24. Sustainable Pleasure
24
SUSTAINABLE PLEASURE
Leighton
Great. Just great. My once-again roomies have commandeered the living room for a public therapy session.
Indigo stands with her hands clasped to her chest, her long braid trailing down her back. “I am feeling frustrated,” she says in a calm, measured tone, “because I reminded you this morning to move the bamboo out of Leighton’s room. It upsets me that you didn’t do it.”
Ezra hangs his head low, his man bun drooping in solidarity. Even his beard looks defeated.
“It’s okay. We can move the bamboo,” I offer, trying to sidestep the roomie drama on night one. I really just want the bamboo out of my room. Miles is in there, setting down grocery bags.
Indigo lifts a hand in a regal stop gesture. “Thank you, Leighton. But Ezra needs to honor my feelings about this.”
My head spins. Too much honoring happening .
Ezra pushes his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose—they’re for show; I know he doesn’t need them. He looks up at Indigo, and I expect him to cave. Instead, he says, “I should have moved them, Indigo. But I was frustrated about the kombucha top left on the counter. I felt defiant and acted out.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I do not need this confessional nonsense.
Apparently, neither does Miles. He strides out of my room, hauling the bamboo like a lumberjack with a stack of wood, his jaw set in that calm, no-nonsense way. “Where do you want this—couch, floor, or table?”
Indigo startles. “Um…”
“The table, man,” Ezra says, brightening. “Sweet! That would have taken me half an hour.”
“Because you get distracted by your folk music station every time you do chores,” Indigo snaps.
“Oh, now you’re mocking my music? Pretty sure you were the one who asked me to blast it the other night in bed.”
And the gloves are off.
She gasps. “Ezra! Use your ‘I feel’ words.”
What a great idea. “ I feel like it’s time to set up my room,” I interject, darting past them.
Miles grabs two more of my grocery bags from the foyer, then follows, shutting the door behind him with a necessary finality. He sets the bags down by the door and leans his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, watching me. “Good call on escaping the folk music and kombucha detente.”
The chaos of the living room is replaced with the quiet clutter of my room, my life scattered in suitcases and bags. I breathe easier, but the space feels smaller with Miles here.
And it’s not a bad sort of small. But it is a tempting sort of small. I need to be careful with him so close. I need to remember the friendship plan. “It’s always a good idea to escape them,” I say quietly.
“Yeah, they’re fun,” he says, taking in my room with its futon, scratched-up bureau and not just secondhand, but fourth-hand chair that was passed on from a friend of a friend of a friend.
“Evidently they’ve moved from fucking it out to therapying it out,” I mutter, glancing at the door. “Let’s put on music so they can’t hear us talk about them.”
“Good idea,” he says, pulling out his phone. “What do you like?”
I shrug, my chest tightening. “Honestly, anything. Well, not folk music.”
“Heard. But seriously—any artists you’re into?”
I wince. “I’m not a big music person.”
He tilts his head, his expression softening. “Do you dislike it, or…does it distract you from hearing?”
I relax, but only somewhat. It’s a relief that he’s naturally curious and doesn’t cringe, but it’s still uncomfortable to talk about this with anyone outside family or close friends. Honestly, I don’t even love talking about it with my girlfriends. It makes me feel even more vulnerable than I already am with the hearing loss.
But Miles is so earnest and patient, so I give him the truth. “Yeah, it’s that. I don’t listen to music much while I’m out and about because I’m afraid I’ll miss something important. Same at home, I guess. It’s silly.”
He nods, thoughtful. “It’s not silly. Not one bit. I get it.” He touches the arms of his glasses. “Sometimes when I go to bed at night, my mind wanders to what if I need to see—really see well—in the middle of the night. That’s why I never wore glasses when I was a teenager and lived at home. Just contacts all the time.”
The tension in my chest unknots somewhat, replaced by something like empathy. “Because…you wanted to be able to look out for your brother and sister if you had to?”
“And my mom,” he adds.
My heart softens and pulls toward him.
“I’m not saying it’s the same,” he quickly clarifies. “I know they’re different senses. I just…I want you to know that I want to understand…you. That I like understanding you.” He pauses, then like he has to say it, adds, “As a friend.”
My heart thumps hard, my throat thick with emotion. “I don’t listen to anything when I walk around the city,” I say, and it is an admission.
His lips curve into a soft grin. “I was wondering the other day if you did.”
“Yeah?” I ask, wanting to kiss that grin. To touch the corner of his mouth. To run a hand over his stubble.
“It had occurred to me.”
“Now you know,” I say, and it feels safe to tell him. Like my vulnerability doesn’t make me weaker.
“I’m glad you told me,” he says, then cocks his head, studying me. “What if we don’t listen to music? What if we listen to ocean sounds or birds or something? Would that help?”
No one in the entire world has ever suggested anything like that. Maybe because I haven’t given anyone the chance. But he took the opportunity. “How about rainfall? ”
His smile grows wider. “You speak to my Seattle soul.”
“You really do like the rain?”
“Fucking love it. Rain is a beautiful thing.”
I picture him in Seattle—no umbrella, a cup of coffee in hand, Nirvana playing in his headphones, impervious to the drops of water the Washington sky flings on him. It fits him so perfectly it makes me smile. “Do you like Nirvana?”
He scoffs. “Do you like shiny things?”
I gasp, mock affronted. “Miles Falcon! How dare you!”
“How dare I figure you out already?” He smirks, moving closer. Lifting a hand, he lightly brushes my flower earrings, then my bracelets, and finally glances down at the anklet he gave me. I shiver from the dusting of his fingertips.
I feel almost…marked by his touch. It’s a heady sensation.
“Yes,” I say, primly.
“Get used to it, friend . I’m very observant,” he says, queuing up rainfall sounds on his phone. The gentle patter fills the room, soft and private.
“Is this bickering new for them?” he asks, nodding toward the door.
“They’ve always been…talky. But yeah, this public therapy phase is new.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And it’s still going on.”
Oh. “I hadn’t realized,” I say, swallowing, my cheeks warming with some embarrassment. “Sorry you have to hear it.”
His smile is soft, full of understanding. “It’s all good. The rain covers it up. Another reason I like rain.”
And I appreciate so much that he didn’t try to make me feel better about missing what they’re saying. I appreciate that he’s not making a thing out of it. “Agreed.” I grab a fitted sheet to toss onto the futon, then wrinkle my nose. “Does my room smell like beard oil? Like tobacco and pepper?”
Miles sniffs the air. “A little, now that you say that. Also, that’s specific.”
“I have a good nose,” I say, offhand.
“I’m impressed.”
“Eagle eyes and a bloodhound nose to make up for what I lack,” I say.
He gives me a soft smile. “I’ll have to make sure I smell extra good around you.”
I lift a playful brow. “News flash: you do.” But so I don’t get caught up in flirting, I quickly add, “Anyway, when I was at Maeve’s place, they sublet to a guy who made small-batch beard oil.”
“Of course they did.”
“Same circles,” I say.
He smirks. “Figured as much.”
Miles shifts to help me pull the sheet tighter on one corner of the futon. As we make the bed, it strikes me—he’s already done so much for me today. I don’t want him to feel obligated to hang around.
“You don’t have to stay,” I say, catching his gaze across the bed.
He shoots me a look, his hands still resting on the edge of the futon. “Have you met me?”
I laugh. “Yes, Mister Determination. Do you always get what you want?”
“When it’s important,” he says, straightening up, his voice soft but firm. “Besides, if memory serves, we’re having pizza. Artichoke hearts, right? ”
I laugh harder. “I thought your Lyft services were your housewarming gift.”
“Turns out I’m giving you two housewarming gifts.”
“Fine. But I’m paying.”
“Not a chance. It’s a housewarming gift, Leighton.”
“Then I’m providing the wine,” I say.
“ I feel good about that.”
The sound of rain muffles our laughter, and I’m suddenly keenly aware of the ease between us. It’s dangerous. Too tempting. As if we could fall onto my bed, like a couple, enraptured by laughter, then turn to each other and kiss like it’s all we’ve wanted to do all day. Will it always feel like this? With him both so safe and so dangerous at the same time?
I clench my fists once, twice, to try to ignore the desire swirling in me.
As we finish with the futon, Miles grabs his phone and asks me a few more pizza questions. When he finishes ordering the food, his attention seems to snag on something beneath the chair. He crosses the room, rummages around, and pulls it out, holding it up to the light.
Something long. Pink. Silicone.
I slap a hand to my face. “Oh no.”
He dangles the dildo between two fingers, looking amused. “Yours?”
“God, no,” I groan, grabbing an old T-shirt of mine to wrap it up. Marching to the living room, I interrupt Indigo mid-sentence as she says to Ezra, “Is it hard to listen to my feelings?”
Girl, it’s hard for me. “Here. This is either beard oil guy’s or…”
Indigo snatches it from me, her eyes flaring. Like she’s going to lash into Ezra. But then her expression softens. Instead, her gray eyes twinkle, and she whispers reverently, “This one is my favorite.”
“Mine too,” Ezra says.
“I thought it was missing,” she whispers.
“It’s a sign. It’s come home to us,” Ezra agrees.
“This whole night is a sign,” Indigo says, turning to me with an air of absolute sincerity. “You’re a good-luck charm.”
Then they run off to their room, leaving me stunned. I retreat back to mine, shutting the door with more force than necessary. Miles looks up from his phone, grinning. “Rain sounds louder?”
“Yes. Please.”
I pause, glancing at the gorgeous, thoughtful hockey player as the sound of rainfall fills the room. I definitely feel like I don’t want this night to end.
Fine, fine . There’s more to unpack than I’d thought. But Miles is helpful with my digital photo frame, my laptop and monitor, and the few books I have, though I’m more of an e-reader gal. As he plugs in the digital frame, he tips his head toward the bedroom door. “So, those two seem… really into communication. But almost too much?”
I laugh while hanging up clothes. “Right? Sometimes I think they’re onto something, but most of the time they just remind me that relationships are really complicated.”
“Tell me about it,” he says, as he connects the frame to the router.
Well, I can’t resist that. I probably shouldn’t poke around in his relationship history, but I’m admittedly curious. He’s never shared much online and I maybe, possibly, checked out his socials. “Okay, tell me about it,” I say, nerves jumping through me. But I’m too curious. I want to know who captivated him at some point.
He stops his work on the frame, gives me a thoughtful look. “You want to know?”
“I do.”
He takes off his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose, then says, “I was involved with someone for a long time in Vancouver.”
My stomach dips unpleasantly, but I say nothing. I simply wait.
“We were pretty serious. Lived together and all. But after my ACL tear, I was in a bad place. I wasn’t able to focus on anything but myself. First, I kind of wallowed and that took up all my headspace, then I tried to heal. I wasn’t…nice to be around. And so…she left.”
I stop hanging, swallowing roughly. “Just left? It was too much for her?”
“Yeah,” he says, heavily. Then, he slides his glasses back on. “I guess I understand in retrospect. I was…deeply unhappy.”
My heart squeezes with pain for him. I step away from the closet and move to the edge of the bed, closer to him. “I’m sorry. That sounds awful all around.”
“It was,” he says, then shrugs. “But breakups are, right?”
There’s resignation in his voice, like he’s accepted the way things ended, and the way he felt. But there’s real hurt there too. That has to be a factor as well in why it’s best if we stay the friendship course. “They are,” I say with a heavy sigh too, then add, “are you happier now? ”
He nods instantly. “I am. Saw a team psychologist. Turned my career around. Got my head on straight. I’m good. I’ve always prided myself on moving forward. On picking up the pieces, you know?”
“I do.”
“So that’s what I did.” He tips his chin my way. “Your turn. You tell me about it.”
I wince, not sure I want to get into the romance details. I wave a dismissive hand. “Oh, I just had a couple college boyfriends. One wasn’t even a boyfriend.”
“The one I’m lightly murdering?”
I laugh at the memory. “Yes, that one.”
He makes a “spill it” motion with his hand, his fingers curling toward himself. “Tell me about his crime.”
I roll my eyes to make light of it, but that’s just self-protection. I swallow my pride and bite off the truth. “This one guy said my hearing loss was an embarrassment.”
Miles’s face turns white. Wait. No, it’s more like white-hot anger I see etched into the set of his jaw. “I will find him and kill him.”
“He’s not worth it,” I say.
“No, but you are,” he says easily, locking eyes with me like he would march into battle and slay the dragons of exes if that’s what I asked.
My stomach swoops. “Thank you.”
He rises, comes around the bed, and sits next to me. “He didn’t deserve you or appreciate you. You know that, right?”
The thing is—I do. That’s why it was easy to tell Nick thanks for the wine and to walk out in the middle of our third date. “Yes. Want to know what I said to him when he told me that?”
“I do,” Miles says, eagerly .
“I said, then it won’t embarrass you when I walk out and leave you with the bill .”
Miles’s smile spreads nice and easy, his dark eyes full of pride and appreciation for my payback. “You’re a fucking goddess,” he says.
I preen a little. “I am.”
The bottle of wine is nearly empty, and the pizza box is heading that way too with Miles reaching for the last slice from his chair a little later.
“Best pizza ever,” he declares.
“Because of the artichoke hearts or the company?” I ask.
He pauses, tilting his head like he’s genuinely considering it. “Hmm. Tough call.”
I grab a small pink pillow from the futon, holding it up like I’m about to throw it.
“Try me,” he says, leaning back, all confidence. “I have excellent reflexes.”
“So cocky,” I tease, then take him up on his offer, lobbing the pillow.
He catches it easily with his free hand, then eyes it. “Pink, huh? You don’t strike me as a pink person.”
I glance down at my black jeans and gray cropped tank, smirking. “I like pink too. I’m full of surprises.”
His eyes darken, his gaze raking over me like he’s remembering the surprises from that day—the way I like him to touch me: rough, hungry, possessive. “Good surprises,” he says, his voice low and rough, leaving the words hanging in the air between us.
He’s definitely thinking about that surprise too. I could linger on those memories all night long. But they’re too risky to our budding friendship, so fragile right now, but so important.
I can’t afford to go there. Nor can he. Especially after what we both shared earlier. But especially him—I don’t want to cause a single complication in his career, especially since he nearly lost it a few years ago.
I clear my throat, desperate to keep our vibe in neutral territory, returning to the safer topic of pillow catching. “And I suppose it’s no surprise your reflexes are good. I’ll allow that cockiness.”
His grin returns to playful. “Thanks. I worked hard on them. I busted my ass to get back up to speed after my injury.”
Opening a bag of books I’ll set on the nightstand, I glance at him as he takes a bite. “Thanks for sharing those details. I’d read about your ACL tear, but of course didn’t know the toll it took on you.”
After he finishes a bite of his slice, his smirk spreads again, too pleased. “You looked me up.”
Far too pleased.
“I did,” I admit, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a blush—because we’re being friends here, nothing more.
“And what did you learn?”
“That you had an ACL tear,” I deadpan, rolling my eyes. “What did you think I’d find? That you like pina coladas and beach vacations?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Fair point. But for the record, I do like pina coladas.”
“You don’t strike me as a beach guy. You’re more…mountains.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, grinning .
“Because you’re cocky,” I tease.
“And you like that.”
“In a friend,” I add, since I need to remind him. But also me. “So…the tear itself was pretty bad?”
The pizza freezes halfway to his mouth, and his expression shifts. That easy confidence dims, replaced by something heavier. “Yeah. It was.”
I try to imagine losing photography for six or nine months—how dark I’d feel, how lost. “That can change your perspective on a lot of things,” I say.
A shadow crosses his face, and for a moment, it’s like he’s somewhere else. “I thought my career was over. It happened at the end of the season, so I was out for half the next one. And when I came back…I struggled to play well.” His jaw tightens. “Which is why I ended up on waivers.”
I swallow, feeling the weight of his words. And my dad—his coach—picked him up after that. I tread carefully, unsure if this is a door we should open now. “I’m glad my dad wanted to work with you,” I say.
I’ve always admired how my father could see potential where others couldn’t. And knowing that Miles respects him as much as I do adds another layer to the knot of feelings tightening in my chest.
Miles’s features soften, but the storm cloud lingers. “He saved my career,” Miles says simply, letting out a deep sigh.
The silence stretches for a beat—one where we’re both clearly thinking of what’s at stake if we give in to good surprises again. My relationship with my father is everything. And Miles admires him too, and needs him as well.
“And it’s a hell of a career,” I say .
“Thanks,” he says, his tone full of gratitude.
Miles finishes the slice, wipes his hands, and points at the last unopened bag. “One more. Let’s do it, Shutterbug.”
I step toward it quickly, raising a hand. “I’ll get that one.”
Too quickly.
His brow arches as he reaches for it before I can stop him.
Oh no.
The moment he unfolds it, his eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.”
Followed by, “Ohhh.”
And then, with a grin so wicked I feel heat creeping up my neck, “Wow.”
I close my eyes and exhale sharply. “There are…a lot in there, I know.”
“A lot just became my new favorite saying.” He’s practically giddy, holding the bag out of my reach like a trophy. “Holy shit, Leighton. This is like Christmas morning and the Stanley Cup in one.”
I laugh despite myself, lunging for it.
He spins away, holding it behind his back.
“Miles,” I warn, though it’s useless.
“I’ll give it back…if you tell me what each thing is.”
“Oh god, I thought you were going to say ‘show and tell.’”
His grin turns devious. “Is that an option?”
“When you find that sex portal,” I shoot back, grabbing the bag. I pull out the first item, holding it up. It’s a standard vibe, but there’s nothing standard about the O s it delivers. “This is the Dynamo. Made from recycled ocean plastic. ”
His brow furrows in surprise. “Sustainable pleasure—You’re killing me, Leighton. I need to find that portal right now.”
Want spreads in my chest, and even though we’re flirting with trouble, I can’t resist. I pull out another one with a curved end. “This is The Wand.”
His smile falters. His gaze flicks between the toy and me, his eyes darkening. He’s picturing me using it. “I bet it’s magic.”
I smile, but it burns off quickly as the air shifts. His steps are purposeful, closing the space between us until he’s barely a foot away. Heat radiates from him, and I’m keenly aware of how small the room suddenly feels, how easily I could grab the neckline of his shirt and tug him against me. My pulse rockets.
“And that one?” His voice is low, gravelly, as he nods toward the rose-pink toy.
I hesitate, heat flooding my cheeks. “It operates with suction.” I nibble on my lower lip. “It’s really good.”
His breath hitches, his chest rising as he drags a hand through his hair. He steps closer again, pressing his palm to the wall like he needs the support. When his eyes meet mine, they’re molten.
“If I stay much longer…” His voice is rough, scraping the air between us. “I’m breaking the friendship rule.”
My pulse thrums everywhere, my whole body on fire. “You should go.”
But he doesn’t leave.
He cups my cheek, his hand warm and steady, his thumb brushing against my skin as his gaze roams my face. “Send me a picture when you’re done.”
The words hit me like a hot kiss, leaving me breathless .
Before I can respond, he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stand there, my pulse pounding and my skin tingling. The need rises higher in me, so high it’s impossible to ignore.
Later, I’m quiet as I imagine him pinning me down, fucking me hard, taking me apart.
My toes curl. My legs shake. A moan rises from the depths of my dirty soul. I swallow the sound as I come hard.
Then, with my cheeks still flush, my lips parted, my hair fanned out, I take a photo of my face and send it to him.
Ten minutes later, a reply lands.
Miles: Fuck me.
I roll my lips together, savoring his reaction. Then another drops.
Miles: You’re so fucking sexy.
My smile grows stupidly bigger. A few minutes later, my phone pings once again.
Miles: It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last that a picture of you has come in quite handy.