31. Miguel
MIGUEL
NOW
“Harder.” My moan burrows into the cushion as Graham straddles the backs of my thighs and grips my shoulders. “Mmm, yes. Deeper.”
“I’m as deep as I can go, and we’ve been at this for an hour.” He climbs off, abandoning me in my time of need.
A full-body massage is a fair trade after I hiked half a mile at the break of dawn. We’ve spent the day in his movie room—two stinky dudes hanging out in their green underwear, eating pancakes and watching classic horror films. Best date ever, minus the stinky part.
I flip to my back and glare because he fled to the other end of the sofa. “If you didn’t have such delicate Hollywood hands, you could get the job done.”
Flexing his fingers, he winces. “My hands aren’t delicate. They’re hurting.”
I crawl the vast distance of one long cushion and kneel beside him while babying his fingers with light rubbing. “I’m sorry you’re in pain, but I thank you for your service.”
“You have syrup right”—he swipes a thumb above my top lip—“there.”
“I’d rather be covered in syrup and massage oil than dirt and blisters.”
Graham may enjoy hiking as a hobby, but count me out.
The best parts of the experience had been riding his back and being so lost in him that my anxiety never reared its ugly head.
The outcome may have been different if more people were around, but my leap paid off.
We both got what we wanted and needed from today.
Once he’s done making out with his sugary thumb, I tackle him to his back and steal those lips for myself. My tongue goes on a journey, licking the salty, dried sweat from his jaw and neck while his fingertips coast up and down my spine.
“I might not be able to travel next weekend. There’s tons of work to catch up on. Would you miss me?” he asks.
“I won’t have time. The thirsty guys blowing up my phone keep me busy these days.”
The caresses stop. “Don’t even joke about other guys.”
His stern tone catches me off guard, and I lean away to glimpse his expression. It’s pinched, closed to all humor.
“Since when are you the jealous type?” I ask.
“Since I sat in a French café and watched a long line of men fight for your attention.” He holds my jaw in a loose grip. “Only I get to flirt with you. And I’m the only one who’s allowed to blow up your phone with thirsty messages.”
I scoff. “Don’t pretend your DMs aren’t flooded with worse.”
“You know I don’t manage my social media for that reason. I’m not interested in what anyone else has to offer. I’m only interested in you and the dirty messages we send.”
When I grab his jaw, my hold is firmer. “No more pics or videos, Graham. They’re too risky, and you need to stay focused.”
“You keep me focused.” His fingertip meanders from my chin to my sternum. “This beauty mark on your chest keeps me focused.”
“It’s a mole.”
Sitting tall, I shift higher on his stomach until his cock gets wedged between my butt cheeks. Before I can get my grind on, he reaches around, grabs my waistband, and tugs my underwear into my crack.
“No more games, Miguel. I draw the line at you teasing me with this ass.”
I scrape my teeth on my bottom lip, rocking back and forth. “What’s the punishment for crossing the line?”
“Sit on my face and find out.”
I want him. To hell with our state of limbo. We’ve waited long enough, and our bodies like to remind us of an indisputable fact: Graham and I were made for each other. And after we shower, he’ll be following through on that threat.
The distinct, tinkling sound of my calendar notification pierces the lusty air. Time got away from us.
He throws his head back against the sofa arm and growls. “I will murder your goddamn phone.”
I slide off him, landing on my feet while picking the wedgie from my ass. “Murder your travel plans while you’re at it. We need to leave for the airport soon.”
“We?” he asks, looking up at me with hopeful eyes.
“I’m giving you a ride. Don’t”—I slap a hand over his mouth—“make a sex joke. I’ve had enough of your commentary today.”
“I’m innocent,” he mumbles against my palm.
When he licks me, I jerk my hand away. “Go get ready. I’ll clean up our mess.”
While Graham showers upstairs, I tidy the movie room downstairs, hauling things back and forth. On each trip, I glance at the closed door at the end of the hallway. It calls to me like a siren song, but I steer clear and scrub myself with a wet cloth in the guest bathroom.
Grumbling about still having to wear cargo pants, I step out of the downstairs bathroom and lose the battle with temptation. My feet carry me toward the door to my sewing room, unwilling. I press my forehead against it, one hand on the knob, and weigh my options.
On the other side is an empty space, a reflection of the past year. I could confront reality and own the mess I’ve made of our relationship. If I walk away, I can pretend the room bursts with life again, a reflection of today. I open the door.
Nothing but good memories assault me as I drag a finger along all the built-in surfaces.
They’re spotless, free of dust. The cleanliness and warm feelings this abandoned room evokes are a relieving surprise, but the leather chair—the lone piece of furniture—in the corner is what puts a smile on my face.
I drop into it, imagining my life here from Graham’s point of view. How many hours did he sit and watch me sew, framed by windows to the outside world? Too many count.
“This room was a selfish gift.”
I jump at the sound of his voice. He leans against the doorframe, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets. His hair is wet, and the sadness in his eyes isn’t welcome, not today.
“Selfish how?” I ask, pushing out of the chair when he joins me in the room. Like magnets, we meet in the middle.
“We spent so much time in this house. Looking back, I think some part of me hoped giving you a nicer space to escape to would make it feel less suffocating for you.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, guiding him backward as I creep forward. “Being here never felt suffocating. I love the house, this room…all of it. But you deserve a life beyond these walls.”
He frowns. “So do you, Miguel.”
“I’m working on it.”
Graham’s back hits the wall of my favorite room.
I slide a hand to his throat and claim his pouty mouth with a reassuring kiss, a grateful kiss.
It’s the one I should’ve given him the day he surprised me with this wonderful gift.
He moans, grabbing my waist to pull me closer and accept my gratitude.
The room never had value simply because it was mine. Graham had thought of every detail. He knew exactly what I would’ve chosen without me saying so. Despite what he thinks now, the gifting of this room wasn’t a selfish act. It had been an honest expression of love.
We settle into the kiss, deepen it. And I nearly get lost in it before wrenching my lips from his addicting ones, panting against his mouth. “We need to leave, or you’ll miss your flight.”
Minutes later, we’re loaded in my car, about to pass through the iron gate when Graham snaps his fingers. “Hold up. I forgot something.”
With an exasperated huff, I shift the gear into Park. “Seriously? I should make you run back to the house.”
Two loud clicks sound out, almost simultaneous. Dumbfounded, I gawk as my seatbelt loosens and slides across my chest.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
Graham turns his hat backwards. “After you say yes, I’ll be choking on your dick.”
My voice pitches high. “In the driveway? We’re feet from the road. What if someone sees us? The paparazzi could—”
He puts a finger to my lips. “You got a photo of us in matching underwear. It’s my turn to live out a fantasy.”
I assess our current position. We’re still on his property. Trees shield both sides of the remaining stretch of driveway leading to the road, and the gate in front of us is sliding closed. I shouldn’t even consider playing along, but my windows are tinted and I miss the magic of his mouth.
“We can’t do this here,” I say, fumbling for the control switch to move my seat back and give him room to work.
“Say it with a little more conviction.” With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the back of my seat, he cages me in.
His sharp teeth nip at my jaw, and my eyelids surrender, closing without my consent before his warm breath tickles my ear.
“Tell me you aren’t dying to come down my throat, out in the open. ”
Mama Mary, did I whimper? Out loud?
“Say yes, Miguel. Be daring with me one more time.”
“Yes!” I blurt.
He pops the button on my pants and lowers the zipper. Cool air hits my dick before his warm hand wraps around it. “I miss this,” he whispers, lowering his head to my lap.
I’m clutching the door and his shoulder when his tongue swirls around the tip. “We’re in public. This is public indecency.”
He sucks on the crown, and my legs tremble.
“Graham, you have to…oh my god…you have to…make it quick.” Taking me deeper, he moans. I place a hand on his head to control the rhythm. “Jesus, this is wrong.”
A celebrity’s bobbing on my cock in broad fucking daylight.
We’d give any tabloid a wet dream of a headline if we were caught.
Using my free hand, I shove my pants and briefs down farther.
He cups my balls, rolling them the way I like.
So I thrust, again and again, as he moans and slobbers all over me.
Tingles spread from the top of my head and tips of my toes, converging low in my gut. “Almost there. Choke on me, baby.”
I push his head down. He gags but doesn’t fight it because he knows what happens next—his favorite part.
My balls tighten, and I curl forward, voice straining. “Oh shit. I’m coming.”
His dramatic, hungry groan adds vibration while my cock pulses, spilling into his throat. Once I’m empty and lightheaded, I remove my hand from his head, and he returns to his side of the car, chest heaving.
All watery eyes and smug satisfaction, he squeezes his erection and licks his lips. “Yum.”
“You’re nuts.” I tuck myself away and fasten my pants. “You’ve actually lost your mind. We could’ve been caught.”
“Don’t act like you didn’t love the rush. And I’m past caring about getting caught.”
Grabbing the front of his hoodie, I yank him toward me and smack a kiss on his puffy lips. “I care. The next time won’t end the way it did in Costa Rica. Our lives will be flipped upside down, so learn to control your impulses.”
“Yes, darling.” His smile spreads wider, like it does every time we mention that harrowing day.
“And fix your damn hat,” I say, buckling my seatbelt.
I do a really poor job of keeping the grin off my face while he opens the gate from an app on his phone. Today has been full of surprises and baby steps, and I can’t identify a single regret.
Entering the code, he asks, “Is it too late to say I’m sorry about Costa Rica?”
My laughter fills the air, and I shake my head. “Don’t even bother. You’re not sorry at all.”
Still smiling, Graham turns his head toward me and shrugs. “Maybe a tiny bit.”