Page 47 of Miles Apart
We closed the powder blue curtains that stretch from high ceilings adorned in crown molding to the walnut floors. It’s pitch-black in here, minus the thin rays of light peeking through the ornate fabric and the door to the secondary room, which is now open.
“Good, you’re up. Tired of hearing your ass snore.”
Miles leans against the doorframe with a smirk, wearing ripped jeans and a white undershirt. It’s a simple outfit, but hefills it out with a solid wall of a chest and the hard thighs he slammed into me for hours.
His body is a chocolate masterpiece. Natural in form and free of tattoos.
I wipe my mouth, checking for drool. “I do not snore.”
His chuckle is deep. It’s the same tone he used to demand orgasms from my body. “You sleep hard, kitten.” He shakes his head and flashes a grin. “Sounding like a damn chainsaw.”
“Shut up! You weren’t even in here.”
“Which says a lot.”
This fool.
No man I’ve been with has ever possessed Miles’s audacity. I’m used to flexing my dominance in the bedroom, used to men doing what I want and when I say. Miles is new territory. He’s blunt, doesn’t play by the rules, and doesn’t back down. He calls me on my bullshit. I’d be lying if I said I’m not having fun.
I sit up and tuck the crisp white bedsheet into my armpits. Miles has seen every inch of me, but it’s cold. “You’re up early considering your flight to stalk me.”
His tongue swipes over his teeth. “It’s not stalking if we have unfinished business.” He shrugs. “I only need a few hours of sleep, anyway.”
Sleep. Alone.
Miles staying in the other room shouldn’t annoy me, but it does. I don’t sleep with every partner after sex, and I usually go home or back to my hotel room by default. The bartender at the singles’ retreat was an exception, one I want with Miles. He’s in a league of his own. Not because his best friend married mine, but because of the way he cupped my face to kiss me and pulled me close to stare into his eyes. I didn’t know what to expect from having sex with him, but distance isn’t it.
My phone buzzing on the bed next to me brings me back to the blue and white room. Carter’s name flashes on the screen, and I answer with a sigh. “Yes?”
“Good morning to you too.” His voice is alert for almost six in the morning in DC. Must be a swim day.
“What do you want, Carter?” I put the phone on speaker and place it back on the bed. Miles clenches his jaw but stays quiet in the doorway. I don’t owe him anything—he’s only here to fuck—but I don’t need him assuming there’s anything going on between me and Carter.
A husky whisper breaks the silence. “It’s our day.”
Valentine’s Day is my least favorite holiday. Outside of Justice leaning into her Care Bear habits, I’ve learned to deal with it, regardless of whether or not it makes me itch. The cliché dinners, basic chocolates, and sappy cards. Who needs all that shit to profess love? I want to scream on principle every time I see a bouquet of red roses.
Miles flew in to see you on Valentine’s Day. That has to mean something.
Bullshit.
He wanted another taste, nothing more. My pussy alone is worth a trip across the ocean.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.” My tone is flat and lackluster, like this damn holiday.
Carter pretends to declare his love every Valentine’s Day because he knows I hate it. Nothing he says will grant him access to me the way he wants, so he’ll line up whatever flavors of the week he can and be a commercial holiday fuck boy.
Drinks and head with one woman.
Dinner and sex with another.
He’ll have roses and chocolates for each with neither the wiser.
Part of the reason I never subscribed to relationships is because I’ve seen men like Carter run game over the years. Ilearned to play said game and not let it swallow me whole. If the end goal is a loveless marriage for show, like my parents, I’ll pass.
“Is that all I get?” Laughter rumbles in Carter’s chest. “We’ll have to fix that next week.”
A knot twists in my stomach. “What’s next week?” If Miles leads with audacity, Carter isn’t far behind him.
