Chapter 21 #2
“Sorry to say, I’m definitely unqualified for that level of surgery.” I can hear the amusement in his voice without even looking up. “I could probably manage splinter removal at best. Any less invasive options?”
I groan into his skin.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “I know this sucks.” I’m not sure if he means my cramps or the unspoken dread looming over us both.
“Yeah.”
He reaches down between us to adjust his erection, pressing it against my stomach.
There’s something strangely comforting about knowing that simply being with me makes him hard.
“There is one thing we could try.”
I lift my head, a skeptical pinch between my brows.
“They say orgasms help.” He dips down to kiss me before I draw back.
“What? But I have my period.”
He shrugs. “I mean, we’re already in the shower. And a little blood doesn’t bother me. Between my job and my clumsy-ass ADHD brain, I’m always bruised or bleeding and I don’t even know why half the time.”
“Is that supposed to be encouraging?”
He grins and kisses me again, slipping his palms down over my ass. “I’m just saying. I could help you out. It’s not a big deal for me.”
I think for a moment. “Maybe it would be okay. I don’t think there’d be any… I mean, I use a cup, so…”
“And I can, y’know, stay on the outside.” He squeezes my ass hard, then chuckles softly against my cheek. “Why do I feel like we’re talking in code here?”
I smile, then let out a little moan when he squeezes again. “That feels really good.”
“Yeah?” He does it again, kneading into the muscle as I slide my arms around his neck. Slowly, he works his way to my hips, his firm grip distracting me from the dull ache I’ve been living with most of the day.
“Thank you,” I murmur against his lips.
He turns us so my back faces into the shower spray and starts to massage my thighs.
I groan at how good it feels, but my breath catches when he slowly drops to his knees. “Are you…?”
“Not gonna do anything you don’t ask for, don’t worry.” He blinks up at me as tiny, rogue droplets jump past my shoulders to speckle his cheeks. He gently kisses my tummy, lingering there like he can erase the pain. “You’re in charge.”
Still massaging my hips and thighs, he lowers to rest on his haunches, then works his strong hands up to my glutes again.
Anticipation moves through me in dull pulses, everything about today making me feel sluggish and slow.
I want him to draw this out. Suspend time so we can stay in this moment, never having to face the cooler air, getting dressed, traffic, my parents, cameras, questions.
Goodbyes.
He’s hard and ready but he doesn’t push me. Doesn’t seem to have his sights set on any outcome other than making me feel good—whatever that looks like.
“Tell me what you want.” He kneads my calves, and I comb the wet hair back from his forehead with my fingers.
I want you.
I love you.
Holding the words back makes my heart feel like it’s dying. I can’t have him. So I settle for what I can have—what he can give me.
“I want you to make me feel better.” Shifting on my feet to widen my stance, I run my thumb down his rough cheek, over his small scar, then his bottom lip. “You’re so good at making me come.”
His cock pulses. “You want my fingers?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Just your mouth.”
I’ve barely got the words out when he groans and dives for my clit, the warmth of his tongue making me suck in air and scramble for purchase on the cold tile. “Miles, oh my God.”
He breaks away for a second to say, “Hold on to my hair. I’ve got you,” then again to add, “Don’t be shy about pulling it, either.” Eyes burning with heat, he buries his face between my legs again.
“Yeah?” I thread my fingers into his wet locks, gasping with every flick of his tongue as pulses of blissful sensation course through my body.
“I guess we can both like having our hair pulled.” I drag my fingernails over his scalp before grasping tight—tugging him closer—and relish the low, satisfied moan that rumbles from his throat.
He keeps kneading my muscles as he coaxes me to the edge, and I can’t get enough of the hard press of his fingers or the way he’s working my legs so thoroughly I think my knees might give out.
Both literally and metaphorically, there’s freedom in trusting that, if I collapsed completely, he’d scoop me up. Put every piece back together.
It’s not long before I’m completely lost to the pleasure, coming undone in mindless, convulsing, shaking waves on his tongue. Letting myself go in this moment feels like succumbing to beauty and despair all at once.
La petite mort, the French call it. The little death.
I’m quiet when Miles zips me into my simple navy dress. I duck back into the bathroom to start on my hair while he gets ready, and I’m midway through slathering mousse between my palms when my phone rings.
Miles brings it over to me, turning it so I can see the call display.
I hold up my mousse-covered hands, gesturing to the phone. “Can you answer it? Just put him on speaker.”
He swipes and taps at the screen as I drag the product through my hair.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask.
“Finally!” Adrian says. “I’ve been trying to call you forever.”
“Sorry, I was in the shower.”
Miles smirks and rubs the back of his neck, the movement dragging my eyes down the strip of bare, inked skin peeking out from his unbuttoned dress shirt.
“Have you talked to Lover Boy yet?”
I freeze, feeling all the blood from my face drain into my toes. My gaze jumps to Miles, whose brows twitch together in obvious confusion.
“Adrian—”
“Like, polls closed, Care. If you haven’t told him yet—”
“Adrian!” Oh, God, please shut up. “I need to call you back.”
“What? What’s going on?”
Mousse be damned, I smear a sticky thumb over the red button on the screen.
“Care—” Adrian’s voice cuts to silence as the call drops.
“Told me what?” Miles asks carefully.
I swallow. “Nothing.”
He studies me. “Bullshit.”
“It’s nothing. I… It’s…” I’m looking everywhere but into those blue eyes. “Damnit, Adrian.” I hurry back to the bathroom to wash my hands, scrubbing them a bit aggressively as I panic-spiral about how to explain.
My feelings are my problem, not his. I wasn’t supposed to fall for him, and telling him will only hurt us both.
“You can talk to me.” Miles’ voice comes from the doorway behind me. “You know that, right?”
“Not about this, I can’t.” Do I sound bitter?
“Caroline.” His voice takes on a harder edge than I’m used to. “Come on.”
Frowning, I crack open my hair gel and rub it over my palms. I tilt over to one side and scrunch it into my curls, avoiding the figure looming in the mirror—leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his tattooed chest. Those arms I’ve kissed.
Those arms that have carried me and pinned me down and held me as I fell apart.
Those arms that won’t be wrapped around me tonight. I already ache at the thought.
“We’re gonna be late.” My voice is quiet. I keep my gaze trained on my reflection in the mirror, though I can feel him staring at me. “You should finish getting dressed.”
Eventually, the silence drags my eyes over to his.
“I’ll get over it,” I add, barely trusting my voice to stay steady.
“Caroline…” His brow pinches, emotion touching every line of his face. He looks like he wants to say more but knows, like I do, that going there will wreck us both.
“I’ll be okay.” I slap on a brave smile, willing myself to breathe—fighting the way my throat knots around the lie.
Another little death.