Page 85 of The Loves We Lost
Then he told me he had to go.
I made myself watch as he added weapons to his person. Because if I was really going to try to embrace this, I needed to see everything. Be part of everything.
I needed to make an educated decision about what it meant to be in this life rather than simply writing about it.
“I’m still me, Vi,” he said, when I kissed him goodbye.
Now I’m lying awake, wondering if he’s okay. The last time I saw him come home from something like this was the night he returned to the clubhouse covered in blood. The night he choked me. A mix of arousal and fear duel deep within me. Wondering if I’ll ever get used to this helpless feeling. And when I finally hear a motorbike roaring down the road, the iron band that has squeezed my chest all night finally loosens. I leap out of bed and rush to the window to see him ride onto the driveway.
He pulls his helmet off and runs his hand through his hair before something makes him look up at the window.
I raise a hand to wave and smile. And he doesn’t move for a moment. Then he taps his right hand over his heart and smiles and then rides his bike slowly into the garage.
I’m not sure what it says about me that the gesture turns me on, but he looks so utterly capable while sitting astraddle his bike. He’s like every hero I’ve ever written about. They are so ... masculine. So ... competent. Now that I have one of my own, I’ve been second-guessing myself.
Gumption.
I love that word, but I haven’t been showing a lot of it. I’ve become a secondary character in my own story. Miles is my leading man.
Maybe I got so caught up in writing romance books that I stopped believing I could find a man to love me as well as I could write one. Or worse, I was so caught up giving my heroines this rich, full life, where they feel every emotion and live out loud, that I forgot to build one for myself.
Quickly, I toss off my little camisole and shimmy out of my shorts. I hear the front door click shut and the tinkle of keys hitting a dish. And then I do something I’ve written about but never done myself. I drop to my knees on the floor at the bottom of the bed, place my palms on my thighs, and drop my head.
The creak of footsteps on the stairs sends ripples of nervous excitement through me. Arousal hums through me as I hear the click of Miles closing Avery’s bedroom door.
Another reason to love this man.
And finally, he pushes his bedroom door open. His footsteps come to a stop right in front of me.
His feet are bare, and the hem of his jeans is frayed. But I don’t look up. I stay still, exactly as I am.
Two hands hold my head, and then I feel his lips brush my hair. “You want to try something new, precious girl?”
At this, I look up at him. “I don’t know what I want. But it’s more, Miles. Please.”
“Always,” he says. “Be a good girl and stay there for me.”
He moves from my peripheral vision, and I hear the bedroom door lock. The lights are dimmed. There’s a swooshing sound of fabric and a whisper of breeze. Finally, his bare feet appear in front of me again.
“Suck my cock, Vi,” he says.
When I look up, his jeans are unzipped and he’s stroking his already hard length. But there is a hunger in his eyes. It’s been a long time since I gave a blow job. And while I guess it’s just like riding a bike, I want to do the more I’ve been seeking. The more I’ve read about, the more I’ve researched, the more I’ve written about.
I put words into my characters’ mouths that I’ve never uttered, and I layer them with emotions I’ve never felt.
So I do everything I’ve learned from reading and writing books. I lick the vein that runs along his cock. I circle the rim of his head. When I reach for his balls, Miles grips my wrist. “Mouth only,” he says, but the way his voice wavers tells me it’s because he likes it too much, not that I’m doing it wrong.
When I take the first inch of him into my mouth, Miles hisses and grips a fistful of my hair so firmly that it stings, but the pain is delicious.
Another sign I’m doing something right.
The next time I take him deeper. Each time taking more of him.
It becomes imperative that I take all of him. I want every inch he wants to give me. I want to experience him every way he’ll let me.
As he hits the back of my throat, I swallow, even as the intrusion of his cock there makes me gag. But I don’t stop. I push through the tears that form.
“Vi,” Miles gasps. There are layers of emotion in the two letters.
