Page 59 of Falling

“But you don’t have to.”

“That’s exactly why I’m doing it, princess.”

I try not to let that comment get to me. The more nice things he does for me, the more it confuses me and the firm line I’ve put between me and anyone I’ve dated.

Silence washes over us, and I let myself fall into the rhythm of his hands working over me. His fingers are long and clean, and Ican’t help but think how they’d look on other parts of my body. The way they felt in my hair and how he tugged it roughly when he kissed me has been the most action I’ve had in months. And the more time I spend with him, the more I want it to happen again even when I know I shouldn’t.

I tear my eyes away from his hands, staring up at the ceiling.

“I think I might take the whole beauty is pain thing too seriously,” I say after a while. “My mom always said that if it’s not hurting then it’s not working.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Miles whispers. I laugh, but he isn’t laughing when I look at him. He stares down at my feet, shaking his head. “Don’t you feel like you’re too hard on yourself? You work harder than most guys on my team and you don’t even play hockey.”

“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. It’s the one thing I can do. So, I might as well be really good while I’m at it,” I admit.

My stomach twists when the realization 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. I look up at him, but he’s already looking at me, his brown 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 enough the way you are for the both of us.”

My heart practically doubles in size. “You’re not too bad yourself, Davis.”

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 jewelry 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 my hair out of its clip and brushing it out, leaving it to fall to my shoulders.

Finally, I catch a glimpse of Miles in the doorway in gray sweatpants and a white tee.

Gray sweatpants.

Kill me now.

I clear my throat. “Can you zip this down for me?”

He walks toward me, his eyes locked 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, and I hate it.

I’m the one that’s in control with him.

I always have been.

But since the way he surprised me by kissing me tonight, I’ve never felt more out of control.

“Did you have a good time tonight?” he asks, his voice rough. He still hasn’t touched my zipper, and I’m about to tell him to get on with it. He slowly brings his hands around my hips, his fingers connecting at my stomach and then pulling back to rest on my hips. I close my eyes at the contact, the feeling so foreign and comforting. “Wren?”

My voice 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 grazing my neck, making me shiver. His eyes are focused on zipping me down, but when he realizes there’s nothing underneath but bare skin, his breath hitches.

Even when he’s finally done, he still keeps his hands on me. I don’t tell him not to. There is something wildly comforting about his hands on my body. Something that feels just right, and I’m selfish enough to want to bathe in this feeling for a little longer.

I don’t move when he starts to bring one strap over my shoulder, his eyes locked with mine in the mirror. The first one falls, almost exposing my chest. I watch 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 much 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.

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