*
After an excruciating evening of small talk and fake laughs, I lean against the gold railing to take off my heels on the elevator on the way back to our room, desperate to get rid of the throbbing in my feet. When my feet hit the cool ground, I wince slightly before sighing deeply. I can feel Miles’ eyes on me, something along the lines of a smirk on his lips.
“What?” I ask, flashing him a daring glance.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head, trying and failing to suppress his smile. He gives me a long look before facing towards the door.
When we get back to our room, we’re both defeated from eating terrible food and laughing at my dad's jokes that were sonotfunny that they were funny. Miles carried our conversations with ease, flowing from each group of people to the next. He was a natural. At all of it. Pretending to like me more than friends, knowing the right way to make my dad laugh, knowing what kind of jokes to make to the hoteliers. And that kiss? That speaks for itself.
The second we reach the living room, I drop onto the couch, lying on my back, my head on the arm rest. It’s the kind of couch that I could easily I could fall asleep on right now. I consider for a second to let Miles stay in the gigantic bed while I let sleep pull me under right here.
“Can you just chop off my feet?” I sigh loudly. Miles stands behind me on the other side of the couch laughing. He’s taken off his blazer, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck.
“I don’t have my amputation equipment with me, but I can give you a massage?” he suggests, looking down at me. His brown hair drops a little in his eyes and I tell myself not to reach out and push it away. It should be illegal for anyone to look this good right now after such an exhausting day. Especially him.
“I woulddiefor a massage right now. I’m sure there’s a masseuse around here somewhere. I’ll find one in the morning before we leave,” I say, making a mental note to do so.
“No, I mean, now. For your feet,” he responds calmly, gesturing towards them.
The lack of alcohol has made him more attentive; less sarcastic and more focused and sensitive. It’s a weird combination mixed with how much he oozes sex right now. Before I can protest, he’s sat next to me, sweeping my feet into his hands on his lap. My feet immediately feel like butter under the touch of his rough but gentle hands. I instinctively sit up on my elbows as I stare at him in awe.
“Miles,” I get out, but my breath catches when his fingers run smoothly over the inside of my foot. “My feet are gross. You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t mind,” he says without hesitation. His voice is hoarse when he growls, “And no part of you is gross sostopsaying that.”
I slip in and out of a haze as his fingers work magic around my ankle and my sole, relieving more and more of the pain. Involuntary sounds leave my mouth, and his grip tightens on me. He lets out a sharp breath before continuing softly.
“When did you learn how to do this?” I ask quietly.
“I kind of taught myself. My feet would get so sore after practice sometimes, so I just googled stuff. You should learn, then I won’t have to do this for you all the time,” he laughs.
I wiggle out of his grip and I nudge him in his hard stomach, but he grabs my foot again and continues rubbing small circles around the pad of my foot with both hands.
“Hey, I told you that you didn’t have to do this,” I protest but he doesn’t respond.
Silence washes over us for a few beats. I let myself fall into the rhythm of his hands working over me. It’s not long before I start to think about other places where his hands could be. On my thigh. On my stomach. On my-Nope.Not going there.
It's not him.
It can't be him. I'm just a pathetically horny teenage girl. That's all.
Instead, I stare up at the ceiling, deciding that it’s more interesting.
“I think I might take the whole beauty is pain thing too seriously. My mom always said that if it’s not hurting then it’s not working,” I say after a while, trying to laugh but it comes out more like a sigh.
“That doesn’t sound good, Wren,” Miles whispers. I laugh again but this time the sound comes out clearer, but he isn’t laughing when I look at him. He stares down at my feet, shaking his head lightly. “Don’t you feel like you’re too hard on yourself?”
“Sometimes… Sometimes, I think I’m not tough enough on myself. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but skating is, like, theonlything I’m good at. So, I might as well be really good while I’m at it,” I admit.
My stomach twists when the realisation of saying this for the first-time washes over me. I’ve always known that skating is my life but saying it aloud makes it more final.
Indefinite.
“Not that it matters what I think, but I think you’re plenty tough, Wren. A lot tougher than me,” he says after a few seconds. I look up at him but he’s already looking at me, his green eyes hooded and relaxed. “For whatever reason you feel like you need to prove yourself, I just want you to know that you don’t need to do that with me. I like you the way you are.”
My heart practically doubles in size. “You’re not so bad yourself, Milesy,” I say through a smile. He looks at me. Something dangerous in his eyes as our gazes burn. His eyes dip to my mouth for a second and I exaggerate a sigh. “I think that’s me done for the sappy shit tonight. Come and help me with my dress.”
I get up from the couch, carrying my shoes with me to the bedroom where I find my sleeping shorts and tank top. I drop my shoes on the floor and walk into the gigantic bathroom where I’m surrounded by mirrors and bright lights. I take out my jewellery and place it into the boxes I brought with me and start to wipe off my makeup. I rinse and dry my face before taking out my hair out of its clip and brush it out, leaving it to fall to my shoulders.
