Oh my god. I have a thing for Miller. #4
Once in front of his door, staring at the gold-plated 4B above his peephole, I knock. There’s a doorbell, but something about Miller says he’s waiting and listening. A moment later, when the door opens and Miller appears, I’m glad I didn’t ring.
He grips the door frame with one hand and the door handle with the other, making his broad shoulders seem to span the world. His t-shirt is fitted, clinging to his defined chest and mountainous biceps. He seems so much… sexier… all of a sudden.
The moisture evaporates from my tongue at that thought.
Miller is sexy? He reaches around the door frame and uses the blunt tip of his finger to tap the flickering bulb outside his apartment.
His shirt lifts as he does, exposing an adonis belt I’ve only ever seen on book covers.
I close my mouth and move my tongue around, desperate for moisture, eager to swallow.
“Hey Laney, come on in. Sorry. That light always flickers.”
Yep, Miller is sexy.
“Hey,” I say, sounding a little quiet, like I’m in shock, so I clear my throat. “No worries. It only flicked off after I knocked. ”
He closes the door, and as soon as the deadbolt is twisted, my energy changes. I couldn’t see it coming, I didn’t expect it, and I’m surprised, but when Miller comes to my side with a sweet smile on his face, I swear I fall a little in love with him.
It’s crazy, I know.
We’ve been friends and coworkers for years.
And only within the last few weeks have I viewed him as…
more? And driving over here, I reminded myself how much help it would be to have him as a mentor to get me further in my journey so I can nab some schooling and an apprenticeship with knowledge and experience.
I need that. I want that. And for Miller?
He’s so beautiful and wholesome. He eats Frosted Flakes and fruit snacks, for God’s sake.
He’ll end up with a woman who takes pilates and changes her couch pillows for every holiday, and in no time, she’ll be knocked up.
Her hobbies will be riding her Peloton and going to Target while I’m over here dreaming about naps and audio porn and avoiding Target (and people) like the plague.
We are not the same, me and Miller’s probable dream girl.
I can’t pretend the horizon for us is full of sunshine. It just… doesn’t make sense.
But I swear. The faintest scent of his cologne and the warm energy of his home seem to swallow me up, leaving only him to breathe in, only him to feel, just his words in my ear. “I’m glad you’re here.”
And there it is again. That little flame in my bones that flickers through me, eager to grow into a towering blaze.
Small but all-encompassing, focus-stealing, addiction starting, cheek tingling, brain fogging, clit pulsing, belly flipping blaze.
The blaze I’ve been dying to feel. Aching to experience. And finally, after years of dating, I’m feeling it with a non-date coworker friend .
“I’m… glad I’m here too,” I admit.
He motions me to his living room, where there’s a gray sectional peppered with cream throw pillows.
I take a seat as he does, too, and his eyes stay on me as I check out the room.
Framed art of… what appears to be fields or a farm.
A bookshelf filled with books. Turning my head sideways, I scan spines, taking in a variety of titles.
And I can’t help but smile when I realize… they’re all young adult books.
“What?” he asks, still watching me, wearing a smile of his own.
I motion toward the bookshelf after shaking off the strap of my bag and letting it fall to the floor near the couch. “They’re young adult books.”
He strokes his hand down his face, and his knee bounces a few times before coming to a stop.
“Yeah,” he draws out. “Well, I wasn’t allowed to read anything growing up.
And one time, I got to go into town with my dad, and I saw a kid sitting on a bag of wood chips at the seed ’n’ feed, and he was reading a mystery. It said across the front: a mystery.”
I smile, but it falls away because a child who isn’t allowed to read is seriously a fucking crime. “Why couldn’t you read?”
He leans back, and I get a second, heady hit of his cologne. Woodsy, clean, but masculine. My stomach clenches. “I grew up in communal living, and we didn’t have TVs or any outside entertainment or… anything good or fun, really.”
I wince. “Geez.” Pausing, I wonder how to word this, so I start slow. “Were you… like part of a… religious cult?”
He chuckles and strokes his face again, and I like Miller with a little stubble. I’ve always wanted to feel stubble rubbing my inner thighs. “Well, honestly, kind of. We believed what we were told to believe, or I guess that’s kind of what I understand about it now, on reflection. ”
“You left at eighteen?” I ask, bringing my knees together in an effort to diffuse the pulsing between my legs. I can’t believe I’m having such a strong… reaction.
He nods again. “Yeah. If you leave, you can never come back or have contact with anyone there. Ever. I mean, they don’t have addresses or phones, so, yeah.”
It occurs to me that this means his family, too.
“You really don’t see your family? You don’t talk to them?
” As I pull my knees to my chest, getting comfortable on the couch, I realize…
I know this. I know all of this about Miller.
“You don’t. I’m sorry. I remember now.” My face heats, and it should.
I should be embarrassed. I’ve always been so deep into my audiobooks at work that most of the time, I never even took my EarPods out at lunch with the guys.
But when they were out, I listened. I guess even on some unconscious level, I’ve always categorized Miller as not an option.
He smiles, and it works its way through my chest, leaving pops of electricity and waves of warmth in its wake. I’m so fucking glad I remembered.
“But,” he brings the conversation back to the books with a tip of his head toward the bookshelf.
It’s then I realize he’s not wearing his baseball hat.
The plain blue one he always wears. He sifts a large hand through his soft hair.
I remember it being so soft like that, too.
It shines beneath the somewhat dim lights, and the relaxed flex of his arm as he holds it over his head makes my breath stick in my chest a little. Fuck, he’s talking. I clue in.
“... so over the last eight years, I’ve been lost in the world of young adult literature, trying to redeem my crappy childhood.
I mean, I’ll read a thriller here and there, but for the most part, I’m just really enjoying the simplicity of these stories and how perfectly they wrap things up.
” He wraps a gift with his hands as he talks, and I love how much he cares about this.
“I get it. I love YA.”
“YA?” he questions, brows furrowed. His hair falls across his forehead, and he does nothing to push it away, and I think that’s because he’s so focused on… me. And I’ve never seen his hair like this and… fuck. It’s hot.
“Young adult,” I try not to stammer, though I don’t know how well I do.
“I read a ton of it.” I shrug, not feeling the need to explain rather wanting to share.
He seems like he wants to know. Or he’s fucking George Clooney in the acting department.
“I read it to Mara a lot. I want her to read, and sometimes she’s honestly just too tired. ” I laugh and add, “or lazy.”
He grins and kind of shakes his head. “That’s so cool. I love reading. I would love to have a sibling to read to or with.” I exhale slowly and heavily, my chest burning as I do. My body is physically aching for him, and my mind is actually blowing because of it.
This is Miller .
He shrugs. “That’s cool of you, Laney.”
Everything between my legs floods with warmth. No, not even warmth. Heat. Fucking fire. My pussy burns for his touch. God, I want Miller to reach out, slide his meaty hand down my pants, under my panties, and spread me open with those thick ass fingers.
“Do you hate it when I call you Laney?” he asks, saving me from choking on my tongue.
I struggle a little because my mouth is so dry, but after a moment, I manage to say, “not at all.” I wrinkle my nose.
“Sometimes, when Atti patronizes me and then calls me Laney, I hate him. But no, not you.” We share a small laugh, and our eyes stay on one another in a tenderly aggressive way that speaks volumes beyond our words.
“Good,” he says, his tone raw and low but also smooth like butter melting over a hot iron pan. My bones ache a little with how much I want him.
“I think it’s cool you’re catching up on all you lost.”
Casually, he casts his arm out along the back of the couch, drumming his fingers so just the tips skirt the edges of my shoulder. It’s barely a touch. More like a whisper.
But it eats me alive, I fucking swear. I can actually feel my pussy get so wet my panties start to stick to me.
He, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to notice.
“I don’t feel like I lost anything anymore.
I kind of went through all the stages of grief in the first three years.
” His smile is wide, and his eyes sparkle as he says, “I’m good now. ”
I can’t imagine “being good” after leaving everything you’ve ever known to be true at age eighteen and starting over alone. Virtually alone. I mean, I remember Beau telling me that he didn’t know Miller was on his own until after they worked together for over a year.
It physically hurts my heart to know this sweet man sat alone on his birthday and holidays…
all because he wanted to experience life and the people who were supposed to love him…
didn’t. Because if they don’t support you, their love is conditional, and real love is unconditional. Everyone knows that.
“Good,” I say, feeling way too many things. “Good.”