Page 48 of Summer Holiday Lifeline

“What, now?”

“Your inventory,” Myles reminded him. “Books won’t catalogue themselves.”

“Unfortunate.”

Myles’s expression was more relaxed than Steven had ever seen it. “Isn’t it just?”

“You know you don’t have to help me, right?”

“Is it okay that I want to, though?”

Steven cocked his head, skeptical.

“I can handle it.” His fingers flexed where they lay lightly along Steven’s nape and shoulders.

“How about this. How well do you type?”

“Why?”

“In the interest of saving the skin on your knuckles, maybe I handle the books and you type them into the spreadsheet.”

“I do like that plan.” Myles wrapped an arm over his shoulders and turned them towards the door. “Come on.”

While he wasn’t sad about being roped into helping Steven with his task, Myles found it damn hard to concentrate on what he was doing. Typing wasn’t exactly his forte, and he couldn’t spell worth beans.

So when Steven smiled up through his pale gold lashes, Myles’s heart did unpredictable things like stop, or jump, or flutter around in his chest like a damn frisky colt.

It had never done that for Ozzy. For Ozzy it had behaved like a jackhammer, pounding relentlessly against his ribs until he pulled Ozzy close or pushed him away. Or done both, usually in that order, causing mutual confusion and frustration.

“Did you get that?” Steven asked.

Myles blinked at him. “Sorry?”

“The book title. Did you get it?”

“I, um. No.” He frowned. “Sorry. You keep distracting me.”

“By looking at you?” That quirk lifted one side of Steven’s mouth again, once more making Myles want to kiss the crookedness of it.

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, I am very sorry for being so troublesome.” He didn’t look all that sorry. In fact, the quirk got more pronounced and his eyes twinkled.

“I’m not.” Myles set the tablet to one side and leaned forwards, reaching for one of Steven’s belt loops.

That Steven let Myles pull him down into his lap felt like a triumph Myles hadn’t known he was looking for. His own groan when Steven kissed him, a bit of surrender that surprised him.

When Steven pushed his tongue into Myles’s mouth, Myles let him, sinking back into the cushions, hands lax on Steven’s body, his own muscles turning to liquid flame.

Heat surged past his usual reserve. The instinct to dominate the kiss flitted through him, silvery fast and gone before he could act on it. Then Steven’s fingers slid down the column of his throat and Myles lost track of his self-control.

By now, he would have pinned another man to something, bore down on him, kept him still for the taking, but with little more than his lips and the feather light caress of fingers over his pulse point, Steven had Myles buried under an avalanche of determined, gentle pressure. He couldn’t think, let alone retrieve the upper hand.

He struggled to find his usual domineering confidence.

Steven pressed a soft “hush” to his lips and he stilled.

The renewed kiss felt like a reward. Or a promise. The slick slide of tongue into his mouth, the firm hand at the back of his neck, the weight of Steven’s slight body keeping him in the chair, and Myles’s skin turned to fire. All he could manage in response was another deep groan that ended on something like a whimper when Steven pulled back. The loss caused Myles momentary disoriented panic, but then Steven dug fingers into his hair, tugging slightly, and the world settled right around him.