Chapter 38
If there was one thing Tabitha had been reminded of over the past hour, it was not to underestimate Miles Jennings.
He was a man who not only went after what he wanted but, more often than not, got it.
Tonight was no exception.
He’d wanted to take from her until she begged him to stop. Something she hadn’t thought possible, not when Miles was doling out earth shattering orgasms like they were candy being tossed from a parade float.
Then she’d ended up begging anyway.
Not to stop.
She wasn’t an idiot.
But she had begged him. More than once.
The first time being when he’d feasted on her pussy with long, leisurely licks that had, indeed, taken her right back to that sharp edge of need.
To the edge, but not over.
He’d teased and tormented her until she’d been a writhing, pleading mass. When he finally took pity on her and moved that magic mouth to suck on her clit while shoving two fingers inside her, she’d come with such force, her body bowing and shaking uncontrollably, she’d whacked him on the cheek with her knee hard enough to leave a mark.
If the smug look on his face had been anything to go by, he hadn’t minded.
The second time she’d begged was in the shower fifteen minutes later.
Oh, not at first. At first, there’d been nothing sexual about the way he’d lifted her in his arms as if she weighed next to nothing and carried her into her cramped bathroom.
She told herself she’d been too spent to resist, her legs still too weak and unsteady for her to walk on her own, but the truth was, she’d never had a man carry her before. Not the way Miles did it. Cradled in his arms like she was something precious.
Something worth holding on to.
He’d carefully set her on her feet next to the ancient pedestal sink, then started the shower. Waited until the water was warm before helping her step over the edge of the tub and into the spray.
Then he’d stepped in behind her, reached around her for her shower pouf, squirted her shower gel onto it.
And washed her.
Like she’d done to him in his shower all those weeks ago.
Even now, curled up at the end of her lumpy couch wearing only Miles’s shirt, she couldn’t believe it.
No one had ever taken care of her like that.
He’d even washed her hair, massaging her scalp as if there was nothing he’d rather do more.
After her hair was rinsed and her body squeaky clean, he’d gently turned her and lifted her arms over her head to press against the shower wall. Kissed her other shoulder. “Want to relearn you. Want to know every inch of you.”
His touch changed. Went from soothing to arousing, even as it remained tender. His slick hands skimmed over every inch of her, gliding across her shoulders, trailing down her spine. His fingers skimmed down the backs of her legs, traced the bumps of her ankle bones. His palms cupped the underside of her breasts. Slid down, covering her ribs.
His mouth moved back and forth along the nape of her neck. Moved up to suck at the sensitive spot beneath her right ear. He gently bit the side of her throat, murmuring soothingly when she inhaled at the slight sting, then touched the tip of his tongue to her skin as if to take that sting away.
And while he relearned her body with his fingers and palms, with his lips and teeth and tongue, while he touched every inch of her, including places she couldn’t remember anyone ever touching her before, she learned some things, too.
Things like the underside of her arms and the cleft of her butt were ticklish, and that she had way more erogenous zones than she’d ever realized. Spots like the backs of her knees and the tops of her feet and her ears.
But mostly, she learned that it didn’t matter where or how often Miles touched her, she always wanted more.
Soon enough, she’d been breathing heavily, her body wriggling under those touches.
She’d fought it. Had told herself she’d already come three times, there was no way she’d be able to manage a fourth. That she didn’t need to come again.
That he didn’t need her to.
He’d proved his point well and repeatedly tonight.
She was his.
But then he’d pinched her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers while he’d sucked on her earlobe.
And she’d begged him again. A short, gasping, please that had his hand sliding between her legs.
It hadn’t even mattered that she could feel his smug grin against the side of her neck as he worked her to another earth-shattering orgasm, or that it took him less than a minute to do so.
All that mattered was that when she’d slumped back against him, boneless and completely spent, he’d caught her.
She was starting to believe he’d always catch her.
And that belief wasn’t nearly as terrifying as it should have been.
He’d helped her out of the tub and dried her off. While he dried himself, she wrapped her dripping hair in a clean towel. It was going to be a pain combing through the tangled, non-conditioned strands, but a few stubborn snarls and a bad hair day were small prices to pay for what had transpired in that shower.
Miled then carried her back into the bedroom where he settled her by the end of the bed. He pulled his shirt over her head, tugged on his jeans sans underwear, carefully tucking his erection into them before pulling up the zipper and closing the button. Combed his fingers through his wet hair.
And asked her if she was hungry.
Hadn’t she always known he was too good to be true?
Hadn’t that been why she’d run away from him ten years ago?
But maybe she was worthy of someone like him. Maybe she did deserve to be treated like a queen, to be pampered and pleasured, her thoughts and fears heard and taken seriously.
Maybe she did deserve him.
If she didn’t, maybe she could figure out a way to change that. To become the type of woman who did.
She’d nodded, and he’d lifted her again.
That time, she hadn’t even considered telling him she could walk, just wrapped her arms around his neck and held on.
He’d deposited her on her couch, then got her a glass of water. Told her he’d be back in a few minutes. She’d heard him moving around in her kitchen, and as much as she would have liked to have watched him there, barefoot and bare-chested, she wasn’t sure her ovaries could take any more stimulation.
So she’d tugged his shirt over her bent knees, sipped her water and waited. Five minutes later, he reappeared carrying two of her mismatched cereal bowls. He handed one to her and she sat up to take it. Blinked at the contents. Lifted her head to frown at him in confusion.
“It’s salad.”
And not the kind she made—bagged lettuce topped it with bottled ranch dressing. Which, she’d like to point out, wasn’t fancy, but it was delicious.
The bagged lettuce was there, but so were the leftover grilled portobello mushroom caps and zucchini from dinner tonight, the roasted salmon she’d brought home from their dinner date at Binge two nights ago, and some of the pecans she kept in her snack cupboard, chopped into pieces.
He frowned, too, but at the salad in his hand, as if it had somehow betrayed him. “You don’t want it? I can make something else.”
“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “It looks amazing. I was just expecting something simpler. Like scrambled eggs and toast. But this…” She stopped, her eyes welling, the tip of her nose stinging. She cleared her throat, but when she spoke, her voice was thick. “This is so much better.”
“It’s just a salad I threw together from your leftovers and a vinaigrette I made with stuff in your cupboards. No big deal.”
He’d made a dressing, too?
And it was not just a salad. It was the time he’d put into making the salad, which, okay, had only been a few minutes. More than that, it was that he’d put in effort. For her.
That he’d been so thoughtful.
For her.
Forget her ovaries.
It was her heart she should’ve been worried about.
Smiling at him, she accepted the paper towel wrapped fork he pulled from his back pocket. “It’s a great salad. I just hadn’t realized you could cook.” When they’d been together before, she’d baked occasionally, but neither of them had been much for cooking. “Or that the thing you’d decide to make would be so full of vegetables.”
The man’s tastes ran more toward meat and potatoes.
Preferably deep fried.
“I eat vegetables,” he said as he sat beside her, and she noted that his bowl did, indeed, hold salad as well.
Except his was only lettuce, and instead of salmon, he’d added leftover chicken and hunks of cheddar cheese.
And a copious amount of ranch dressing.
She smiled. She liked that in some ways, he hadn’t changed.
Almost as much as she liked discovering all the ways he had.
“And I don’t consider this cooking,” he added, stabbing a piece of ranch drenched chicken, “but, yeah, I can cook. I just don’t do it very often.”
While he dug into his food, she took a small bite of her own salad.
“This dressing is amazing,” she said around her next mouthful. Chewed, swallowed, then immediately shoveled another bite in.
Having four orgasms in a row really worked up one’s appetite.
He shrugged, as if he was not some magical magician who’d turned bagged lettuce, leftovers, and mystery ingredients into the tasty feast before her. “It’s just olive oil, lemon juice, mustard, and honey. But you can make it with other oils or vinegar, add herbs and seasonings. The most important thing is to get the proportions right.”
Grinning, she stabbed a piece of mushroom. “Guess having a brother who’s a chef isn’t so bad after all.”
Miles raised an eyebrow. “The first night he met you, he tried to send you home with not one, but two of the bottles of wine you brought.”
“He was very polite about it. And to be fair, he did drink an entire glass of that Chardonnay I brought.”
“He winced the entire time,” Miles pointed out. “I had to kick him. Twice.”
“You kicked him three times.” And he hadn’t been subtle about any of them.
“That third one was just for fun.”
She laughed. “I’m sure he was right to want those bottles gone. I told you I don’t know anything about wine.”
“You didn’t have any to drink. That night. Actually, I’ve never seen you drink,” he continued casually, as if just stating a fun fact about her, one that wasn’t actually very fun at all.
At least not the reason behind it.
“I don’t drink alcohol and I never have. With my mother’s problems with addiction, it just seemed better not to tempt fate. Or my own possible weaknesses.”
“Like I said before,” he murmured. “Smart. Strong. Resilient.”
“More like desperate not to repeat any of her mistakes.” Shaking her head, she sent him a small smile. “So, no, your brother’s attitude didn’t bother me. And since you’re going to write down his recipe for this vinaigrette, I’m going to call me and Toby even.”
Miles set his empty bowl on the side table. “I’ll be happy to write it down,” he said, tugging her feet onto his lap. “But I didn’t learn it from Toby. I learned it from my mom.”
Lifting the last bite of her food to her mouth, Tabitha froze. It was a simple comment, one that shouldn’t elicit anything other than mild curiosity.
Except he’d never, not once, brought up either of his parents before. Not first. Not out of the blue.
He’d never, not once, talked about them without her asking about them.
Which, she realized, she hadn’t done nearly enough.
“Your mom was a good cook?” she asked, keeping her own tone casual.
He nodded and began massaging her feet, as if he couldn’t be this close to her and not touch her. “Both my parents were, though Dad was a better baker. They taught us all the basics.”
She set her own bowl aside. “I’d love to hear more about them—your mom and dad. That is… if you want to tell me.”
Head bent, he exhaled slowly. Heavily. “I do. I want to tell you about them. How amazing they were. How loving and kind and wonderful.” His voice was thick, and he cleared his throat. “But I haven’t talked about them, to anyone, for a very long time. And I don’t know where to start.”
Leaning forward, she cupped his cheek with her hand, smoothing her thumb along the hard line of his jaw when he nuzzled into her touch. “Why don’t we start at the beginning? Their beginning.”
***
Their beginning.
Miles liked the sound of that. He always thought of his parents as a unit so it made sense that would be how he presented them to Tabitha.
How he knew they’d want to be remembered.
“They met in Algebra class,” he said, glad to have a place to begin.
Grateful for a chance to tell their story. To have a second chance and finally share it with Tabitha.
“Mom had just moved to town,” he continued, “and Dad took one look at her and fell hard.”
“High school sweethearts? That’s sweet. Your mom wasn’t from Mount Laurel originally?”
“Neither of them were. They met in Texas. Mom’s father was career Army, so she moved around a lot growing up. Dad was born there. But my grandmother was from outside of Altoona, and she would bring Mom up here to visit family and she loved it. She and Dad got married two months after their high school graduation, then moved here.”
“That’s young to get married.”
“It was. And they both admitted marrying that young wasn’t for everyone—and didn’t necessarily recommend it for any of their kids—but it worked for them. I think…” He trailed off, gathering his thoughts while he traced circles on the top of Tabitha’s foot with his fingertips. “I think they were both looking for something. Mom didn’t have a lot of stability growing up and was an only child. She always said the first thing that drew her to Dad was how steady he was. She knew he was someone she could put down roots and raise a family with.”
“And your father? What was he looking for?”
Thinking about how his father would look at his mother, like she was his sun, Miles absently rubbed his palm over the ache in his chest. Grinned, just a little, to realize there was plenty of sweetness in that pain.
“Her. He always said the first moment he saw he knew her she was the only one for him. They were fifteen when he took her out for ice cream for their first date. When he got home, he told his father he was going to marry her. I never understood that. How he just knew from one look that she was it for him. I didn’t understand,” he repeated, lifting her hand from her lap, then pressing a kiss to her palm. “Until the day I walked into a coffee shop in Oakland and saw you.”
Tabitha inhaled sharply, her fingers twitching against his jaw, and he realized he’d never told her that before. He’d prided himself on his honesty, his fucking integrity when they’d been together, but there was so much he’d kept from her.
“Miles…” She shook her head, her eyes clouded with doubt, her voice a whisper. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. And it’s okay if you don’t believe me.”
When they’d been together before, he’d wanted everything from her. Every thought and feeling. Every secret and truth. But only if they didn’t cost him anything in return.
He knew better now. Her trust and belief in him, any truths and secrets she wanted to share with him, were gifts. They were worth his patience.
They were worth earning.
“It’s okay if you don’t believe me,” he repeated, turning her hand to kiss her knuckles. “Because I’m not going anywhere. And I’m going to do everything in my power to prove you can believe me. That you can trust me. With whatever you want, whenever you’re ready.”
She gave him a watery smile. Squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”
He squeezed back, then let go of her hand so he could go back to massaging her foot. He liked touching her—loved that he once again had the right to—and he loved making her feel good. But right now, it was more than that.
Being connected to her even if it was his hands on her feet, comforted him. Kept him grounded. In the moment.
Kept the anxiety and never-ending grief at bay.
“Mom didn’t believe Dad, either,” he told her. “Thought he was some big-time player out to score with the new girl.”
Tabitha snuggled back against the decorative pillow next to the arm of the couch. “Was he?”
“If you would’ve asked me that when I was a kid, I would’ve laughed my ass off. But I only knew him as my dad—middle-aged, quiet and easy-going. Strict, but fair, capable and loyal and full of really bad dad jokes.”
“And now?”
He moved on to her other foot. “Now I realize I didn’t know him. Not all the parts of him. I didn’t know who he’d been as a kid or a teenager or a young man before he became a father. I knew him as a parent, but I didn’t know him as a person. That’s one of the hardest parts. The fact that I’ll never know him or Mom, adult to adults. That I didn’t take the time to ask them more questions about their lives growing up, or what their plans were for the future. I know my parents were happy I just don’t think I… I don’t think any of us… really knew them. We took them, and the idea that they’d always be there, that there would be more time, for granted.”
“You were kids,” Tabitha reminded him. “Teenagers who had lovely, attentive parents. Of course, you were going to take that for granted. I would even go so far as to guess that was what they wanted. For you to know you would always be loved and taken care of by them.”
“They did want that. They always wanted what was best for us. I miss them,” he admitted hoarsely. “I miss them so fucking much. It tears me up inside to think about all the things they’ve already missed and everything they won’t be there for in the future. But I don’t like thinking about them or talking about them because it hurts to remember them.”
Swinging her legs off him, Tabitha sat up, then knelt beside him on the couch, her knees pressed against his outer thighs. “You’re allowed to grieve however you want, Miles. However you need. I don’t think grief over losing a loved one is something anyone ever gets over. Not completely.” She once again cupped his cheek. “It’s okay to be sad. Or angry. Or anything else you feel.”
His throat grew tight and he swallowed, but the lump there remained. “I am sad. It’s like their deaths left a hole inside of me. A place that can never be filled. And I’m angry. I’m so fucking pissed they were taken away from us.”
He swallowed again. Forced himself to hold her gaze while he told her his deepest secret.
His ugliest truth.
“But mostly, what I feel is guilt. Because they never would’ve been in that car accident if it wasn’t for me.”