Page 28 of Seduction on the Slopes

I could soak in all the stupid sentimental crap flooding my head, but what I’d really like is some answers.

“Then why—”

“Because my parents are here.”

He says it as though that’s the only explanation necessary, as though those five words explain everything. But they don’t. Not to me.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

He blows a breath out, and I shift so that my arms are draped over his shoulders. The fury is draining out of me and taking all my energy with it. I’m practically leaning on him, and he doesn’t seem to mind, just moves his own hands so one is at the small of my back, and the fingers of his other hand curl around the nape of my neck. Heavenly.

“My parents are here, and I went to visit them.”

Well that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for him skipping a meal with my parents—to see his own. Why didn’t he just say that? I would’ve understood. That would’ve been far preferable to him just not showing up at all and me wondering why. Hell, I would’ve told him to bring them along.

“What hotel are they staying at?” It’s a stupid, inane question—what the hell does it matter where they’re staying?—but I can’t even help myself. Crash laughs.

“They’re not. They parked the van at a camping area and they’re staying there. For now. Anyway, I went to go see them.”

“Oh.” I say that, but I don’t really understand. Hopefully he can read the cluelessness in my tone because I don’t feel like confessing what an idiot I really am.

“I’m sure Mother and Father Palmer drink a nice red with dinner, but my parents roll a little differently. They smoke more than I ever did.”

Ah. They did in fact split a bottle of Malbec over dinner, but I’ll withhold that detail. Crash doesn’t need to know exactly how spot-on he is.

“Anyway, they’re here, and I went to see them, and that’s why I smell like pot.”

“Oh.”

He nips my earlobe because he’s a brat and then draws away so he can look me in the face. “Are you still going to kill me?”

“No.” Killing is not on my mind anymore, not with his body pressed against me like this, and not with how he’s holding me. And not now that he’s given me a perfectly reasonable explanation, and, okay, made me a bit swoony by saying he’d never do that to me.

“Then can we fuck? Because seeing my parents totally stressed me out.”

Crash

Miles kisses me then, which is kind of a surprise. He said he wasn’t mad anymore, but sometimes it’s easy to confuse angry Miles and intense Miles. This was one of those times. But now I can tell he’s not angry. That’s what his lips say, pressed against mine. That’s what his tongue says, prying open the seam of my mouth, that’s what his teeth say when they sink into my lower lip and hold me still while one of his hands finds my ass and squeezes hard.

Hells to the yes.

I would like for him to be bossy right now, to move me around like we’re not basically the same size. Mostly I would like to have him be the same way he always is.

Which maybe sounds boring, and was something I didn’t like about Miles at first. Couldn’t stand actually. It seemed unfair that such a perfect specimen of man would have such a giant stick up his ass. But the more I’ve gotten to know him, the more I’ve come to appreciate that about him.

The thing about Miles is that he shows up. Always, and on time. If I called him, he would come. If I told him I had a problem, I doubt he’d stop thinking about it until he solved it. He’s . . . consistent. His demands are sometimes unreasonable, yes, but at least they don’t change. Also, it turns out most of his demands aren’t unreasonable and he knows it. Even ifIdon’t believe it, he keeps telling me and telling me until I do it, and then I can’t argue anymore.

It can be annoying as hell, but I’m also grateful for it. Like a kid walking into the ocean for the first time and looking over his shoulder to make sure someone who gives a shit is still there. Miles gives a shit. He also gives me a raging hard-on, which is what I should be focusing on right now. All that woo-woo feelings bullshit can wait.

I rock my hips against him and tilt my head to give him better access to my mouth, which he takes. He lets go of my lip to sweep his tongue through my mouth and the taste of him is just so Miles it kills me. There’s no rational explanation for it, but he kinda tastes like apples? Always, there’s a sweet but not syrupy element overlaying the wet human heat of him. I suck on his tongue because he tastes so fucking good, and he lets me . . . for a minute.

Then he’s threading his fingers through my hair and closing them in a fist that he uses to steer me back toward his bed. Where I saw his face fall, when that look of betrayal came over him.

Not that I ever want to make Miles feel that way ever again, but the way he got so mad made me realize that he cares. Maybe in the way that he doesn’t want to see someone smash the sculpture he’s spent so long molding, but it’s maybe more than that. I hope it’s more than that. Even to be Miles’s masterpiece, though? That’s not a bad thing to be. Probably more than I would ever amount to without him.

The backs of my knees hit the bedframe and I collapse, my shoulders hitting the wall. Miles doesn’t waste any time. He climbs up and straddles me, pushing me harder against the wall and driving his tongue until I can’t taste anything but him because I’m consumed by him.

He’s not subtle, rocking against me, pressing into me. And then he’s gone from my mouth and I try to chase him but he’s got a hand in my hair and holds me fast where I am.

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