Page 110 of Sweet Caroline
Still massaging my hips and thighs, he lowers to rest on his haunches, then works his strong hands up to my glutes again. Anticipation moves through me in dull pulses, everything about today making me feel sluggish and slow. I want him to draw this out. Suspend time so we can stay in this moment, never having to face the cooler air, getting dressed, traffic, my parents, cameras, questions.
Goodbyes.
He’s hard and ready but he doesn’t push me. Doesn’t seem to have his sights set on any outcome other than making me feel good—whatever that looks like.
“Tell me what you want.” He kneads my calves, and I comb the wet hair back from his forehead with my fingers.
I want you.
I love you.
Holding the words back makes my heart feel like it’s dying. Ican’t have him. So I settle for what I can have—what he can give me.
“I want you to make me feel better.” Shifting on my feet to widen my stance, I run my thumb down his rough cheek, over his small scar, then his bottom lip. “You’re so good at making me come.”
His cock pulses. “You want my fingers?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Just your mouth.”
I’ve barely got the words out when he groans and dives for my clit, the warmth of his tongue making me suck in air and scramble for purchase on the cold tile. “Miles, oh my God.”
He breaks away for a second to say, “Hold on to my hair. I’ve got you,” then again to add, “Don’t be shy about pulling it, either.” Eyes burning with heat, he buries his face between my legs again.
“Yeah?” I thread my fingers into his wet locks, gasping with every flick of his tongue as pulses of blissful sensation course through my body. “I guess we can both like having our hair pulled.” I drag my fingernails over his scalp before grasping tight—tugging him closer—and relish the low, satisfied moan that rumbles from his throat.
He keeps kneading my muscles as he coaxes me to the edge, and I can’t get enough of the hard press of his fingers or the way he’s working my legs so thoroughly I think my knees might give out.
Both literally and metaphorically, there’s freedom in trusting that, if I collapsed completely, he’d scoop me up. Put every piece back together.
It’s not long before I’m completely lost to the pleasure, coming undone in mindless, convulsing, shaking waves on his tongue. Letting myself go in this moment feels like succumbing to beauty and despair all at once.
La petite mort, the French call it.The little death.
I’mquiet when Miles zips me into my simple navy dress. I duck back into the bathroom to start on my hair while he gets ready, and I’m midway through slathering mousse between my palms when my phone rings.
Miles brings it over to me, turning it so I can see the call display.
I hold up my mousse-covered hands, gesturing to the phone. “Can you answer it? Just put him on speaker.”
He swipes and taps at the screen as I drag the product through my hair.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask.
“Finally!” Adrian says. “I’ve been trying to call you forever.”
“Sorry, I was in the shower.”
Miles smirks and rubs the back of his neck, the movement dragging my eyes down the strip of bare, inked skin peeking out from his unbuttoned dress shirt.
“Have you talked to Lover Boy yet?”
I freeze, feeling all the blood from my face drain into my toes. My gaze jumps to Miles, whose brows twitch together in obvious confusion.
“Adrian—”
“Like, polls closed, Care. If you haven’t told him yet?—”
“Adrian!”Oh, God, please shut up.“I need to call you back.”
