Chapter 14 Aria
ARIA
“Do you have any food allergies?” Miles Brodie asks after letting me into his kitchen through the back door. He immediately goes back to a cutting board on the counter and continues mincing fresh parsley with a glistening, sharp knife that’s probably worth more than my car.
There’s no tension in his jaw or his shoulders for a change.
Maybe because he’s in his home. Maybe because Jimi Hendrix is singing “Little Wing” through the Bluetooth speaker at a low volume.
Maybe because there’s a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label and two tumblers on the kitchen table.
Maybe because he knows he’s gonna get some tonight.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
His jaw ticks. His instinct is probably to tell me that I should get tested for allergies—how have I not been tested for allergies? But I can see that he’s refraining from saying anything that might seem like a criticism. And I appreciate it.
“Have a seat and help yourself to the scotch” is what he says instead.
“Okay.” I pour myself two fingers of scotch.
The last time I had a drink at a guy’s house, the guy presented me with a bottle of Blue Moon ale like it was vintage Dom Pérignon.
This is already a very different experience for me.
Here is a man who uses paper towels to wipe surfaces with, instead of folding them and using them as coffee filters.
Here is a man who owns a three-bedroom house in Santa Monica but had to be coaxed to own up to what he wants from me. Here—is a man.
I take a sip of the scotch, savoring the hints of vanilla, of honey, of orange, of something nutty, before asking, “You’ve been drinking?”
“A little.”
I close my eyes and taste ginger, caramel, dark chocolate. My lips are warm and tingly. This is nice. “Didn’t you say I shouldn’t be around you when you’re drinking?”
“That was before I decided to make you dinner.” He somehow manages to make those four words sound absolutely filthy.
Two can play at that game. “I can’t wait to have dinner with you.”
“I already ate,” he says. Boom. Game over.
A spicy, smoky heat caresses my throat as I hang my shoulder bag from the back of a chair and take a seat at the table.
This kitchen isn’t exactly glamorous, but it’s gorgeous.
Not too sleek, not too masculine. It’s tasteful, utilitarian, classy.
Charcoal gray–painted cupboards, brass hardware, white marble countertops.
This is not the home of a bachelor, but it’s not a cozy family home either.
The man who owns this house is straddling the states of divorced single man and fatherhood with quiet dignity.
And I am so ready to straddle that man like a cowgirl stripper.
Wait—what?
“I love this song,” I tell him. “This is my favorite Hendrix song.”
“It reminds me of you whenever I hear it,” he says.
A throwaway line, as if it wouldn’t be shocking to me that any song would remind him of me.
“A thousand smiles she gives to me free. I love that line.” The song ends.
“But it’s all over too quickly.” His phone is resting on the counter next to him.
He taps it, and “Little Wing” starts up again.
“Yeah. It’s ephemeral. That’s the point.” A gorgeous man is DJing for me while cooking me dinner and not frowning at me or criticizing me. I could get used to this. “What are you making me?”
“I’m making you linguine with sun-dried tomatoes and feta cheese. While I wait for the water to boil and the pasta to cook, I’m going to watch you make yourself come.”
It’s a miracle I don’t start choking like Johnny Walker just blew his hot load down my esophagus, but I’m here for straight-talk and grown-up sex, and I will take it all night long. “I’ve never done that in front of someone else before.”
“Well, maybe that’s another problem that I can help you solve.” He smirks at me.
I like it when he smirks at me.
I lick my lips. “In here?”
“Yes. Right there.” He removes a clean, white plate from a cupboard and places it on the counter. “Take the vibe out of your bag.” It’s halfway between an order and an invitation, but it’s definitely not open for negotiation.
I glance around the room. The plantation shutters are closed. The kitchen is lit solely by the light above the stove. The hallway and the rest of the rooms that I can see from here are dimly lit. It feels safe and private. “Macy definitely won’t come home?”
“She definitely won’t. Better hurry,” he says, looking into the big steaming pot on the stove. “Water’s about to boil.”
“Oh this won’t take long, don’t worry.” I pull the vibe out from my bag. It’s small, it’s purple, it’s tear-shaped, and the circular tip fits right over my clit. “Take your shirt off,” I say. “If you’re going to cook for me and I’m going to come for you, then I want you to be shirtless.”
“You’re not the director right now,” he states, leaning back against the counter and gripping the edge of it. “Unbutton that blouse.”
Well, I guess he doesn’t need to be coaxed into telling me what he wants anymore…
Since we’re doing that thing where we just say what’s on our mind, I ask him with a smile: “So this is what you’re like, huh?”
“This is what I’m like with you.”
I put the vibe on the table and unbutton my blouse.
When I start to slowly pull it off one shoulder, he says, “Did I tell you to take it off? Leave it on. Unbuttoned.”
I leave it on, unbuttoned. It’s loose enough that if I move the tiniest bit, he’ll get a glimpse of my tits. Which, I assume, is what he wants.
“You’re so beautiful,” he tells me, his voice softer all of a sudden. “Ever since we met at the beach, you’re all I see when I close my eyes.”
“Really?” I run my fingers through my hair. “I thought you hated me.”
“I hated the way I felt about you. Take off that skirt.”
“If 6 Was 9” comes on. I guess if I’m going to get myself off in someone else’s kitchen, this is the song to do it to.
I stand up and tug my skirt down over my hips, letting it drop to the floor.
I step out of it and kick off my sandals.
You’d think he’d be staring at my cotton panties with the little daisy pattern and internally grumbling about how I could afford better undergarments if I didn’t pay for parking all the time, but Miles is fixated on my feet.
“I fucking love your feet. Why is that toe ring so hot?”
I stare down at the delicate little gold ring on my index toe. I’ve always thought it was pretty, but I never thought it was hot. “It’s hot because I’m hot.”
“Word.” He glances over at the stainless steel pot on the stove. “Hang on.” He carefully drops fresh linguine into the boiling water, stirs it, and then lowers the gas flame. He sets a timer and says, “You have four minutes. Tell me what you were thinking about when you were in bed earlier.”
I sit back down in the chair. This is not how I saw my night going, but I’m gonna go with it. Here I go. Down the rabbit hole? “You. It’s always you. Even when I don’t want to think about you, it’s you.”
I slip the little silicone vibrator inside my panties.
I took a quick shower before I got ready to go to the store, but these panties have been wet ever since I saw Miles in the garage.
Even when I wanted to cry. I’ve never done this while sitting up before, much less in front of someone else, but I’m already so close to the edge right now, I bet I could be doing a headstand in the middle of a shopping mall and still get there within a couple of minutes.
I place the circular tip over my clit and turn on the device.
This one doesn’t vibrate so much as it creates suction.
Waves and pulses of pressure that are intensely stimulating at the highest speed.
I set it to the highest speed right away—because that’s how I roll.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, squeezing my legs together, stroking my inner thigh, tensing and releasing around the tiny demon immediately.
“What do I do to you?” he asks, through gritted teeth. “When you think about me?”
It’s hard to keep my eyes open and my head up, but I want to watch him watching me. “It’s not…so much what you do to me… Oh, shit… Oh, God…” It’s too much. The throbbing. The jolts. I have to pull it away for a few seconds because it’s too intense.
“Don’t stop.”
I meet his gaze and touch my breast with my free hand.
I watch him watch me cup and stroke my breast and tease my nipple.
His lips are parted and his brown eyes are soft with wonder and appreciation.
It’s sweet. But his eyes are also hooded and his nostrils are flaring, which is hot.
I put the vibe back on my clit again—when I’m ready.
I may be letting him give me orders, but I’m the one who’s in control of this situation.
“It’s not what you do to me,” I continue.
He isn’t touching himself, but there’s an amazing bulge in his jeans and I want it. He’s gripping the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles have gone white. He must like it when I torture him, but this was his idea, not mine.
“It’s what I do to you.” I can’t keep my eyes open. I throw my head back and shudder.
“Tell me.”
“Oh God.” This thing is too much. It’s too much.
“Aria.”
I can’t tell him, oh God, I can’t tell him.
I’m already writhing and jerking around.
This little fucker is so effective it pisses me off.
It feels so good and intense, and it pisses me off.
Just like Miles. I take in a sharp breath and say, “I get on my knees. And I unzip you. I pull your cock out, so slowly. I hold it and admire it, and I stroke it gently. Then I get a firm grip at the base and I cup your balls and I take you in my mouth… I look up at you, and…when I see how turned-on you are, I come. Always.” I’m not even embarrassed that I told him that. It’s a relief, really.