Page 76 of Hard to Take

“You think I’d drink alcohol and drive you around?” He shakes his head, perplexed.

“Not really. But I’m trying to think of why else you’d say what you said back there.”

“Because I mean it. Because it’s true.”

My heart kicks.

Miles cares enough to stand up for us against the team.

Sure, Jay’s way out of line, but he’s their leader and he tried to pull rank.

My roommate, the easygoing joker with the fast smile and the wicked grin, told him where to put it.

“You’re not putting me down?” I ask when we get back to the condo and Miles carries me out of the car and steps into the elevator.

“Nope.”

I press the button.

The elevator dings and he carries me down the hall. “Gonna need you to swipe us in.”

I reach into my bag for the key. The door swings open, and he carries me inside. Waffles yips a couple of times from the corner, then goes back to sleep.

Miles carries me into his room. He doesn’t set me down until I’m over the bed.

“That was impressive.”

He pushes a hand through his hair. “I work out.”

I burst out laughing, and he grins.

But there’s been a need bubbling beneath the surface.

We’ve always had chemistry, but this feels like something else. When things aren’t right in the world, he has this magical way of making them right with him.

I want his skin on mine, each piece of us lined up. I want to lay my heart on his and say, “See? They sound the same.”

I press up on my knees, and he bends down to meet me. When I grab his face and pull him to me for a soft kiss, he’s surprised for half a second at most. His athlete instincts kick in and he kisses me back.

Miles’s mouth is full of need, but it’s the generosity that gets to me.

His hands skim up my thighs with a reverence that steals my breath. The room is impossibly dark, at least until he lights a candle on the nightstand that casts a warm glow over everything.

“We’ve got time,” he murmurs.

And that sets the pace.

Each touch turns slow and languid and sensual.

Miles might not think of himself as a romantic guy, but he is. He notices me, his expression saying he appreciates every damn move I make whether it’s right or wrong.

He takes off my dress. The buttons are tiny, but he won’t let me help. The stubborn movements turn me on even more, my hands skimming along his biceps as he works.

“Not helping,” he murmurs against my neck.

“Sorry,” I lie, going to work on the buttons on his shirt.

Minutes later, my dress is tugged gently over my head and dropped on the floor. His suit jacket and shirt too.

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