Page 103 of Marry Lies
Before I get far, though, he grabs my wrist and pulls us together. The wet rubber of my coat slides against his, and his wet hand reaches up to my wet face.
“You,” he murmurs, leaning down and planting a kiss on my forehead. “Are,” he continues, using his other hand to pull my waist flush with his body. “Adorable.”
And then he kisses me, pressing me against the cement of the little house, groaning when his tongue slips between my wet lips.
I pull away. “You have goat hands,” I tease.
“I’m proud of you,” he answers. “You’re coming around. And I most certainly don’t have goat hands.”
“You do,” I whine. “They smell like goat—”
He smashes his lips against mine again, and I can feel his smile against my lips as the rain pelts our faces. Pulling away, his chest presses against mine with every one of his inhales.
Something passes over his face then, and I swallow as his hand comes to my cheek.
“Estelle…”
He looks conflicted. Like he’s going to say something. But then he presses his lips together and shakes his head.
“We should get inside and dry off.”
“Sure,” I reply, smiling.
* * *
After drying ourselves off, Miles and I end up spending the afternoon together. I make us popcorn, and he agrees to watch the Taylor Swift documentary. He doesn’t even complain. When it’s over, I reach over to check his temperature—he just scowls at me and tells me it was okay. Which is better than I expected, anyway. Around five, I go upstairs to begin getting ready.
Smoothing out my curls, I pull on a black blouse—the only black item I own—as well as a pair of green trousers I designed—cinched at the waist with a thick belt and tapered at the ankle. I apply some light makeup and then I slip into vintage heeled python-print boots, as well as my vintage black Gucci bag with a black chain, finishing the look up with myRnecklace.
Miles is waiting for me when I walk out of my bedroom. His head snaps up as his eyes peruse my outfit slowly—agonizingly.
“You look…” He trails off, and my eyes track the way his throat bobs. “Gorgeous. As always.
He’s in a black suit with a light green tie—the same color as his eyes— as well as his signature Cartier watch and Dior shoes. I can’t help the butterflies that erupt inside of me when I take in his whole ensemble—especially since none of my ex’s knew how to dress themselves quite like Miles Ravage.
“Oh, and I stole my watch back, by the way. Though, the idea of my hot wife wearing it is appealing. Maybe I need to get you a matching one.”
“I don’t want my own. I like wearing yours,” I tell him.
When I get close enough, I stand on my tiptoes to give him a kiss. Instead of complying, his hand flies to my throat, and he pushes me against the wall of the living quarters. My heart hammers in my chest as his tongue slips into my mouth. My moan vibrates against his hand, and he squeezes once, pressing his body against mine. An electric current passes from his mouth to my toes, and everything between my legs pulses with desire.
He pulls away.
“I couldn’t help myself,” he murmurs.
“I didn’t mind,” I tell him, pressing a palm to his chest. His heart beats erratically underneath my fingertips, matching my own sped-up pulse.
“I didn’t think you would.”
“You could do it again,” I taunt, pressing my chest against his.
He groans, darkness blooming in his pupils. “If I did, we would most certainly miss dinner.”
I shrug. “Fine with me.”
He laughs, leaning down and pressing his forehead against mine. “As much as I’d love to fuck you senseless, it’ll have to wait until later.”
I pout as he pulls away. “You better make it up to me,” I tease.
