Chapter 4 - Danae #2
I nod, then realize he’s watching my face too closely to miss uncertainty. “Yes,” I say again. “I want you here.”
That’s all it takes. He cups my face with one hand, rough palm warm against my cheek, thumb brushing just under my eye like he’s checking that I’m real. When he kisses me, it’s slow. Like he’s testing, and cherishing, nothing like the urgency I expect from a man who lives on roads and impulse.
I melt into it anyway. The kiss deepens, his mouth warm and sure, like he’s memorizing me by feel. I slide closer, fitting against him without thinking, my leg hooking over his thigh. He groans softly at that—barely a sound, but it goes straight through me.
“You’re tired,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
“I’m not tired anymore,” I whisper back.
He smiles then, just a little. Not cocky. Not sharp. Something softer that makes my chest ache.
We move together without hurry, without words, the night folding around us like it’s keeping secrets. His hands are everywhere and nowhere all at once—steady, confident, and still soft. He kisses me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep contact.
It’s not frantic. It’s inevitable.
The world narrows to heat and breath and the sound of my name in his mouth. To the way he holds me like I matter, not as a conquest or a distraction, but as something chosen.
What starts with a kiss grows. His hands roam my sides, my body arches, I’m aching for more contact.
In the dark of my room the colors of ink on his tattoos seem to dance as he shifts over me, I’m in an oversized t-shirt and panties as I feel the length of his erection settle between my legs.
Instinctively I rock against him. My moans are drowning in each kiss when he finally breaks away moving to trace his tongue along my neck.
His hands slide up my shirt lifting it up over the swells of my breasts.
I arch my nipples raking against his tattoo covered chest as I feel his fingers slide into my panties and against my heat.
Rocking, I seek more friction, more attention to my core. Reading me, he gives as his thumb presses gently on my clit and his finger enters me. Lost in sensation I have no insecurities as I shamelessly move against his hand.
Grinding.
Needing.
Wanting.
Passion consumes me as he lets out a low growl before his hand moves and I feel the fabric of my panties tear from my flesh. Reaching out, I slide his boxers over the swell of his ass and down allowing myself to feel the soft flesh of his dick against my sensitive pussy lips.
His lips land just behind my ear as he lines up and begins to slowly, delicately enter me.
My body stretches and I find myself pulling him against me tightly.
It’s been a while since I’ve had sex or even given into self-care attention.
Between work and my grandfather, my needs have taken a backseat to life.
The sensations of his weight over me, but controlled in only a way he does only turns me on more.
He is in a plank/push-up like position over me.
His right hand comes up to my thigh guiding my leg around his where I settle with him deep inside me.
As he lifts up, my hips rock giving friction against my core.
The sensations overwhelm me as chills run through my body.
My insides clinch around him as he begins to move. The pace is slow, deliberate.
Delicate.
He rocks in and out never taking his eyes from mine. The intensity in his gaze leaves nothing unexposed.
This man is turned on by me. My body rocks in rhythm with his. The orgasm is building, I’m at the very edge. His stare leaves me feeling vulnerable, I turn my head.
He stills.
“Look at me, Danae,” he orders and I turn back to face him. He smiles. “I want to feel you, watch you, and experience you, baby.”
I keep my eyes locked to his giving into his command as the burn rushes through me. My body clinches around his shaft as my climax comes. My body shatters, trembles run through me, and I cry out.
“Miles,” I’m panting his name as the aftershocks go through me.
His lips finally come to mine, but he doesn’t kiss me. He whispers against me, “fucking beautiful.” Then he kisses me softly, tenderly.
Softness is where he starts, but passion climbs once again. Only after my second orgasm does he finally find his releasing, filling me and leaving me thinking, oh shit, we didn’t use protection.
He slides out of me, shifting to his back and taking me with him. I’m wrapped in him, forehead pressed to his chest, listening to the slow, even beat of his heart. His arm is heavy around my waist, grounding.
For a moment, just one single moment, I let myself imagine this could be something else. Something with mornings and coffee and a bike parked out front because it belongs there.
He kisses my hair. After disentangling himself, he moves silently to my bathroom. Returning with a washcloth, he cleans me up. He discards the washcloth back in the bathroom before sliding back into bed with me. My t-shirt being the only thing between us.
“Sleep,” he says quietly while gently rubbing my back.
In moments, I do fall into a slumber like I’ve never had before.
Morning comes too soon. Light creeps in around the edges of the curtains, soft and pale, the house still quiet except for the regular noise of the television in the living room. I stretch remembering last night. Instinctively, I turn toward the warmth I expect to find.
The bed is empty.
The space beside me is cool, sheets smooth like they were never disturbed at all. For a split second, disorientation hits hard—my body remembers what my eyes don’t. Then I look around silently begging for some trace of him beside the ache of my body.
The helmet gone. The faint scent of him lingering like proof I didn’t imagine any of it.
I sit up slowly, trying to wrap my head around reality. Did I dream it? My panties are gone. I gaze around on my floor not finding them. It was real.
And he’s gone. Of course he is.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, pulling on panties and shorts before I move through the house. The front door is locked. The windows secure. Nothing disturbed.
In the kitchen, a single mug sits by the sink. Clean. Rinsed out. Considerate to the end.
No note. No name. No phone number.
No goodbye.
I tell myself that’s easier. Cleaner. Less complicated.
It still stings.
I check on my grandfather, sleeping peacefully, breathing even. Relief settles in my chest. Whatever Miles is, he didn’t leave chaos behind. Find the positive in it. He doesn’t invade my world. He never does.
Still being a glutton for punishment, I peek out the front window. Outside, the driveway is empty.
The bike is gone.
I step onto the porch anyway, letting the morning air hit my face. The porch light clicks off automatically behind me, the house shifting into day mode like nothing remarkable happened here last night.
But something did.
I press my fingers to my lips, remembering the way he kissed me like I mattered. But then I dissect each tender touch. Like he knew this was all he would ever allow himself.
I don’t know when, or if, I’ll see him again. But I know this much with a clarity that surprises me, some men aren’t meant to stay. They leave marks instead.
And sometimes, the quiet after is louder than any engine roaring away into the dark.