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Then he's there. His cock pulses, filling me.
He collapses, sinking into the bench seat.
His eyes find mine. His lips part like he's going to speak, but he says nothing.
I shift off him, find my underwear, and pull it on. There's no way to clean up. This will have to do.
There's no sign of my bra. Oh well. It was nothing special.
He reaches for my wrist. "Come home with me."
"That's not a good idea."
"Then tell me what this was."
"I don't know." I find my purse and slide it over my shoulder. "But I enjoyed it."
"Go somewhere with me."
My heart flutters. "Where?"
"It's a surprise." He runs his fingertips over my wrist. "I'll fuck you there. If you're still in the mood."
"That's not a good idea, either."
He stares right into my eyes. "There has to be some way I can convince you."
That look cuts straight to my soul. No matter what I do, I can't fight it. I still want to take all his pain away.
I swallow hard. "Okay. I'll go."
Chapter Thirty-Three
The night air rushes around me. Damn, that cold has bite. Southern California afternoons are sunny and warm. It's easy to forget the temperature plummets on winter nights.
Goosebumps spread across my arms. I shiver and hug my chest. A cocktail dress isn't the warmest attire.
Miles slides his leather jacket off and slings it around my shoulders. He pulls me closer. "I guess that means your buzz is wearing off."
I don't laugh. I don't know what that's supposed to mean.
Or what the hell this trip is supposed to mean.
My high heels poke tiny holes in the grass. I try my best to lean forward, weight on my toes, but one of the heels gets stuck. I trip.
Miles catches me. He saves me from scraping my knee on one of the grey tombstones.
Yes, we're at the cemetery, the one in Ladera Heights. It's too dark to see most of the place, but I still make out a large stone crucifix and a statue of the Virgin Mary.
It's funny. There's a mall four blocks away. To my left is the somber remembrance of death. To my right, there's a Target and a Forever 21 and a parking lot with bright white lights.
Miles kneels down next to me and gingerly unhooks my shoes, one at a time. He pulls them off my feet, his fingertips lingering on my ankle.
It should be criminal for anything to feel this good. Especially in a place where everything usually feels so bad.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Not really dressed for mourning."
