Chapter 16 - Aria
ARIA
I don’t normally braid my hair when it’s wet, but I also don’t normally have a gorgeous, nearly naked, single dad lawyer around to braid it for me after he’s fucked me in the shower.
Miles has made me dinner, thoroughly French-kissed my vulva from an angle that I didn’t realize was possible, fucked me five different ways, washed my hair in his walk-in shower, and now he’s being very gentle as he gives me pigtails, braiding each one while we’re in bed.
.. Five years ago, I was so grateful that Tyler let me eat half of his Subway sandwich once, I let him move in with me.
This level of attentiveness is almost overwhelming, but a girl could get used to this.
Also—before we showered together, Miles ran downstairs to do the dishes and picked up all the clothes that were on the floor.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the bed, in one of Miles’ tank tops and the panties he retrieved from the stairs.
Miles is wearing his boxer briefs and kneeling behind me.
He also brought his copy of the script for my musical upstairs, so I’ve asked him to run through the Jabberwocky poem.
To see if he’s got any of it memorized yet.
And also because I want to hear his English accent.
“In your English accent, please. From the top.”
“’Twas brillig in the slithy toves.” He’s doing a Sean Connery impression. “Did gyre and gimble in the wabe.”
“Try again.”
“All mumsy—”
“Mimsy.”
“All mimsy were ze borogroves,” he continues in a French accent. “And ze mome raths outgrabe.”
“Come on. English.”
He leans forward to read the script over my shoulder. “Beware the Jabberwock, my son!” he calls out like Michael Caine. “The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!”
I feed him the next line. “He took his vorpal sword in hand.”
He holds his hand out, signaling that he needs the hair elastic that I’ve been wearing around my wrist. As he secures the second braid, he says, in his usual grumpy Miles tone, “I mean, what is the point of this poem? So it’s nonsense.
Big deal. It’s a bunch of made-up words. Why does anyone need to hear this?”
“Well, I’m glad you asked. To me, what’s brilliant about this nonsense poem is that he tells a story with ‘made-up words,’ as you call them, but if you think about it—all words are made up.
That’s what language is. English words are a collection of letters and sounds that a large group of people have historically ascribed meaning to.
” I feel his hands on my waist, his lips on the back of my neck.
“Interesting point.”
“These words are no more nonsensical than surfer slang.”
“Well, surfer slang is pretty kook.”
I roll my eyes. “A kook is a beginner surfer.”
“Exactly.”
“And Humpty Dumpty explains the meaning of some of the words in Through the Looking Glass.” His hands slide, ever so slowly, under the tank top, up the sides of my waist. “Brillig, Humpty tells us, means four o’clock in the afternoon. When you broil things for dinner.”
Those hands cup my breasts.
“Ah. Yes. Four o’clock. Righty-ho, then. Cheers.”
Miles proceeds to massage my breasts, as I proceed to explain the meaning of Lewis Carroll’s words. “Slithy is a portmanteau of slimy and lithe…”
“Mmhmm.” He massages my boobs more vigorously now.
“Toves are just weird animals or something.” I toss the script on the floor, turn to face him, push him onto his back, and straddle him.
During this quick repositioning, his hands only leave my tits for about half a second. “I can’t keep my hands off your jubjubs. They’re so mimsy. I am frumious with desire. I shall take my vorpal sword in hand, and—”
I crash my lips against his before he can tell me what he shall do with his vorpal sword.
I have a pretty good idea, anyway. He is so ravenous for me, I still can’t reconcile this Miles with the one who didn’t even want to look at me.
But I will take his lips’ and tongue’s word for it.
I believe his hands and his enthusiastic cock.
Before we got in the shower, I told him I was on the pill and he didn’t have to use a condom.
His lower lip trembled the tiniest bit, and he looked so excited and grateful.
I sit up and grind down against his hard length.
It’s evil, but I still haven’t completely forgiven him for the years of shirtless beach-jogging while he frowned in my general direction.
He groans and gives me a smack on the ass before flipping me over and taking his sword in hand. We lock eyes, and he almost whimpers again. “I like your face.”
“I like yours too.”
He presses inside me, and I tilt and wiggle to accommodate him. He squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds, exhaling.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.” He lowers his forehead to mine. “Aria. This feels so incredibly okay.” Two distinct expressions flicker across his face. First, that he can’t believe he just said that out loud. Second, that he wishes he hadn’t.
I have no reason to doubt that he’s only like this for me, and I don’t want him to regret being like this.
I run my fingers through his hair as we rock our hips in unison. “That’s all I ever wanted, you know? To make you feel good.”
He nods, almost imperceptibly. “Yes, Little Wing,” he whispers. “You do.”
I don’t know when I fell asleep, but when I wake up, it’s daylight outside.
I can see faint sunlight through the part in the curtains.
It feels like ages ago that Miles must have seen me in my bedroom from that vantage point.
I wonder if it ever occurred to him that I’d be on this side of that window this morning.
The digital clock by the bed tells me it’s almost 7:30.
I’m alone in bed, but the aroma of brewed coffee is wafting up from downstairs.
The skin over most of my body is still pink because it has been thoroughly explored and exfoliated by Brodie stubble.
My lady bits worked overtime last night.
They’re probably going to try to unionize.
We demand higher pay for excessive clitoral stimulation and pelvic floor muscle exertion!
Calm down, ladies. This may have been a one-night-only engagement, and I won’t have to do Kegels again for the rest of my life after that.
My hair is still braided and the tiniest bit damp.
If I cut myself some bangs and find some hot pink ribbons, I could show up at rehearsal looking like Britney Spears in the “Baby One More Time” video.
I could make Miles’ inner preteen boy jizz in his pants.
But his daughter will be there, so I guess I’ll go easy on him.
Also, my goal during rehearsals is to direct a musical, not to make Miles Brodie jizz in his pants—that’s going to be my new hobby.
Just as I’m wondering how the morning-after dynamic is going to go—will he go back to being Grumpy Gus, or did I screw the grump out of him once and for all?
—Miles enters, carrying two steaming mugs.
He’s wearing pajama pants, and his brown eyes are even more beautiful than usual thanks to the two-day-old stubble that accentuates them.
My own eyes tear up a little because he looks so happy.
“I made us coffee,” he tells me. He sits down beside me as he hands me a mug. “You drink it black, right?”
“Aww, you noticed.”
“I’m a lawyer. I’m trained to notice details like that.
Thanks to my legal training and keen professional insight, I also noticed that you prefer mustard with your breakfast potatoes—which is insane—and that you have a tiny birthmark on your right hip, which is strangely sexy.
Another thing I’ve noticed is that everything about you is sexy as fuck.
” He takes a sip of coffee before continuing.
“Now, here’s what I have planned for us this morning.
We go back to sleep for another hour or so, and then I make us a full breakfast, which we eat downstairs—in our underwear—while going over the script some more—”
“Why did you make us coffee if we’re going back to sleep?”
“Or, alternatively, we fuck again and take another shower together. Breakfast can be full or continental. Script analysis is optional. I vote we fuck again. Show of hands for fucking again.” He raises his hand.
I honestly don’t even recognize this person, but I raise my hand without giving it proper consideration.
“Resolved,” he says, rapping his knuckles against the bedside table. “We fuck again.”
“Well, somebody’s in a good mood this morning.”
He grins. “Is that what this is? The corners of my lips keep turning up. I can’t seem to control it. What do you call it when that happens?”
“Smiling. You’re smiling. Because you’re happy.”
“Smiling.” He tries that word on for size. “I’m smiling. Because I’m happy.”
“Yes, smiling. It’s when you turn your frown upside-down.”
“Another one of those nonsense words. O frabjous day,” he says, quoting the Jabberwocky poem like Austin Powers. “Callooh, baby! Callay!”
“Awww, you memorized more of it.” I lean in to kiss him.
Before our lips touch, one of the phones on his bedside table buzzes. He glances over at it and says, “It’s Macy. Sorry. I should get that.”
“Yeah, of course.”
He strokes my arm on his way to picking up his phone.
“Hey… Yeah, put her on.” He puts his coffee mug down on the coaster that sits on his bedside table and then adjusts the coaster.
Then he places his hand on my thigh and just holds on to me like that, the whole time he’s talking on the phone.
“Hey, honey. How was your night? … Oh yeah? … That’s great…
Yes, I’m definitely going to the rehearsal…
Oh, you do? … Yeah, that’s… I think we do vocal warmups when we’re there, though…
Yeah, sure. We can do that… Okay… Yeah, we’ll have lunch here before we go…
A light lunch, yes. No dairy… See you soon.
” He hangs up and gives me a sheepish look.
“Macy wants me to do vocal warmups with her and go through the script before rehearsal. She’ll be here in half an hour.
How do you feel about a five-minute fuckfest? ”
“I don’t think you should use the term fuckfest so soon after you’ve said your daughter’s name out loud.”
“Fair point. About that quick fuck…” He takes the coffee mug from me and hesitates before placing it directly on the bedside table.
“Fuck it,” he mutters. “Let’s do this.” He cups the back of my neck and leans in for a kiss.
Another one of his phones buzzes. “Shit.” He looks over at the Caller ID.
“Shit. It’s Universal. I have to take this. ” He reaches for the phone.
“It’s fine—I need an extra five minutes to get ready before rehearsal anyway.” I stand up and start gathering up my clothes.
“Rain check,” he says, as he answers the call. He never takes his eyes off me, though. “This is Miles… Hey, Lee, how’s it going? … Yeah? You got another offer for me? … You know me, I’m always ready…” He reaches for a pen and pad of paper.
I start to back out of his room, still wearing his tank top.
“Hang on one second, Lee. Don’t hang up.” He covers the microphone end of his cell phone and says, “Wait. When can I see you again?”
“I’ll see you at rehearsal, right?”
“When can I get you alone again?”
This man has bitten my ass and had his face up in my hoo-ha, but for some reason, it’s that question and the urgent look on his face that makes my face feel warm and my tummy all fluttery. “Tonight?”
“I have Macy tonight.”
“Okay, well, she has a lesson with me tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll see if I can cancel my lunch tomorrow.”
“I have to meet with James tomorrow.”
There’s that frown again.
I blow him a kiss as I walk out. “We’ll figure something out.”
He nods and continues talking on the phone.
I go out the way I came in last night—through the back door.
This doesn’t make me a back-door girl—it’s just easier to get to my guest house this way.
It’s not a walk of shame either. I’m a lot less dazed and confused than I was when Miles invited me over, and it feels as if I am, in fact, walking on air.