Page 51 of The Woman with the Wallet

My thighs relaxed, falling open, allowing him to move slightly, pressing kisses to my inner thighs, over my pelvic bone, the hollows of my hips.

I struggled to find my breath, to slow the frantic flickering beat of my heart. My hand rested there over my chest as the aftershocks set in and I tried to wrap my fucking head around what had just happened.

Because, fuck.

I mean, I was no starry-eyed virgin. I’d been with men before. I knew what it felt like when they touched, tasted, fucked.

But this? This was something I’d never experienced before. A connection that had my eyes feeling wet, a pleasure that seemed to tear me apart with its intensity.

Miko’s chin had just planted on my belly, his face angling up to look at me, to likely say something that I didn’t quite feelready to hear yet. I felt too raw, too pulled apart at the seams for talk.

But just then, there was a shrill ringing—an old landline phone ring—coming from somewhere inside Miko’s suite.

Something about it made him stiffen, made his stupid handsome face go from sexy and self-satisfied to confusion that was quickly chased away by concern.

“I…” he said, but he was already moving away from me, moving off the bed. “I have to get that,” he finished as he nearly tripped over my bunched-up pants on the floor in his rush to get to his room.

And, yeah, that was the cold, hard shock of reality I needed to get a damn grip on myself.

I folded up on the bed, watching him disappear through the adjoining door. Then, quickly, quietly, I rushed off the bed and carefully closed the door so it didn’t make a sound.

It wasn’t until I slid the lock that I felt like I could breathe again.

Was locking him out of my room the most evolved, mature way to handle my very intense feelings right then? Nope. Not at all. But I’d never claimed to be evolved.

Hell, most of the time, I barely recognized my own feelings, let alone analyzed them to understand their roots. I damn sure never shared my feelings with some random guy I’d hooked up with.

And that was all men had ever been to me.

Hook-ups. Even the ones that lasted weeks or months; the only use I had for them was fun and casual. Just mutually satisfying sex that scratched that itch that didn’t want to be ignored anymore.

Men sure as hell were never anything I took seriously enough to actually want to open up to, to share my thoughts, fears, history, or future plans with.

The second I even got an inkling that one ofthemmight be catching feelings, I was quick to put an end to things.

I didn’t want that.

But I had to admit to myself, as I grabbed my pants and panties and made my way into the bathroom, this was already different from those men in my past.

Because I’d already opened up to Miko. I told him parts of my past, my present, my future. He’d seen me at some of my most vulnerable. He knew some of my habits, my likes, and dislikes. All before things even started to get a little physical between us.

“Get over it,” I told my reflection.

The woman staring back at me looked different. Sure, the bruises were kind of darker than they’d been earlier that day—though there was that telltale green and yellow around the edges that said they were already starting to heal—but my skin was flushed, my eyes dreamy, and, yep, still a little teary.

I sucked in a deep breath, watching until my eyes went blank again.

This didn’t have to be a big deal.

We were both adults.

We’d both had casual interactions with the opposite sex. Heat-of-the-moment physical touch didn’t mean anything. Nothing had to be awkward.

At least that was what I was telling myself as I moved back out of the bathroom.

Just in time to hear Miko’s door click closed. Quietly. Like he was trying not to be heard.

Suspicions piqued, I rushed to my own door, glad I was between him and the elevator, so I could look through the peephole and watch a warped, mini version of him make his way in that direction. But not before casting a worried look at my door.

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