Page 59 of Mile High Daddy

“See you around, Leah,” he says, his voice softer than before.

I watch as he turns and heads for the door, my pulse still unsteady.

Maggie leans in, wiggling her eyebrows. “He totally has a thing for you.”

I shake my head, forcing a smile. “You’re imagining things.”

But as I glance back at Alex, now just a silhouette beyond the café window, I wonder if maybe, just maybe, Maggie’s right.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m not sure how I feel about that.

16

LILA

The glow from my bedside lamp casts a warm, golden hue over my tiny apartment. It’s modest—one bedroom, a small kitchen, barely enough space to move around—but it’s mine.

I lie in bed, propped up against a stack of pillows, absently flipping through the pages of a novel I’ve read twice already. My body is restless, my mind drifting, unable to focus.

Ever since I hit four months, it’s been like this.

An itch under my skin. A heat that never quite fades.

At first, I thought it was stress, but I know better now.

I want.

I ache.

And no matter how much I try to ignore it, my body betrays me in the quiet hours of the night.

I shift under the blankets, pressing my thighs together as the tension coils deep in my stomach. My skin feels sensitive, my breath coming just a little quicker. I know where this is headed.

Because every night, it’s the same.

Every night, I close my eyes and dream of him.

I hate it. I hate him. But that doesn’t stop my traitorous mind from conjuring his image—Mikhail’s sharp gray eyes, the way his mouth feels against my skin, the way his hands own me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, frustration warring with desire.

But I lose the battle.

Slowly, my hand drifts beneath the waistband of my panties, my fingers brushing over the swollen heat between my legs. A sharp gasp escapes my lips at the first touch, my body already primed, already desperate.

My breathing hitches as I slide my fingers over my clit, teasing myself, imagining—him.

Mikhail pressing me against the wall, his body pinning mine, his voice rough in my ear.

Moya printsessa…you can run, but you’ll never escape me.

A shudder rolls through me, my thighs clenching as I rub slow, tight circles, chasing the pleasure that always comes too quickly now. I bite my lip, trying to muffle the soft moans that slip out. I imagine his fingers—long, strong, skilled—sliding into me, stretching me, making me beg. I imagine his mouth, the way he kisses, the way he takes what he wants.

The pressure builds.

Higher.

Tighter.

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