Chapter 16
ABBY
I have about half a second to catch and hold my breath before Miles launches both of us into the pool.
We both go under, the slap of the water against my skin barely softened by Miles’s body under me.
He releases me as we both thrash to get our heads above water, kicking our feet and propelling our arms for upward motion.
When we both pop up, I rub my eyes to clear the water from them.
The pool is warm, probably from soaking up the sun all day, and the water cocoons us as we kiss. The world around us is quiet, save for the distant whoosh of the ocean moving against the sand.
I’m almost mad at him for tossing us fully dressed into his client’s pool, but the look on his face is the silly kind of joy you see when a kid has done something mischievous and they know they’re not really in trouble for it because everyone thought what they did was funny.
Maybe a thirty-three-year-old man shouldn’t be acting like this, but this is one of my favorite things about Miles.
Maybe it’s because I work with kids all day, but sometimes I feel like my soul is still ten years old, even as my body ages.
I saw my soul’s age reflected in Miles’s soul when we met.
His playful approach to life felt so similar to mine, and now I see that not much has changed.
“What was that for?” I ask, playing indignant.
“Definitely not because you ran from me on the beach,” he says around a devious grin. We ended up in a part of the pool where he can put his feet on the bottom and stand with his head above the water, but I can’t. I’m treading and plotting my revenge.
“You were trying to take my shell!”
“And I haven’t stopped trying.”
He reaches for me, but I kick out, going onto my back, stretching my legs in front of me to splash water into his face. I windmill my arms, trying to swim out of his reach. But he gets a hand on my ankle before I can go anywhere and yanks me toward him.
Water flows around me, as if to aid Miles while he drags me toward him.
I use the momentum to get my hands on his shoulders and lift myself out of the water to attempt to push him under, but he doesn’t budge.
In fact, it just gives him better access to wrap an arm around my legs and hold me in place while he fishes around in my pocket for the shell.
I’m locked into place with no choice but to accept defeat. He holds the shell between two fingers, a smug grin on his face.
“You earned that by overpowering me. Does that feel good?” I taunt him, but he’s unfazed by my words, grinning like he won a stuffed animal at a carnival.
“It feels like winning.”
He loosens his grip on me, but doesn’t fully let go, so as I sink back into the water, my thighs, hips, and chest graze his, and by the time we’re eye level again, I’m pressed right up against him, still in his arms. The wet fabric of his white T-shirt is barely a barrier between us and shows off every curve of his upper body.
“And if I told you I was willing to bargain with you for the shell?” I ask.
I wrap my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist. His large hands find the undersides of my thighs, the tips of his fingers grazing the edge of my shorts.
I’m pleasurably warm, and it’s not just the sun bearing down on us with her relentless heat. I feel like I’m being warmed from the inside. Like the heat source is in my chest, and it’s warming all of my limbs, making my skin more sensitive. I feel every droplet of water on every inch of my skin.
How does he do this to me? Make me want him without even touching me—and then when he does touch me, it’s like the volume knob goes all the way up on that wanting.
And somehow wanting still doesn’t feel like the right word for what I’m feeling right now.
I need to consume him. To satisfy the animal in me howling for his touch.
If our bodies were anything but crushed against each other right now, it wouldn’t be enough.
“What’s on the line?” he asks, digging his teeth into his soft lower lip.
“A kiss for the shell?”
“Just one?”
“Just one,” I say as I angle my mouth against his.
One of his hands slides up to cup the back of my head. He holds me against him, kissing me in a way that is both satisfying and fueling my hunger, so when he pulls away, it’s too soon.
“Let me guess, that didn’t count?” he taunts, still hovering close enough to drag his lips over mine, tempting me for a second kiss.
“That didn’t count,” I breathe, tangling my fingers into his wet locks.
“If it didn’t count, you don’t get the shell,” he says, pleased with himself by trapping me with his logic.
“Fine, that one counted. This one doesn’t,” I say and claim his mouth again, taking what I know he wanted to give me anyway.
Miles slides his fingers up my thighs over my shorts, his fingertips skimming over my hip bones.
His hands skate up my body to engulf my ribs, caressing the undersides of my breasts.
He puts space between us to hold me like that, but I wrap my legs tighter around his waist to pull him back against me.
In the back of my mind, there’s a little voice telling me to stop, telling me that this isn’t a good idea, that I am playing with fire.
I told Hazel it would get messy if Miles and I hooked up, that my emotions would get all tangled up again.
The last thing I need is to catch feelings for man as emotionally unavailable as Miles was.
But in so many ways, Miles is nothing like how he was in college.
And maybe I like to play with fire.
As if he can read my thoughts, his mouth leaves mine to find my neck, a trail of eager kisses and his tongue dancing over my pulse point silencing any voices opposed to what he’s doing.
“What else doesn’t count, Abby?” He asks the question into my neck, his low timbre vibrating against my skin.
“That. What you’re—” My breath catches in my throat as he glides his tongue over my pulse point, sending a shudder through my body. “Doing. That doesn’t count.”
“I don’t know what that means, Abby. You have to be more specific.”
He’s antagonizing me, trying to get me to play his little game. He likes the power, and of course the explicit consent, but I think more than anything, he likes that I’m breaking my own rules for him.
“When you kiss my neck, it doesn’t count.”
He acknowledges my words with soft “mmm” that I feel rather than hear and continues to kiss my neck, gently sucking the skin into his mouth before releasing it and finding a new place to mark me.
“What else doesn’t count?” he asks, adjusting his head to work the other side of my neck. I roll my head the side, offering more of myself to him.
“When you touch me—my chest, when you touch my chest, that doesn’t count,” I say, wanting more from him.
One arm still gripping my ass, he slides his other hand up my arms, over my shoulders and down, stopping just under my collarbone.
Water droplets kiss my skin with the motion, his wet hand cooling me where the sun’s heat has warmed my skin.
He meets my gaze, and I narrow my eyes at him, the cheeky bastard.
“Here?” he asks, knowing damn well that’s not what I meant.
“Lower,” I instruct.
“Say it,” he demands.
I huff out a frustrated breath. Not because I’m actually frustrated but because I want him to touch me. My nipples are aching, pushing against the wet fabric of my bra and tank top. He’s waiting, his eyes searching mine.
“It doesn’t count when you touch my breasts. My nipples.”
He slides his hand down, his palms brushing the hardened peaks. Even through all the fabric, his touch is a welcome relief.
“With just my hands?” He raises his eyebrows at me.
“It doesn’t count if you use your mouth,” I say, my breath hitching with anticipation.
He kisses my sternum as he makes quick work of lifting my tank top and bra, just enough to expose them to him.
Thanks to a few days in the sun, the bare skin he’s looking at is paler than the rest of me, the pink peaks of my breasts hardening without Miles’s body or the pool water to keep me warm.
He takes one nipple into his mouth and the other between two fingers, and I moan loud enough to trigger my sense of propriety. I slap my hand over my mouth.
“No one is here, Abby,” he says, pausing to glance up at me and then resuming his work, as if that settles the matter.
But we’re in a pool in someone’s backyard, and although I can’t see behind me, I can see one neighbor’s house. What if they’re home? What if they see us?
“Miles, I—”
“The neighbors aren’t here either. I’m here every day. I would notice if they were.” He looks up at me through wet eyelashes. I could drown in those dark brown eyes.
“So whatever noises you make, they don’t count,” he says, and it feels like a promise.
My mind goes blank and a slight up and down movement of my head is truly all I can manage.
“Now tell me, gorgeous, what else doesn’t count?”
He lowers his head to my nipple, and I arch against him as he takes it in his mouth. My need for him is growing, an ache intensifying between my legs that I try to satisfy by grinding my hips against his torso, but it’s not enough relief.
“It doesn’t count if you…” I lose my words in each breath. How am I supposed to make sentences when he’s winding me up like this? I can’t focus on anything but the pleasure zipping through me.
He stops abruptly, glancing up at me. Waiting.
“Do I need to say it?” I ask, impatient for him to continue.
“I like to hear it,” he says, sliding a hand up my chest, his fingertips brushing over my lips. When he drags his hand back down, he continues the path past my chest, down my stomach, to the top of my shorts.
My heart races as his fingers flirt with the button, his mouth curved into a wicked grin.
“It doesn’t count if you unbutton my shorts,” I murmur.
He wastes no time popping the button. My breath catches in my chest. I manage the next words though my throat is thick with desire.
“It doesn’t count if you unzip them.”