“Ready?”
He’s waiting by the front door when I return, dressed in what I’ve come to know as his signature look: navy shirt, jeans, and a navy Foxleigh Park baseball cap—bearing a tiny emblem of a polo mallet, with the letters F and P intertwined slightly off-center.
It’s chic and cute. And before I can ask for one, he holds another out to me, silently placing it on my head.
His eyes drop much like they did this morning, heating my body just as effectively, including and especially his infuriating smirk. Stepping in, his hand grips my jaw, and his mouth finds mine before I can blink twice.
His tongue is hot and insistent, pushing between my lips, taking control. I breathe in that cedar and sandalwood scent of him, and taste a faint hint of mint.
There’s nothing gentle about the way his tongue sweeps along mine. It’s a claim. An “I need you now” type kiss. There’sno one around to see it, and it’s not for the benefit of keeping up pretenses. It’s private. For us. And it’s so fucking sexy.
I groan embarrassingly loudly. His fist grips harder on my jaw, I’m wedged between the wall and Miles’s solid body, yet I pull him futher into me. Ineedhim closer. Any second now and I’ll be climbing him like a tree.
I don’t know how, but it deepens. My fingers push into the soft curls along his nape, our tongues sweeping together, and I swear he moans my name.
I’ve never experienced a kiss like this. Not one where my knees almost buckle, my heart is bashing against my ribs, and my panties are soaked.
It ends just as quickly when he steps back, his eyes brazenly scouring my face, fully aware he just melted me from the inside out. It’s only a small consolation that I could feel his dick rubbing against my hip.
With a smirk, he straightens the hat, pulling it down my brow, and tugs my braid out of the way, placing it with incredible care and attention on my shoulder.
“Now we can go.”
Opening the front door for me, he guides me out, his hand pressing into the small of my back. I should walk faster, but I don’t. And when we reach the car, he opens the door for me there too.
We drive in silence, zooming along the country lane. I force myself to look out the window so I’m not staring at Miles’s hand gripping the steering wheel, veins popping as it flexes around the leather, thinking about where else I want those hands.
I focus on the trees instead.
In the month since I’ve been here, the blossoms have fully emerged, and the lane we take is blanketed in pale pink petals. It feels like we’re driving through cotton candy.
I’m so distracted by the view that I don’t immediately notice the traffic ahead as the road widens near the turnoff to Foxleigh Park.
There are two entrances: the main one used for match days and the other, which leads directly to the stables. Where the yard staff arrives, along with visitors and guests. It’s where security sits, and everyone’s required to show their passes, because when you’ve got ten-million-pounds’ worth of horses living in your stables, you need security.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Miles mutters, trying to maneuver around a tractor that’s trying to pass the blockage in the road by using his very loud horn.
As the tractor clears the road, I notice it’s people, several holding long-lens paparazzi-style cameras. And they seem to be inspecting every car coming through.
“What the hell is going on?” Miles repeats, his frustration growing as he honks for them to move, but all it does is draw their attention.
Then the shouting starts, and my stomach drops.
“Miles! Miles! Tell us about the wedding!”
“Miles, Ruby! Tell us, when did you get married? When did you meet?”
“Miles, Miles, Miles.”
“Ruby, Ruby, Ruby.”
“What’s happening?” I whisper as Miles keeps honking.
“Get the fuck out of the way, or I’ll have you arrested.” He accelerates forward, nearly clipping a photographer who jumps aside before he’s run over, landing in a bush.
It’s so reminiscent of the day we first met that bile creeps up my throat.
“Dickhead!”
