure enough, it’s Miles.
It’s Miles, with a forearm propped up against the doorway, shirtless, dripping wet and holding out a bundle of navy fabric with my sandals perched on top.
“You left your bathing suit cover and your shoes,” he says. His eyes are fully alight, and I know he’s still feeling every ounce of desire that I am.
I clench my thighs and reach for my items. “Thank you,” I say, my throat tight.
I hold my items awkwardly, unsure of what to do with my hands or my face, which is warm either from the heat of the shower or because I feel like I just got caught.
He doesn’t know what I was doing, but what if he could read my mind?
What if he knows that I was just in the shower, thinking of him, and that’s why he’s here, as if I beckoned him with my fantasizing?
Of course he could just be here to return my items to me.
The look in his eyes says otherwise.
“I heard what you said back there,” he says, while I’m still at the dresser. I turn back to him, standing in the middle of my room while he leans on my doorframe. “You said this was a bad idea and you shouldn’t be doing this.”
He pauses, maybe for me to say something, maybe for dramatic effect. I move my head, just the slightest up and down, confirming that I did in fact say those words.
“But you never said you didn’t want to. And if you can look me in the eye right now and tell me you don’t want this, I will leave you alone and I won’t flirt with you again if we see each other.
I won’t seek you out and try my goddamn best to make you blush, and if you really want it, I’ll leave you alone entirely.
It will kill me, and I will do it if that is truly what you want.
“But if there is a part of you that wants this, no matter how small, tell me now so I can show you how much I have fucking missed you.”
I can’t breathe. I know what words should come out of my mouth next, but I can’t seem to form them. It occurs to me that maybe I don’t want to say no, and as I have the thought, I’m already moving toward him.
In a blink, my hands are on his face and his are on my ribs, hoisting me up.
I wrap my legs around him, and he wraps his arms around me, stepping into the room and slamming the door behind him.
Through all this, our mouths collide, finding familiar ground.
He kisses me exactly like he said he would—like he missed me, like he missed this.
He spins us, pinning me against the back of the door, and the impact makes me groan as it reverberates through my whole body.
“Are you okay?” he asks, but I just nod and crush my lips against his again.
With him pressed against me the way he is, I can feel how hard he is, and what I’m feeling is as impressive as I remember.
Every person I’ve been with since Miles felt predictable and polite, but this is explosive and exciting.
Like a fireworks show—but I’m the one lighting the fuse and having to run before it goes off, and once it does, the thrill of it takes me back for more.
Pinned against the door by his body, Miles’s hand engulfs half my ass as his other hand roams my body, exploring a landscape he’s traversed before, but with more curves and bumps and scars.
He doesn’t seem to care as his hand skates over my body too quickly.
I want him to take his time, but there’s something sexy about the urgency with which he touches me, like a man who eats his dinner too fast, for fear it might disappear before he’s done.
“Oh my god, are you…are you not wearing anything under this robe?” he asks, his eyes glassy, his pupils wide as he slides his other hand up my robe to cup my whole bare ass in his hands.
My cheeks heat. “I was in the shower when you knocked.”
“Abby,” he groans against my neck, kissing and gliding his tongue over all the sensitive spots.
He works his way down past my collarbone, kissing me like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get to do so, and I weave my fingers through his hair, tipping my head back against the door.
He slides the fabric of the robe to one side, exposing my whole breast, the nipple tight and hard, aching for his touch.
“Fuck, you are so beautiful,” he murmurs, dipping his head down to my chest. He wastes no time at all, expertly kissing, sucking, and licking my nipple, drawing out the most generous moans from me.
I’m about to beg him to stop and please kiss me again, but I don’t have to because he lifts his head, covering my mouth with his, as if he could read my mind.
His fingers take over the work of his mouth, gently circling the hard pebble of my nipple between his fingers before carefully squeezing it.
I arch into his hands, wanting more. He does it again, using the pad of his finger to trace the sensitive tip as the moan that escapes my throat vibrates between our mouths.
This time when we kiss, it’s slower, more intentional, but there’s no loss of intensity, urgency, or hunger—all this woven in with our history, the feelings we shared.
It feels like we’re making up for lost time, or like we’ve been transported back in time.
It feels like I’m kissing Miles in my college apartment between classes, and like it’s the first time we’ve kissed in eleven years.
I want to give myself over to him completely.
This feels so right, but I know better. I know I need to guard my heart right now.
His fingers bruise my ass as he carries me to the bed, laying me down gently.
I unwrap my legs from around him and let him settle between them.
The weight of him is pleasant. It should feel like too much, but it doesn’t.
It’s nice, his arms on either side of me, boxing me in.
He’s still wet from the hot tub, but I don’t care.
For a second, I swim in his dark chocolate eyes, enjoying the feral need painted all over his face.
I tighten my grip on his hair, pressing his lips against mine, desperate for him to satisfy the unrelenting ache in me. I can’t get enough of him, and it feels mutual. He grips me like he’s afraid I’ll run away.
He grinds against me, the hard length of him pushing against the exact spot on my body most desperate for him. I feel like I’m twenty again, hormones raging and body aching for the exact man who elicited these feelings all those years ago.
He shifts his weight off me, stretching out alongside me, never breaking our kiss, and lets his free hand slide down my body.
He stops at my still-covered nipple, circling the stiff peak over the fabric of my robe.
The sensation is delicious, and I arch my back into his touch, but he doesn’t linger there.
His hand slides all the way down, painfully slow over my ribs, my stomach, my hip bones.
In a move that makes me groan in protest, he doesn’t go for the ache between my legs; his palm lightly grazes the top of my thigh.
When he gets to my knee, he drags a finger lightly back up my inner thigh.
I’m panting now, eager for him to land his hand between my legs.
I’m just about to beg for it when he finally pulls the edge of my robe open, rubbing his hand over me, and a whimper of need escapes from deep in my throat.
“Can I—?”
“Yes,” I answer before his question is fully finished because whatever he wants to do, the answer is yes. I feel like I’m on fire and the only thing that will put it out is his touch.
He slides along my opening with just enough pressure to brush over my clit. I gasp at the touch.