Chapter 34
“Iwant to,” Miles told her, still so close that his breath washed over her mouth when he spoke. “I’m trying to.”
Tabitha squeezed his hand. “That’s a start. But if we’re really going to do this… if we’re really going to move forward, we’re both going to make mistakes. All we can do is learn from them and work on forgiving each other. And ourselves.”
He nodded, not looking convinced about any sort of forgiveness.
Not for her.
Not for himself.
And yet he kept doing things that showed he was forgiving her. That he was trusting her more and more.
Things like inviting her to Sunday family dinner and giving her all the power to decide what the next step in their relationship would be; like admitting his fears about going to therapy and accepting her help with his anxiety attacks.
She kept waiting for the words, but it was easy to twist words around. Too easy to say one thing while doing the opposite.
Way too easy to lie.
His actions were clear.
They spoke for him.
“I should go,” he said, the soft murmur of his voice breaking into her thoughts. Bringing her back to this moment where his palm was still pressed against her chest. His other hand still holding hers. Her thighs, bare in her loose, white shorts, pressed against his jean-clad ones.
He was right. He should go. They were taking their time.
But then his gaze dropped to her mouth and she felt it like a touch. Remembered that too-soft, too brief kiss from moments ago.
There was never, not one moment when she wasn’t aware of him in a physical, sexual sense. It might get muted when they were around other people, might get buried beneath big discussions and important truths, but it was always there, humming under the surface of every word. Every touch, no matter how sweet. How casual.
Everything, every cell, every molecule, every strand of DNA inside her body, yearned for him.
When she was with him, she felt most like herself. Or at least, she felt closest to the person she was striving so hard to become.
Confident. Strong. Resilient.
Whole.
When she was with him, she felt like she was home.
It had always been that way with Miles.
It was always going to be that way with him.
That was the real reason she’d slowed things down between them. Not only because she didn’t want them to repeat their old habits. Not just because she was testing him, pushing him to prove she could trust him.
But because when he touched her, there was only truth between them. They couldn’t hide.
Shewouldn’t be able to hide.
He’d see exactly what she felt for him.
All the things she still wasn’t brave enough to say.
So, yes, he absolutely should go.
But she didn’t want him to.
She might not be able to tell him what was inside her heart.
But she could show him.
Stepping even closer so that their bent arms were pressed between them, their forearms touching, she rose onto her toes and spoke close to his ear. “Or you could stay.”
His heart kicked, hard and heavy, beneath her palm. He leaned back to meet her eyes, his expression hungry. Heated.
But when he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Are you sure?”
No pressure. No expectations. No pouncing on what could easily be construed as an invitation for sex.
No taking advantage of what could possibly be a moment of weakness.
She’d just described him as impatient and overprotective, and here he was, all patience, letting her take the lead and make the final decision.
Protecting her from herself.
This man.
Killing her once again, but in the very best way this time.
“I’m positive,” she whispered, then pressed her mouth against his for a lingering kiss that had his fingers on her shirt curling.
She kissed him again. Taking her time. Relearning the shape of his mouth. Nibbling softly at his full, lower lip. Lips clinging and retreating. Tongue touching the right corner of his mouth. Then the left.
And he let her. Let her control the kiss. Matching her pace. Responding to each press of her lips against his. Following her lead.
He opened for her and she swept her tongue inside his mouth, the taste of him like a drug that seeped into her veins, making her want more. She kissed him again. And again. Soft and sweet, slow and deep kisses until all she could feel was the slide of his tongue, the press of his lips, the slight abrasion of his whiskers.
All she knew was his scent and heat and strength.
All she wanted was more of him.
She would have happily stayed there, in her cramped kitchen, kissing him forever, but her legs were trembling from the combined effects of the kiss and her staying up on her toes. But when she eased back, breaking the kiss and lowering her heels, he chased her mouth. Captured it.
And took over.
This was supposed to be her showing him what was in her heart.
Shewas supposed to seduce him, damn it.
But it was hard to remember any of that when he slid his arm out from between them to wrap around her waist, dragged her closer, and lifted her into his arms. He started walking through her apartment, his strides long as he went through the kitchen and into the living room. Determined as he hefted her higher, never taking his mouth from hers.
He stopped long enough in the doorway of her bedroom to lean back against the frame and shift her higher, rubbing her center along his length. She gasped into his mouth and clutched his shoulders. Couldn’t help but tilt her hips up, seeking more of that wonderful friction. He groaned, tearing his mouth from hers to press his lips against the side of her throat, his tongue flicking over her rapidly beating pulse.
Then he gently bit that point and lifted her against him again.
Behind the thin material of her cotton shorts, her clit swelled. Pulsed. He took over her movements, his fingers gripping her ass tightly as he worked her up and down his length. Up and down.
And she realized the real reason she’d wanted to be in control was so that she could keep hiding.
But what better way to show him how she really felt about him than by letting herself go? Fully. Completely.
What better way to prove how much she trusted him than by handing over her control to him?
He pushed away from the doorframe, stalked over to the foot of her bed, and dropped her onto the mattress, then took two steps back. “Undress.”
Leaning back on her elbows, legs hanging over the edge of the bed, the tips of her sandals brushing the floor, she looked up at him. “Quickly? Or slowly?”
He made a sound, a grumble of pleasure that came from his chest, the heat in his eyes turning downright molten.
Oh, he liked that. Liked her asking what he wanted. Liked how she wanted to please him.
She liked it, too. So much that her nipples were two hard points, pushing against the material of her shirt. Her panties were soaked. She tried to assuage the ache in her pussy by squeezing her thighs together, but it was useless.
Nothing but Miles’s cock would do.
Unless it was his mouth.
Or his hands.
Or better yet, his mouth and his hands.
“How do you want to do it?” he asked.
“Quickly.”
“And why is that?”
“Maybe what I told you that night at your house still stands,” she said, leaning back even more so that her shirt rose, exposing several inches of her belly. “Maybe I’m not big on performances.”
One corner of his mouth turning up, he edged closer, stepping between her legs, the rough material of his jeans brushing her inner calves.
Then he widened his stance, forcing her legs to open. “No. That’s not it.”
She raised her eyebrows at his superior tone. The certainty there.
Not to mention that high-handed manspread of his.
“It’s not?”
He shook his head, but he wasn’t looking at her face, he was staring at the strip of exposed skin on her belly.
Then he skimmed the tip of his forefinger just above the waistband of her shorts, from her right hip bone to her left. Her breath caught. The muscles of her stomach twitched. Contracted.
Trembled.
His mouth pursed as if he was fighting a grin.
A pleased one, no doubt.
“You don’t mind performing,” he murmured. “Not for me.”
Holding her gaze, he dragged that finger over the snap of her shorts. Down the zipper. Then he trailed it between her legs where she was wet and swollen and aching for him. But it was too light. She barely felt it.
So she lifted her hips.
And his smile broke free.
She’d been right. It was definitely pleased, with just enough smugness and triumph in it to have that ache in her pussy intensify.
“See?” he asked, still with those barely-there brushes of his finger while she kept up with the hip undulations, seeking more pressure. “You don’t mind performing. Not for me. Not when I’m the one pulling your strings.”
She should deny it. After all, there was a difference between giving the man what he wanted and letting him think he was some puppet master controlling her every move.
“That’s a nice theory you’ve come up with. An inaccurate theory. But a nice one.”
Head tipped slightly to the side, that finger now moving with a bit more pressure along her seam, he settled his other hand on her thigh just below the hem of her shorts. Then he slowly slid his hand up the leg of her shorts beneath the material and splayed his warm fingers across her hip, stilling her seeking movements with a firm pressure that had more moisture pooling between her legs.
“Not inaccurate,” he corrected. “And nothing you need to be ashamed of, the way you respond to me. The way you like to please me. The way you trust me to take care of you.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “The way you give yourself over to me is nothing you need to be afraid of.”
Her breath caught so hard, so fast, she choked. Had to force her attention off the feel of his hand on her hip, the brush of his finger at her center, and focus on drawing in a slow, deep breath. Letting it out again.
“I’m not ashamed,” she finally managed.
There was no use denying how very much she liked him doing exactly what he’d said. Pulling her strings. Taking control of her body.
Taking care of her.
She was safe with Miles. She’d always known that, but hadn’t always trusted him. She hadn’t trusted his motives. Hadn’t trusted his feelings for her.
Hadn’t trusted that she was worthy of him.
But she did trust him.
It made being with him this way—every way, really—so much better.
Made it so much easier for her to want what she wanted, to like the things she liked, without worrying he’d take it too far.
Now it was time to work on trusting herself.
“I’m not ashamed,” she repeated softly. Honestly. “And I’m not afraid.”
Finger stilling, he sent her a sardonic, raised eyebrow look, the right side of his mouth lifting in a snarky not buying that bullshit way.
“Well, maybe I’m still afraid,” she amended, amazed that she could feel so many things at once. That she could be both nervous and peaceful. Aroused and amused. “Just a little bit.”
He nodded, kept his eyes on hers. Kept his finger stilled. “Me, too.”
It helped, knowing he was going through the same emotions.
That she wasn’t in any part of this alone.
“I like giving myself over to you,” she told him quietly, and was rewarded for her honesty by that finger resuming its light, leisurely strokes. “I like pleasing you.”
Her confession earned another all-too-pleased-with-himself grin.
She took a deep breath. “And the reason I want to undress quickly is because I’ve spent every night of the past two weeks thinking about the way you fucked my mouth in that closet and how you made me come on your hand in my kitchen, and what it felt like to have your cock inside me when I was bent over your couch all those weeks ago, and I’m a greedy, horny girl,” she continued, breathlessly, repeating the words he’d used to describe her, “who wants all of those things to happen again as soon as possible.”
He seemed to expand, inch by inch, with each word she spoke, with each truth she gave him. His shoulders widened. His chest puffed out. The bulge behind his zipper grew. His body was rigid, his face set in harsh lines, his hand on her hip pressing down harder, pinning her to the mattress.
She gave an experimental wiggle, just to see what he’d do, and he increased the pressure, stilling her again with an ease that thrilled her.
But he was all control as he went back to lightly stroking her center. “You’re not a greedy, horny girl. You’re my greedy, horny girl.”
Her heart skipped, then seemed to leap in her throat as if throwing itself at his feet.
Breathless, joyful, and incredibly and increasingly aroused by his warm palm holding her down, all she could do was nod.
Yes. Yes, of course she was his girl.
She’d always been his girl.
Wanted always to be his.
“Say it again,” he told her, a quiet command that had her breath locking in her chest. “Say it right.”
She licked her lips. Had to swallow—twice—before being able to work enough moisture back into her mouth to speak. “I’m your greedy, horny girl.”
He grunted in satisfaction, then nodded. The gesture an acknowledgement of her words. His acceptance of them.
And the only praise, it seemed, she was going to get for giving them to him.
King Miles had returned.
Then, the bastard straightened, removing his hand from between her legs and sliding his other hand out from beneath her shorts.
“Everything you’re about to do,” he told her, “is for me. You’re going to undress for me. You’re going to come for me. And when you do, you’re going to scream for me. And we’re going to repeat those last two as many times as I want until you beg me to stop.”
His words were a silky promise that wrapped around her throat. Slid into her belly then settled there, heating her. Pulsating inside her. “Do you understand?”
The ability to form words had left her right around the time he’d said that first for me. She was no longer a fully functioning human with the ability to reason or speak or blink. She was all sensation—heat and lust and the thudding of her heart. The heaviness of her breasts and prickling points of her nipples. The ache of her pussy and the dampness between her legs.
Staring at him wide eyed and open mouthed, all she could manage was a squeak.
Luckily, for once, that was enough for him.
“Strip. Now.”
Rearing up into a sitting position, she bent over to undo the straps of her sandals, but her fingers were stiff and clumsy, and she fumbled several times with the tiny tab until she finally got the strap out of the hook. But then she glanced up to see Miles reach behind his head and pull his T-shirt off.
And her fingers stopped working altogether.
Her fingers. Her brain. Her lungs. All just shut down over a man’s naked torso.
Yes, yes, she’d seen him shirtless before. Countless times. The last time being when she’d helped him shower after his anxiety attack. But she hadn’t taken the time to study him. To admire him.
She was making up for that here and now.
He was so beautiful. A work of art disguised as a man with dark, messy hair, watchful eyes, and golden skin. His shoulders were broad, his biceps rounded, his pecs defined. And his abs? Those stacks of muscles had her own decidedly non-stacked, much softer stomach quivering pleasantly.
But it was the dense, dark hair covering his chest that had her mouth going dry. It was thicker than when they’d been together. Neatly trimmed, it covered his upper chest and those defined pecs, then thinned into a line that bisected his ribcage—and those stacks of muscles—before continuing past his belly button to disappear in the waistband of his jeans.
A long, lovely happy trail she’d gladly follow any day.
Noticing her watching him—and not doing what he’d told her to do—Miles paused, his shirt balled in his hands. Studied her in that serious, solemn, narrow-eyed I see all and know all way of his.
Maybe he did see and know all, or maybe he just saw her, knew her, because instead of insisting she do as he’d said, instead of reminding her that she was supposed to be doing for him, he took the steps needed to close the distance between them.
And held out his shirt to her. Like an offering.
Like a gift.
As if he was telling her that for all his commands, demands, and control, he would willingly dismantle himself for her.
Piece by piece.
Bit by bit.
That he’d willingly give those pieces and bits to her to hold.
That he trusted her with them.
Straightening, she accepted his shirt with trembling hands. Held it against her chest, as if the warm, soft cotton could muffle the sound of her pounding heart.
He stepped back to his original spot then toed off his sneakers. Kicked them aside.
When he reached for the button of his jeans, she wanted to continue holding his gaze. She did. There was something raw and intimate and so very honest about looking into his dark eyes while he left himself so open to her. As if he was baring more than just his body to her.
But she couldn’t.
And it wasn’t because that rawness was too overwhelming. Or because that intimacy was too frightening. It wasn’t even because that honesty left her feeling shaken and exposed herself.
It was because she didn’t want to miss what he revealed next.
Dropping her gaze to his fingers, anticipation like a second skin, she watched as he worked the button of his jeans free. Kept her eyes glued to his fingers as he tugged down the zipper, the soft zzzzip of it skimming along her nerve endings. Raising goosebumps along her arms.
He shoved down his jeans and boxer briefs and she followed the denim and cotton as they moved down his body. Was riveted by each inch revealed to her. The smooth, pale skin of his upper thighs. The hard, curved muscles of his quads. The bumps of his knees. Was enthralled by how his skin got darker and hairier the farther down they went. How the muscles of his legs bunched and flexed as he bent slightly, lifting one leg, then the other to tug his clothes off. Stayed bent over to take off his socks.
He straightened to his full height. Had she said he was a work of art?
Try a masterpiece.
His cock jutted out, long and thick, the head tipped with a dot of glistening precum. Remembering the taste of him, she licked her bottom lip. Shifted forward, her upper body angled toward him, and she whimpered, then pressed her lips together to try and capture the sound. Smother it.
But he heard. He heard and he saw that she was trembling, her breathing unsteady. Her attention zeroed in on the tip of his cock.
Wiping the pad of his thumb across the head, he collected the precum there and held it out toward her. “Is this what you want?”
Pulse racing, she flicked her gaze to his eyes. Noted the pure male satisfaction there. The arrogance. Both of which should have had her denying it if for no other reason than the man was entirely too sure of himself.
But as she’d learned already, denying him meant denying herself what she really wanted. How she liked him to treat her. The things she’d only ever felt safe fantasizing about.
Rubbing her lips together, she curled her hands into her thighs. Exhaled. Then nodded.
And opened her mouth.
He grinned.
The he shook his head.
“If you want it,” he murmured. “You’re going to have to come and get it.”