Page 111 of The Kiss of Deception

The left side of my face is numb against something hard. My legs are twisted, entrapped in something solid and ticklish as something diagonally presses on my back all the way to the grip on my hip.

I blink. I blink away the heaviest sleep I’ve had in a long time and reach for the bedside table lamp. Before I can click the light on, everything comes crashing back to me.

Miles. Me.

Miles on me. Miles above me. Miles under me. Miles inside me. Miles everywhere.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

Miles is my pillow.

If the memories and the surrounding setting weren’t clear enough, the soreness between my thighs connects the last dot in the picture.

His hard chest under my cheek moves up and down, his breathing slow and even in his slumber as my heartbeat races, erratic. I disentangle my naked body from his, careful not to wake him, and search in the moonlit darkness for something to cover my very naked body. Our clothes lay discarded somewhere on the floors of the library, so I grab one of his folded t-shirts on the dresser across the room.

Hurry trips me, tangling my feet in the duvet fallen on the floor, sending me titillating with a curse. The deep breath Miles draws announces he’s stirred. He stretches the dense muscles of his arms, clicking another lamp on to gift me the glorious view of white linen sheets tangled around his naked legs.

Recollections of how good it felt to run the tip of my fingers all along that smooth skin, to memorize every ridge of his muscles and every crevice of his body ignite a flame in my cheeks.

When his eyes find me, his dimples dip with a drowsy, dreamy smile.

“Love? What are you doing?” His murmur is husky, directly connected to the shiver down my spine. “Come back to bed.”

His request doesn’t ring with secret intentions, but it reminds me I still wear nothing, prompting me to pull his shirt over my head.

Love.

The nickname I once despised now accentuates the longing in my heart with a squeeze.

My lack of answer is enough to shake the remnants of sleep from him. Miles sits up in a second, eyeing me as though he wants to shelter me from my storm within. “What’s wrong, love?”

“I don’t—I just—” What is wrong? I ask to my reflection. Freckles of dust stare at me, no definite answers. I’m not sure, but something doesn’t feel right. “I think I need to go.”

“Hey.” His feet shake the sheets, but their rush betrays them, tangling them further. “Fuck. No. Come here.”

My mind is an earthquake, no solid, stable ground to settle a single thought, one single emotion.

Elation at what happened.

Hopefulness at what it means.

Panic of what it could mean.

“No. No. I can’t. I—I think I might’ve made a—”

“This was not a mistake.” His denial is indisputable. “It sure as hell was not pretend.”

“No! Of course I didn’t pretend.” Flashbacks flood my mind, halting my escape and tilting my head in contemplation. “I did come a surprising, and almost embarrassing, number of times.”

I glance at him just in time to see his mouth open and close, again and again, until what comes is that damn throaty laugh. “For such a brilliant girl, sometimes you are so clueless, woman. What am I going to do with you?”

I have all the answers to that question. And every single one of them leaves me open and vulnerable. But were we ever truly a battlefield? Miles has only ever been my opponent in my head. I’ve long since seen him for what he is, the shield that protects, the sword that fights for me in every way that counts, in every instance that matters.

“If I weren’t currently panicking, I’d be mad that you’re laughing at me right now.”

He takes advantage of my staring and erases the distance. Four steps and the tips of his bare toes kiss mine. “I like you when you’re mad at me.”

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