Page 20 of Hard to Take

I’m going to need a coffee this afternoon. It’s not only the espresso machine’s fault but also my body’s for prioritizing high def imagery of me and Miles in his massive bed over quality sleep.

I pick out clothes, finishing my outfit with gold earrings that belonged to my grandmother, then head to Miles’s closet for shoes.

It smells like him in here.

Not sweat or dirt, but clean and male.

My gaze drifts toward the bedroom, landing on his big bed, with the midnight-blue cover darker than his eyes.

I catch my lip between my teeth.

Deciding I have no interest in Miles Garrett is hard when I’m horny. I’ve been amped since our night together in Vail. Every moment keeps replaying in my mind without permission.

Not only how it looked to see every inch of muscle, his sparkling blue eyes blown with hunger, and the strained grin. But also the feel his arm hair rubbing against my smooth skin. The scent of him, clean and male and a little wicked.

I cross to the bed and lie down on the duvet. I press his pillow to my nose and inhale.

The scent of him lights me up.

Maybe relieving the ache is a sensible first step. A side quest, even, before the main event of forgetting him completely.

My fingers brush my stomach where my shirt has risen up.

Then tip-toe down my waistband.

The first touch is torturous bliss.

Pleasure spirals through me, twining with a sharp need that has my calves flexing and my toes curling.

I haven’t gotten myself off since I moved in out of some stubborn sense of pride. Or worse, the idea that he’d hear me and think he was the inspiration.

Except there’s no pretending I’m imagining someone other than Miles right now—not when I’m in his bed, when he’s the only one I’ve been able to think of since before the retreat.

A sound from the doorway makes me jump. But it’s only Waffles, his little head tilted in curiosity.

“Stand guard, okay? And whatever you do, don’t tell him.”

Can dogs feel pity? I swear it’s either that or compassion on the dog’s scrunched little face before he turns and trots away.

I close my eyes and instantly I’m picturing Miles’s huge hands pinning my wrists over my head. His firm mouth on my throat, my breasts, my stomach. His fingers sliding up the insides of my slick thighs while he groans in my ear.

I touch my breasts with my other hand. They’ve always been sensitive but he was so damn good with them.

Pleasure wraps around me like a silk thread, tightening with every stroke.

The pillow rubs against my face. My earring presses into my skin, the friction with the fabric making it tug deliciously at my lobe.

The climax sneaks up on me and steals my breath.

When I’m finished, I’m alone.

Oblivious Miles 2, Sexually Frustrated Brooke 0.

The phone rings on the bed next to me.

Does this man have a sixth sense for when I’m thinking filthy thoughts about him?

It’s not Miles, though.

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