Chapter 14 Aria #2
I force myself to look over at him, and he’s so surprised and turned-on and he’s still not touching himself.
That’s all it takes. Just like in the fantasy.
It’s the expression on his face. Sad and vulnerable and strong and pained and satisfied and grateful.
I come apart in front of him. This is not an elegant or girly orgasm.
It's a loud, show-stopping blast of a tornadorgasm. Like storm surfing. I don’t chase that kind of wave out on the ocean, but apparently I’m brave enough to wipe out with my tits out in front of my infuriating neighbor.
When it’s finally over, I loosen my grip on the side of the chair and turn off the device.
Pulling it out of my totally soaked panties, I just hold it on my lap while I catch my breath.
It’s usually a lot easier to get on with my life right after doing this on my own, but I’m not sure what the protocol is in this particular situation.
I look over at Miles. He isn’t white-knuckling the counter anymore, but there’s that tense jaw again.
His eyes are hooded, and he should be on top of me or under me or one of us should be between each other’s legs, but we just stare at each other from ten feet away. It’s like right before we kissed that first time. Such a moment.
The kitchen timer goes off, startling both of us.
Miles blinks and turns off the burner. “Thank you,” he says. “The guest bathroom is right down the hall if you need it.”
“Sure thing,” I say, laughing. Because what else is there to say?
When I’m back from cleaning and drying off my little purple toy, I’ve changed into the clean, dry pair of panties that I very astutely decided to pack in my bag, and Miles has set the kitchen table with a dish of perfectly al dente linguine, a glass of water, and a small side salad.
He sits on the built-in bench across from my place setting, and his shirt is now unbuttoned, his bare chest available for me to gaze upon while I eat my light meal.
There is now classical chamber music playing from the speaker.
I forgot to bring my skirt with me to the bathroom. He has folded it neatly and placed it on the corner of the table. I reach for it and start to put it back on.
“No point in getting dressed again,” he says.
So, I put it in my shoulder bag, hang it from the back of the chair again, and take a seat. My blouse is still unbuttoned. This feels more like the kind of scene that comes after a night of hot sex instead of the prelude to it. It’s weird that it’s not weird. “Okay. Thank you. This is perfect.”
“It’s just an oil and vinegar dressing for the salad.”
“Wonderful.” I pick up the fork and spoon, take a bite of salad, and then twirl the pasta around my fork, resting the tines of the fork against the spoon.
I hear a quiet grunt from the other side of the table.
Before placing the linguine in my mouth, I have to ask, “Do you have some kind of food fetish or something?”
“No. I just want to make sure you’ve had enough to eat today.”
“Do you not approve of the way I twirled the pasta?”
“It’s not how the Italians do it. They just use a fork.”
“Then why did you give me a spoon and a knife?”
“In case you wanted a spoon or a knife.”
“Well, I use a spoon and a fork to twirl my pasta.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
I proceed with eating the linguine. “This is delicious,” I say with a full mouth. “And you grunted.”
“Did I?”
“Also, if you want to serve meals the way Italians do it, you should have brought out the salad after the pasta.”
He laughs. It’s alarming. It’s a happy, lighthearted laugh, and his entire face changes. “I just wanted to feed you. I don’t know why everything has to turn into an argument with you.”
“I actually consider this to be a discussion, not an argument.”
“Well then, perhaps you’d like me to discuss how it turns out I actually do find it incredibly erotic to watch you eat the food I’ve prepared for you.”
“Good. Because I like eating it.”
“Good.”
“Also, I’m half-naked, so that probably helps.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“I also liked pleasuring myself in front of you.”
“Fucking A.”
He watches me, taking a few sips of scotch while I polish off the plate of linguine in no time at all and take a few more bites of salad. I take a sip of water, wipe my mouth with the napkin, and state, “I’m full.”
“Great.” He stands up and rounds the corner of the table, approaching me. “I will now carry you to my room and leave the dirty dishes on the table like a super chill whatever dude.”
“Kewl.” I stand up and bring the sides of my blouse together at my chest. “I will allow you to carry me to your room without mentioning that I’m a twenty-six-year-old lady who’s very good at walking and climbing stairs all by herself.”
I’m expecting him to throw me over his shoulder like a caveman.
Instead, he stands in front of me, shoulders square, feet flat on the ground.
He stares down at my feet, up my bare legs, to my panties.
He sucks in a shaky breath and reaches for me with both hands, slides them across my belly, to my hips, my waist.
“So beautiful,” he whispers.
He uses such a light touch as he glides up the sides of my waist to my breasts, but it’s almost as intense as that damn clit-suction thing.
All of my nerve endings shimmy, all the blood beneath my skin is rushing to the surface to greet him.
I’m not cold, but I tremble and nearly lose my balance.
Me. Amateur surfer and trained dancer, Aria Cross, almost forgets how to stand because Miles Brodie’s hands are barely grazing my skin.
I grab on to his shirt, press the palms of my hands against his chest. For support.
But also because he’s been flaunting this golden chest, these abs, those muscular shoulders in front of me for years.
His skin is so warm, and I want this torso pressing down on me.
I want to feel the weight of him. But I also want to experience this delicious torture a little longer.
When his palms skim across my nipples, I gasp, but I think I hear him let out a little whimper.
“So fucking beautiful,” he whispers again, totally captivated by my breasts.
All of the attention he would not grant me when we were at Carmela’s Café is now focused on every inch of my body.
All of that energy he’s expended in resisting me is now going to be spent relishing me.
Like good scotch that’s been aged in a barrel.
I will give him a taste of all my flavors.
All this time, I’ve been so aware of the massive erection in his jeans.
It’s like another person in the room. Someone Miles is adamantly trying to ignore the way he used to try to ignore me.
I am swollen and aching for him, all over, but he must be in so much pain.
I slide my hand down the front of him, cupping the unyielding mass that’s straining to be released.
“Miles… You’re so hard.”
He grunts.
I unbutton his jeans. Unzip him, as I slowly, willfully, lower myself to my knees on the kitchen floor.
I don’t think we’re going to make it to the bedroom.