Page 58 of Falling

Fuck it.

I grab her face between my hands, and I kiss her.

WREN

I can feel myself melting into him. His large hands slip around my neck, his fingers curling in my hair as he dips my head back, deepening the kiss. Our mouths move against each other in sync. Like we were made to do this for each other.

Miles Davis is kissing me, and I'm kissing him back.

I whimper softly when he slips his tongue into my mouth and his fingers tighten in my hair. My body feels like it’s on fire—like there's light bursting out of my chest. I hold onto the lapels of his blazer and pull him into me until he can’t move any further.

The only thing I can focus on is how he feels against my mouth for the first time. It feels safe and exhilarating at the same time, and the longer we stay like this, the more real it feels. The more my hands itch to touch his skin. The more my nerves sing with pleasure when he swipes his tongue against mine.

He smiles against my mouth when I sigh, and I pull apart from him.

“What was that for?” I ask when I’m able to catch my breath. I'm panting, chest heaving like I’ve never been kissed before. He blinks back at me, his mouth parted.

“It was that guy. He was staring at you again, and he was about to come over here. I had to give him a reason not to. And would you look at that? He’s gone,” he rambles. I stare at him, and hesighs, dragging his hand down his face. “Sorry, I should have asked first.”

Heat rushes up my neck when he licks his lips.

“No. It's okay,” I say. I push further away from him, clearing my throat. “Are you going to do that every time somebody looks at me?”

“If it takes kissing you to prove to everyone that you’re mine, then yes,” he mutters before looking away.

When we get backto our room, we’re both defeated from eating terrible food and laughing at my dad's jokes that were so not funny they were funny. Miles carried our conversations with ease, flowing from each group of people to the next. He was a natural. At all of it. Pretending to like me, knowing the right way to make my dad laugh, knowing what kind of jokes to make to the hoteliers.

The second we reach the living room, I slip off my heels, letting the cool marble soothe the throbbing in my feet. I drop onto the couch, lying on my back, my head on the armrest. “Can you just chop off my feet?” I say, sighing.

Miles stands behind me on the other side of the couch, laughing. He’s taken off his blazer, and his bow tie is hanging loose around his neck.

“I don’t have my amputation equipment with me, but I can give you a massage,” he suggests, looking down at me. His brown hair drops a little in his eyes, and I’m fighting the urge to push it away. It should be illegal for anyone to look this good right now after such an exhausting day. Especially him.

“I’d die for a massage right now. I’m sure there’s a masseuse around here somewhere. I’ll find one in the morning before we leave,” I say.

“No, I mean, now. I can do it,” he responds, gesturing toward my feet.

Before I can protest, he’s sitting next to me, sweeping my feet into his hands on his lap. My feet immediately feel like butter under the touch of his rough and gentle fingers. I lean up on my elbows as I stare at him.

“Miles,” I get out, but my breath catches when his fingers run smoothly over the inside of my foot. “My feet are gross. You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind,” he says, shrugging. His voice is hoarse when he adds, “And no part of you is gross, so stop saying that. You’re perfect, Wren.”

I slip in and out of a haze as his fingers work magic around my ankle and my sole, relieving more and more of the pain.

“When did you learn how to do this?”

“I taught myself. My feet would get so sore after practice sometimes, so I just googled stuff. You should learn, then I won’t have to do this for you all the time,” he says, laughing.

I wiggle out of his grip and nudge him in his stomach, but he grabs my foot again and continues rubbing small circles around the pad of my foot with both hands.

“Hey, I told you that you didn’t have to do this,” I argue.

“I know.”

“Then why are you doing it?” I ask.

He looks up at me, and his smile is deadly. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I like doing things for you. It’s like our whole thing.”

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