Chapter 6Oh my god. I have a thing for Miller. #5
“You said that twice.” Drum. Drum. His fingers barely touch me again. My body ignites, my neck goes soft and wobbly, and I twist positions just to hold it up.
“Uncomfortable?” he asks because, of fucking course, he does.
“No,” I lie. “Just a little thirsty.” Understatement of the year. All the moisture in my body is currently dripping from my pussy, and my mouth feels like the asshole of the Sahara desert. I could drink two swimming pools of water.
He’s on his feet and in the kitchen before I can even push my body out of the soft, incredibly comfortable couch and peer over at him. He returns with his water bottle. The metal one he takes everywhere that’s covered in stickers and things. It’s… his.
“It’s clean,” he offers. “I just washed it.”
Somehow, that disappoints me. “Thanks.”
I drink, and I drink, and I drink until I think if I take one more drink I’ll puke.
I hand the bottle to him, and he takes a drink.
I swear to God, I think my pussy almost explodes.
He’s not trying to do anything sexy or attractive, I don’t think.
Yet he’s doing all the things I’ve heard in my books and making me feel all the ways I’ve always expected and hoped to feel.
Things I was starting to lose faith were real.
Butterflies and electricity, feelings of hope and desires for more. Things you want to feel when you’re dating someone on your way to marriage. That blooms inside me when I’m around Miller. It’s a dangerous high I’d do anything to chase.
Keeping perspective, I twirl a flyaway around my finger, giving the lifeless curl a little shape as I peer around the place further.
“Your place is clean.” I hold one eye shut when I turn to him, giving him my most analytical and skeptical squint. “Did you clean for me?”
For a moment, he looks confused before he looks around his place and then back to me. “It’s… always like this. But I did run the carpet cleaner because of Pico de Gato.”
I snicker but try not to make him feel bad. “Gallo,” I correct. “Pico de Gallo.” He must’ve made it and spilled it. But he holds up a finger wearing a grin, and proceeds to swipe through his phone before holding it out for me to see.
On the screen is a very large orange and white cat with lots and lots of hair. He’s wearing what I feel like would be a frown if animals had precise expressions, and his front teeth are hanging over his bottom lip in… a scowl. Miller locks the phone after giving me a few seconds.
“That’s Pico de Gato, but I only call him that when he’s in big trouble.”
“So then… what do you call him the rest of the time?”
“Salsa,” he says before lowering to a crouch facing the small dark hallway, putting his fingers in his mouth and sending a sharp whistle down the hall. “ Salsa ,” he calls, his voice lighter than normal. He has a pet voice.
I love when guys have a pet voice. If a guy doesn’t have a pet voice and a voice he uses on babies and young children, I don’t want him. Seriously. Give me a guy who isn’t embarrassed to be soft for the creatures who thrive off gentleness, and I’ll gladly have him any day of the week.
My body is all tingly and warm as I stare down at Miller’s muscled body hunched over, calling his cat. And then, from the shadows as all cats do, Salsa appears, eyes glowing. He moves slowly toward us; his focus narrowed on me as he sniffs the air as he walks.
“He doesn’t like me,” I say quietly as if I’m trying to go unseen near a bear or something.
Miller looks up at me, reaches out and wraps his hand around my calf, rubbing it once. “He’ll love you. He’s just not used to company.”
And I’m not used to Miller being so casually touchy. I feel like I should have worn a pad or something, Jesus.
“Don’t have a lot of company?” I stumble out, realizing after I say it that it came off as “do you have women here?” and while I do want to know that, I also didn’t mean it to come across that way. I just wanted a momentary respite from the all-consuming want that’s growing inside me.
It’s strong and scary and not at all why I’m here.
I can’t go falling for a friend, co-worker, or someone who clearly isn’t into me that way. If he was, he would have asked me out years ago. Salsa wraps himself around Miller’s calves and ankles as he greets his owner, and I watch as the two of them interact.
Miller strokes down his back, and Salsa purrs. When he gets to his feet, he motions for me to give Salsa a pet, but I shake my head. “I think I’ll let him get used to my smells and stuff before I touch him.”
Miller laughs a little but says, “that’s cool. Do what you’re comfortable with, but Salsa’s a cool dude. Unless he’s puking on my rug at 2 am, then he’s an annoying Pico de Gato.”
I nod, and the bookshelf catches my eye again.
Being in his house and being so close to him, I almost feel like my eyes are roaming just to lessen the intensity I’m feeling.
Desperate to hang onto something, find something I can turn into a conversation piece so we can get lost in talking, and I can chill the fuck out with the wetness and wanting.
Seriously.
“Hardy Boys?” I ask, eyeing the spines of two full shelves of books. He looks like he may have the whole series.
He nods. “I actually started those on the recommendation of the librarian.” At the bookcase, he pinches one from the pack and slides it out, running his hand over the cover.
“When I first got my own place, I was just an apprentice so I wasn’t making that much.
I used the library for almost all of my reading. ”
“The library is such a great place for books, which I know sounds dumb because, hello, it’s a library.
But I feel like most people assume it’s all like…
educational books or old stuff. But you can check out like any book there; you just have to request it.
And they have audiobooks, too,” I beam because books are my topic.
And books at the library are certainly my topic.
I wouldn’t be churning through titles the way I do without the public library.
His grin feels like a hug. “Man, I think you like the library more than I do.”
My cheeks heat. “I probably do.” I tip my head to the side, considering all this new information about Miller.
“I really didn’t know you read so much. You never mentioned it before.
” As soon as the words leave me, I wonder if this is another thing I actually have heard and do know but never really paid attention to before.
But he shrugs. “I still feel like I'm in the discovery phase of books, though. I mean, like I said, I’ve read some Tolkien and stuff, but I don’t know,” he says bashfully, raking a hand up the back of his head, drawing my attention to his swollen bicep and shiny hair.
My mouth makes a little extra saliva; I swear it does.
“I guess I figured you guys would tease me about what I read.”
“You read what you like; you don’t read what you do because it’s all you can read,” I say, almost in defense of his choices more than him. But he laughs.
“I know, but you know, Atticus would probably give me shit.”
I scoff. “Atticus reads a ton, too, and it’s not always the most intellectual stuff.”
At that, he laughs, pointing toward a hardcover book lying lengthwise along the top of the shelf. “He gave me that. Said it’s his favorite.”
I narrow my eyes on the spine and see it’s a… “The Amazing Spiderman.” I laugh, and Miller does, too. But part of me thinks Atticus gave that to Miller knowing he missed out on all the little boy loves, like comic book heroes and cartoon army men.
At his feet, Salsa curls between his ankles, purring. “I’ll feed him real quick, and then we can…” His sentence trails as my pulse soars. “We can… do whatever you’ve got planned for us.”
I pretend that sweat isn’t sliding down the hollow of my spine and that my hands aren’t clammy as fuck. “Sounds good,” I reply, following him into the kitchen, where I watch him fill a white glass dish with kibble. Salsa starts eating before he’s even done pouring.
“Starved?” I ask of the cat, who is clearly pushing twenty pounds.
He smirks. “He thinks so.”
After washing his hands, he moves through his small but clean kitchen and opens the fridge door.
Inside are rows of drinks and stacked containers of colorful items. “Wow,” I gleam at the contents of his fridge, stepping closer.
“Your fridge is like a fucking magazine.” I trail my fingertips down the edges of fancy glass containers, all labeled in Miller’s small block writing.
Carrots. Broccoli. Strawberries. Onions. Grapes.
“You seriously do cook a lot?” I ask, turning to face him. He brings his lunch often–why did I not realize he’s clearly cooking his own food daily?
“Yeah,” he says, feeling so fucking big standing next to me.
When we’re at Kings’, he’s tall, and he’s one of the guys.
But here, just me and him, he feels like Zeus.
“It was one of the many things I wasn’t really taught or allowed to teach myself growing up.
” He swallows, and I can tell he feels awkward about what he’s going to say next.
Stroking his neck, he pinches his throat as he says, “cooking and baking were a woman’s job where I grew up.
But I always wanted to do it. I always wanted to do everything. I was that kind of kid.”
I chew on the corner of my mouth to prevent a sad smile from sweeping my face. “Me too.”
He grabs us each a can of soda and closes the fridge. “I figured. Not many women want to be mechanics, but I think it’s cool as heck.”
I shrug and fiddle with a frizzy curl near my ear. “Well, that’s partly necessity, or at least, how it started. But now I just… love it. It’s rewarding to make something work again, especially in a car.”