Page 117 of The Kiss of Deception

“My mom was raised by a single mother too. My grandma became pregnant with my mother before marriage. Her religious parents kicked her out, and the father didn’t stick around. Since I was old enough to understand patterns, I promised myself it would end with me. I would build the perfect family, and I would never leave them. I was so fixated on that idea I couldn’t see beyond.”

Lit by intimate lamps on either side of the bed, every angle of Miles is a work of art painted by intimate colors, the room a sacred space for his confessions. I want all of them, each one more than the last. Instead of quelling my hunger, they feed it, and I’m insatiable.

I’m insatiable for all things Miles Blackstein.

“And then you came in and changed everything. Without reason or explanation, suddenly there was something else on my mind. Something I wanted more than I’d ever wanted a picture.” Coming to the present, he locks our eyes, tapping the ink on my pulse point. It thrashes and thumps and it can’t be my heart—it’s in his hand. “You. I do want a family. But I don’t want one that doesn’t include you, Zoe.”

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, overwhelmed. Still a little scared he’ll see how much I want that, too—and how scared I am of what I want.

“Anyway, that day, I saw you walking out of the elevator,” he continues. “It felt like a fucking sign from the universe. So, I told the realtor to close the deal immediately. I literally blurted it out in the same sentence that had started with all the reasons I wanted a house with a backyard and a fucking pool.”

We both laugh because that’s just so… him.

“For the past year, I’d been at war with myself. I tried to hate you after our first meeting went so well, but I could never hate you as much as I wanted you. I tried to convince myself I didn’t want you because I was convinced I could never have you.”

The twirl of his fingers stills, switches into a handful, roughly forcing me to face him.

“Until…”

“The kiss of deception.”

“The kiss of deception,” he confirms. He’s greedy and needy for a real kiss. Nonetheless, his confession isn’t over. He has to finish. “I didn’t plan it, Zoe. But after everything, it was my only chance. No way in hell would I waste it.”

“I know,” I pat his chiseled pecs. “You’re not so skilled in scheming. As evidenced by your poor decision-making, you are much more prone to impulsiveness than plans and plots… or just good old thinking-before-doing.”

Miles grins. “Being mean to me has only ever made me want you more, love.”

The joke reminds me of my own sins and confessions.

“I haven’t apologized to you, yet. For the way I treated you.” He opens his mouth to retort, but I clamp it shut with my palm. “You could be the vilest human being—it still wouldn’t excuse my behavior. I know you know I regret it, but I haven’t said it. I’m sorry.”

His tongue darts out to lick me. “Well, I think we could find some ways for you to make it up to me.”

“We could.” The same hand began a trail down his chest. It’s stopped before the destination. “What do you propose?”

“It is a blue moon tonight. We write each other a poem with blood from a bonding ritual and tattoo each other’s initials on our pinkie fingers.” He boops my nose with said finger. “Or we can go to Vegas and tell Elvis all about our love.”

For a moment, I’m stunned into silence.

“I—I was thinking of sexual favors,” I stutter a little. Considering my jaw hangs open, it isn’t shocking. “But blood rituals don’t sound so bad.”

Those damn dimples taunt me. “Ouch. But I like the way you think. Sexual favors are much more fun.”

He breaks into chortles that tickle the palm of my hand. Short-lived, they dissolve before I have time to smack him and his awful jokes. A gust of air sends shivers down my spine when he shoves the white sheets away, uncovering us completely.

He pushes my back against the mattress with his body. It hovers, not touching. Determined and desperate to fix the error of his ways and feel the sparse trail of coarse hair that scatters his chest, my back jumps from the bed, arching for him.

“Make no mistake, Zoe.” His declaration is delivered directly against my lips. “We will talk to Elvis, eventually.”

“Okay,” I breathe against his lips, returning his oxygen.

The only time I ever want to meet Elvis is with Miles Blackstein by my side. I know that with a certainty that should scare me, yet, against all odds and all logic, it doesn’t.

“Okay,” I repeat.

I’m bathed in silver as he traces every little line, every small indentation on my face until he lingers on the fading ghost over my eyebrow. Soundlessly, he brushes his lips in a soft caress over the scar. An apology.

I see the guilt creeping up on him, clouding his silver gaze. It claws its way up and climbs through the furrowed lines on his face until it distorts under a veil of shadows in his eyes.

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