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I don’t need to get asked again. Doing my best not to elbow her, I scramble over the bed to reach into the bedside table, struggling to grab the box of condoms. Finally, I manage to get it and tear one of the packages open, tossing the box and the wrapper on the floor before I roll it over my hardness.
Like we’re dancing, we shuffle into the middle of the bed, arms and legs and hips tangling until finally my cock brushes over her opening and we both moan, which makes us both giggle. Her fingers grip tighter into my shoulders, urging me on, and I don’t need any further persuasion.
The feeling of her clenching around me makes fireworks explode in my brain. I’ve fucked a lot of women before, but somehow this doesn’t feel like any of that. Most other women I didn’t know that well first. Most of them hadn’t been driving me crazy for weeks.
None of them were her.
And as we meld together here, flipping and rolling and laughing as we come again and again, there’s a thought in the very back of my mind, one that’s trying to tell me that if I could only ever sleep with one girl again, it would be Olivia.
Somehow, wrapped in her arms, giving her the night of her life, I don’t think I hate that thought at all.
CHAPTER 11
OLIVIA
It's only when I open my eyes that I realize the ringing isn't just inside my head. Who wants me at this time of the morning? With bleary eyes, I search for the nearest clock, which turns out to be the one on Miles’s bedside table.
Miles.
Oh, my God.
Of all the stupid things to do… Here I am in Miles’s bed, in his arms, sweaty and sticky and sore. And the worst part of all is that I don’t regret it at all. I don’t regret one single second of it. I don’t regret kissing him or letting him convince me to come back to his apartment.
And the sex we had was absolutely mind-blowing. I've never felt so connected to someone like that. I've never wanted anyone as much as I want him.
And if my stupid phone wasn’t ringing, I’d be tempted to wake him up and let him have me all over again. Just for now, while we’re in this bubble, I can pretend that sleeping with him is a normal thing to do.
I need to silence that noise. That’s the only thing I know for certain. But my phone isn't waking Miles up, and the grip of his arm around my shoulders is ironclad. Trying not to disturb him, I stretch out my fingers, reaching as hard as I can for the phone, which is lying on the floor where it’s been all night. Eventually, my fingertips brush against it and I manage to drag it closer to me until I can grab it. I flop back into bed and unlock the screen to find thirty-two missed messages and calls, all of them from my boss. Shit.
I unhook Miles’s arm from me, no longer caring about waking him up, and stumble out of bed. I pull on the first shirt I can find and it’s only when I wander into the living room that I realize it’s Miles’s.
We were supposed to be at the club an hour and a half ago. We have slept in big time.
I read one of the messages from Tim and wince. He is decidedly not happy. I shoot a quick text back, apologizing for the fact that we got held up and assuring him that we’ll be there soon. I silence my phone and toss it onto the sofa so I don’t have to look at it again, terrified of what the response will be.
Could I happily stay in this little bubble all day? Yes, of course I could. It’s warm and if I don’t think too hard about it, it’s comfortable. But do I want this to be the cruel twist of fate that loses me my job? No, absolutely not. This isn’t the way I want Miles to get me fired.
I head back into the bedroom where Miles is still snoring and shake him until he wakes up. At first, he squints, groaning because of the headache I'm sure he must have. Then he realizes it’s me doing the shaking and his face splits into the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen him give. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“How are you feeling?” I throw back. “You were pretty wasted last night.”
“Drunk on love?” he winks as if he thinks that might charm me.
I shake my head. Hearing him say the word love sends a flutter through me, but I park that trail of thought for later. Much later. “We’re late,” I say, shaking him again. “Come one, get up.”
“Five more minutes? Please?” He pouts at me, making such an adorable puppy-dog face that I very nearly give in to him.
Still, I resist. “No,” I say, shaking my head again. “There's no way I'm letting you lose my job for me. I’m going to shower, and if you are not dressed by the time I get ready, I’m dragging you down to the club naked. Don’t test me.”
I don't quite hear his mumbled response, which is probably for the best.
I have the quickest shower that I can, washing my hair and scrubbing myself clean. When I get out, I grab one of the folded towels from the cupboard and hope to God that the fact it’s in the cupboard means it’s clean.
To his credit, Miles has pulled on some clothes and is standing kind of sheepishly, hood pulled up over his head, waiting for me. “Do we have to go?” he asks in a mumble.
“Yes,” I say, all but pushing him towards the door and into the elevator. He stumbles as we go but doesn’t protest any further.
We stand with a deliberate distance between us in the elevator, a rift opening between us that feels like it might never close. Our shoulders don’t brush, and our eyes don’t meet. Any urge I ever had to touch him is extinguished like a snuffed-out flame.
