Page 24 of Stuck-Up Big Shot
But then all capacity for coherent thought and speech vanishes when he thrusts a finger inside me, curling it to find that perfect spot, and grinds his thumb over my swollen nub. All I can do is moan and sob out a cry of pleasure with long-awaited relief, as my body is racked with the deepest and most intense orgasm I’ve ever had.
My legs tremble as I come down from the high, releasing a shuddering breath, leaving me bereft as he removes his hand from my shorts. Stepping back, that same cocky smirk affixed to his mouth, he beckons me to his bedroom with the crook of his finger, still glistening with my release.
“Come with me. It’s bedtime.”
Based on the sultry look in his eyes, I’m pretty sure that bedtime might encompass a lot more of what he just did to me. Miles turns, not waiting for an answer, and weaves slightly down the hallway, removing his clothes along the way.
Unanswered questions that are too big and too difficult to answer right now weave through my mind. Does Miles honestly like me? If I sleep with him tonight, will he remember me tomorrow? What happens then? Will he return to act like the same stuck-up jerk he’s been toward me? Or will it be different?
And what would Melodie think if she were still alive about me sleeping with her older brother?
She’d hate it. It’s the very reason I never told her about my crush on Miles in the first place because she would’ve hated me. Mel was the jealous type and would have been upset having to share my attention.
But I’m not a kid anymore, my conscience reminds me. And Mel is gone, leaving only sexy adult Miles waiting for me in his bedroom.
Inhaling a deep breath, I exhale it slowly and make my decision, as I begin my walk down the hallway toward the room where he disappeared. Turning the corner, I hitch my shoulders back in resolve, ready to tell him I can’t sleep with him tonight.
There are far too many emotions swirling inside me and having sex with Miles would only create a very uncomfortable situation, seeing as we’re neighbors in the short-term. And honestly, he seems pretty out of it, and I’d prefer this happen between us when we’re both sober.
But everything I’m about to tell him is a moot point because there, lying face down on his bed, an arm and a leg dangling off the side, is Miles. His jeans are still partially on, with one leg bare and the material bunched at the ankle of his other, and his shirt crumpled on the floor next to him.
Loud snores expel from his lungs, and I stifle my laugh.
This is the man who just gave me a mind-blowing orgasm and kissed me like I was something he wanted more than anything in the world, and not five minutes later, he’s passed out on his bed.
I quietly enter his room and walk to the edge of his bed, grabbing the bottom of his jeans and tugging them off. I wait for a second to see if it wakes him, but he’s out cold. Nudging his leg back onto the bed, which proves difficult because of how muscular he is, I work to move him away from the edge, so he doesn’t roll off in the middle of the night.
As I bend down to pick up his discarded shirt, his arm pops back out and accidentally clocks me in the shoulder. I jump, whipping my head up to see his eyes are still shut, but his lips move slowly.
“I’m sorry, Mel. I’m so fucking sorry.”
13
Miles
There’s hammering goingon in my head right now. The pressure and pounding are so painful against my skull, it wouldn’t surprise me if someone was using my head for batting practice.
With a low groan, almost too loud for my own ears, I pry my eyelids open, squinting at the ceiling above me. There’s some semblance of relief to know I’m in my own bed, but hazy recollections loiter at the outer edge of my mind, leaving lingering questions as to how I got home, who I was with, and what happened.
I’m just thankful I’m home and seem to be in one piece.
The days when I could party until three a.m., sleep until noon the next day, and then do it all over again the next night are long gone. I curse at my stupidity over last night’s pity party and overindulgence. Somehow back in college, through the miracle of youth, I could bounce right back the next day with ease and enthusiasm. Now, however, it could very well take days before I’m feeling like my old self again.
I groan, realizing with every breath and tiny movement that I no longer have the constitution or stamina of a twenty-two-year-old. I’m trapped in the body of a thirty-year-old man who forgets what a night of excess and too much Irish whiskey can do to him.
Gingerly rolling to my side, being careful to avoid any sudden movement, I can feel that slow sludge of my hangover seeping through me at every point along the way – my head laden with thick vines, hands sticky from the whiskey residue oozing out of my pores and perspiration, and my mouth a moss-covered pond of thick muck.
My palm presses into the mattress, and I push my body into an upright position, waiting for the telltale signs of hangover nausea to bubble up from the depths of my stomach. Sitting a moment at the edge of the bed gives me the confidence to rise to a standing position, and I immediately regret the decision.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan, the contents of my stomach climbing up my esophagus and prepping to evacuate unless I sit back down and stop the world from turning.
My butt lands back down on the bed. I flop to my side, burying my head in the pillow. From this angle, I see my phone and keys on my bedside table beside a glass of water and some pain relief tablets.
Not remembering a thing after leaving my hook up’s apartment, I don’t know if I was even in a state of mind to pour myself water or not. Did I do that on my own? Something in the recesses of my mind triggers awareness as to someone else being here with me.
Soft moans. Soft voice. Stroking my hair. Telling me it’s okay.
The image dissipates from my brain when I peel my lids open again and glance down at my body, seeing that I’m only in a pair of gray briefs. A moment of dread churns through me, because now I remember someone being with me, and I move too fast, spinning my head to peer over my shoulder to confirm.
