I can feel myself melting into him. His large hands slip around my neck, his fingers curling in my hair as he dips my head back, deepening the kiss. Our mouths move against each other in sync. Like we were made to do this. For each other.
Miles Davis is kissing me and I’m kissing him back. What is this life?
I hear myself whimper softly when he slips his tongue into my mouth, but I don’t act like I didn’t. Instead, I hold onto the lapels of his blazer and pull him into me until he can’t move any further.
I’m sure this is more than just pretending to kiss. More than putting on a show for whoever is watching. But for some reason, I don’t seem to care. I don’t care that I’m enjoying it. The only thing I can focus on his how he feels against my mouth for the first time. It’s not like anyone can see what the inside of our mouths looks like. I don’t know what it looks like either, but it feels like heaven. It feels safe and exhilarating at the same time. I knew we would have to do this one day, but I didn’t expect it to feel so good. I feel him laugh and smile against my mouth when another sound leaves my mouth without permission when his hand dives deeper into my hair.
When did I get so over my head over a kiss?
I pull apart from him.
“What was that for?” I breathe when I’m able to catch my breath. I ‘m panting like a dog. He blinks back at me, his mouth parted, and his pupils dilated.
“It was that guy. He was staring at you again and he was about to come over here. I had to give him a reason not to. And would look at that? He’s gone. Sorry, I should have asked first,” he rambles. I can feel the heat rushing up my neck again in waves as I watch his mouth move. That mouth that was just on mine.
“No. It’s okay,” I say, our faces still too close. I push further away so our noses aren’t basically touching anymore. “You sure you didn’t make that up just so you could kiss me?”
“I wouldn’t need to make anything up to get you to kiss me,” he mutters before looking away.
*
After an excruciating evening of small talk and fake laughs, I lean against the gold railing to take off my heels on the elevator on the way back to our room, desperate to get rid of the throbbing in my feet. When my feet hit the cool ground, I wince slightly before sighing deeply. I can feel Miles’ eyes on me, something along the lines of a smirk on his lips.
“What?” I ask, flashing him a daring glance.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head, trying and failing to suppress his smile. He gives me a long look before facing towards the door.
When we get back to our room, we’re both defeated from eating terrible food and laughing at my dad’s jokes that were so not funny that they were funny. Miles carried our conversations with ease, flowing from each group of people to the next. He was a natural. At all of it. Pretending to like me more than friends, knowing the right way to make my dad laugh, knowing what kind of jokes to make to the hoteliers. And that kiss? That speaks for itself.
The second we reach the living room, I drop onto the couch, lying on my back, my head on the arm rest. It’s the kind of couch that I could easily I could fall asleep on right now. I consider for a second to let Miles stay in the gigantic bed while I let sleep pull me under right here.
“Can you just chop off my feet?” I sigh loudly. Miles stands behind me on the other side of the couch laughing. He’s taken off his blazer, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck.
“I don’t have my amputation equipment with me, but I can give you a massage?” he suggests, looking down at me. His brown hair drops a little in his eyes and I tell myself not to reach out and push it away. It should be illegal for anyone to look this good right now after such an exhausting day. Especially him.
“I would die for a massage right now. I’m sure there’s a masseuse around here somewhere. I’ll find one in the morning before we leave,” I say, making a mental note to do so.
“No, I mean, now. For your feet,” he responds calmly, gesturing towards them.
The lack of alcohol has made him more attentive; less sarcastic and more focused and sensitive. It’s a weird combination mixed with how much he oozes sex right now. Before I can protest, he’s sat next to me, sweeping my feet into his hands on his lap. My feet immediately feel like butter under the touch of his rough but gentle hands. I instinctively sit up on my elbows as I stare at him in awe.
“Miles,” I get out, but my breath catches when his fingers run smoothly over the inside of my foot. “My feet are gross. You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t mind,” he says without hesitation. His voice is hoarse when he growls, “And no part of you is gross so stop saying that.”
I slip in and out of a haze as his fingers work magic around my ankle and my sole, relieving more and more of the pain. Involuntary sounds leave my mouth, and his grip tightens on me. He lets out a sharp breath before continuing softly.
“When did you learn how to do this?” I ask quietly.
“I kind of taught myself. My feet would get so sore after practice sometimes, so I just googled stuff. You should learn, then I won’t have to do this for you all the time,” he laughs.
I wiggle out of his grip and I nudge him in his hard stomach, but he grabs my foot again and continues rubbing small circles around the pad of my foot with both hands.
“Hey, I told you that you didn’t have to do this,” I protest but he doesn’t respond.
Silence washes over us for a few beats. I let myself fall into the rhythm of his hands working over me. It’s not long before I start to think about other places where his hands could be. On my thigh. On my stomach. On my- Nope. Not going there.
It’s not him.
It can’t be him. I’m just a pathetically horny teenage girl. That’s all.
Instead, I stare up at the ceiling, deciding that it’s more interesting.
“I think I might take the whole beauty is pain thing too seriously. My mom always said that if it’s not hurting then it’s not working,” I say after a while, trying to laugh but it comes out more like a sigh.
“That doesn’t sound good, Wren,” Miles whispers. I laugh again but this time the sound comes out clearer, but he isn’t laughing when I look at him. He stares down at my feet, shaking his head lightly. “Don’t you feel like you’re too hard on yourself?”
“Sometimes… Sometimes, I think I’m not tough enough on myself. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but skating is, like, the only thing I’m good at. So, I might as well be really good while I’m at it,” I admit.
My stomach twists when the realisation of saying this for the first-time washes over me. I’ve always known that skating is my life but saying it aloud makes it more final.
Indefinite.
“Not that it matters what I think, but I think you’re plenty tough, Wren. A lot tougher than me,” he says after a few seconds. I look up at him but he’s already looking at me, his green eyes hooded and relaxed. “For whatever reason you feel like you need to prove yourself, I just want you to know that you don’t need to do that with me. I like you the way you are.”
My heart practically doubles in size. “You’re not so bad yourself, Milesy,” I say through a smile. He looks at me. Something dangerous in his eyes as our gazes burn. His eyes dip to my mouth for a second and I exaggerate a sigh. “I think that’s me done for the sappy shit tonight. Come and help me with my dress.”
I get up from the couch, carrying my shoes with me to the bedroom where I find my sleeping shorts and tank top. I drop my shoes on the floor and walk into the gigantic bathroom where I’m surrounded by mirrors and bright lights. I take out my jewellery and place it into the boxes I brought with me and start to wipe off my makeup. I rinse and dry my face before taking out my hair out of its clip and brush it out, leaving it to fall to my shoulders.
Finally, I catch a glimpse of Miles in the doorway in grey joggers and a white tee. Maybe he’s been stood there the entire time and I haven’t noticed. Maybe I’ve been too caught up in getting ready for bed so I can sleep off all these feelings that are sifting through my body.
“Finally,” I murmur “Can you zip this down for me?”
He walks towards me slowly, his eyes connected with mine in the mirror. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him like this — relaxed, tried and effortlessly sexy — but something else lingers when he comes up behind me. The proximity of him sends goosebumps up my arms rapidly.
“Did you have a good time tonight?” he asks me, his voice rough as if it was hard for him today. He still hasn’t touched my zipper; he’s just looking at me passionately in the mirror. He slowly brings his hands around my hips, his fingers connecting at my stomach and then pulling back to rest on my hips. God, why does this feel better than that kiss? He’s not even doing anything other than his hands on my hot body. I close my eyes at the contact, ready for him to do anything to me. “Wren?”
My eyes snap open and I realise I was almost arching into him.
“Mm hmm,” I say after I’ve cleared my throat trying to shake off whatever that feeling was. My voice still sounds hoarse and shaky when I say, “I just want to get out of this dress.”
He nods and pushes my hair to one side of my shoulder and starts to zip down my dress, painfully slowly. Like, so slow that I could run down from the thirtieth floor to the bottom at the same time it takes him to move it down a few inches.
He keeps one hand on the top of the zipper, his fingers barley grazing my neck, but it makes me shiver regardless. His eyes are focused on zipping me down but when he gets further down, he realises there’s nothing underneath but bare skin, his breath hitches.
Maybe this is a dumb idea because I don’t every worry aout how my back looks too him. I’ve always been self conscious about the deep bruises and scars that I’ve acquired from training as a kid at different sports and stupid rituals that the girls roped me into.
Even when he’s finally done, he still keeps his hands on me, not ready to let go. I don’t tell him not to. There is something wildly comforting about his hands on my body. Something that feels just right. I don’t move when he gently starts to bring one side over my shoulder, his eyes locked with mine in the mirror. The first strap falls, almost exposing my chest. I watch my face flame up, the heat rushing to my cheeks like a tidal wave. He brings his face to my neck, his breath ragged and desperate, his mouth barely touching my skin. My pulse quickens so rapidly that I’m sure he can feel it under his mouth. He moves his hand to the other strap.
“Miles, you should stop,” I whisper, my voice shaking.
“Why?” he murmurs into my skin as he bites onto my shoulder softly. My stomach summersaults. Every single nerve in my body focuses on that small spot on my shoulder and my brain almost flatlines. ‘You just smell so good,’ he whispers and I shiver again.
Ignore him and say, “You know why.”
He groans, dropping his head to my shoulder, but he listens. He tears away from me leaving me in the bathroom.
I would have let myself slip. I would have easily let him kiss me right there, but I didn’t. It doesn’t help that I can feel the wetness building between my thighs. I take a quick shower, using the shower head to force all the throbbing feelings away. I don’t bother to put my shorts on because it’s so hot in the bedroom and I’d end up taking them off anyway. I slip into a pair of panties and put on my tank top, a reckless part of me hoping that he’ll still be awake. But, when I go into the room, he’s snoring already on one side of the bed.
I sigh and slip into the other end, putting as much space between us as possible.
