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He yelps a little, even as he leans forward to drop the popcorn on the coffee table in front of us. Then he’s grabbing my feet and pulling them out from under him.
I expect him to push my legs back onto the floor or to at least grab on to my ankles to keep me still. But he does neither. Instead he cushions my feet in his lap and digs his thumbs into the arch of my uninjured foot.
And I swear to God, I almost have an orgasm right there in the middle of Ethan and Chloe’s family room. And not just any orgasm—I’m talking the monster of orgasms. That’s the kind of pleasure that swamps me, that drags me under as sparks shoot from my foot to my pussy in one hot, electric wave that nearly has my eyes rolling into the back of my head.
I shudder when he does it a second time, then let out a low, breathy moan that has Miles’s thighs tensing under mine and his fingers trailing light as a feather over the top of my foot. It’s one more sensation added to my already overloaded body, and when he combines it with more of the steady pressure against my arch, every nerve ending in my body stands up and does the tango all at once.
Only serious self-control—and the not-so-sexy act of biting the inside of my cheek all but bloody—keeps me from moaning again. It’s a hollow victory, though, especially considering how the rest of my body is reacting. Miles doesn’t need to be the genius that he is to figure out I want him. It’s in every clench of my fists, every squirm of my hips, every shallow rise and fall of my chest.
I should stop him. I know I should—with everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, I know I’m in no emotional state to even think about wanting anyone, let alone Chloe’s brother. But what I know doesn’t really matter right now, not when every muscle in my body seems to have liquefied right along with my brain. No matter what I tell myself, the only thing I’m good at right now is lying he
re and taking it as Miles gives me—bar none—the best foot rub of my life.
Somewhere in the middle of all the pleasure, the movie started. But not even the amazing chemistry between Sam Claflin and Emilia Clarke can tear my attention away from the magical things Miles’s fingers are doing to me. And they are magical. Oh my God, they are So. Fucking. Magical.
Some women might be surprised at how good he is at this, but in my mind it makes a weird kind of sense. After all, if I’ve learned anything over the last year, it’s that Miles—like Ethan—is good at everything he does. Adding in the fact that he’s inventive, not afraid to experiment, and an absolute stickler for detail, is it any wonder that he gives what might just be the best foot rub on the whole damn planet?
It makes me wonder—not for the first time today—just what he would be like in bed. I can usually tell how it’s going to go pretty early on—although every once in a while I do get a surprise. Like Stephen. When I walked into that restaurant last night and saw him sitting there in his staid navy suit with his staid accountant haircut, it never once occurred to me that I’d be dodging offers of erotic asphyxiation before the main course had even arrived.
But that one mistake doesn’t take away the fact that normally I’m really, really good at this. If you’d asked me anytime in the last year, I would have said I thought Miles would be good in bed. He’s got that subtle confidence about him, the kind that says he knows he’s capable of doing whatever he puts his mind to. Plus, he’s got those great hands and that world-renowned attention to detail.
But I also would have guessed that he was a little selfish—that he took what he wanted and left his partner to catch up, which is how he is in real life. He’ll explain something his way, and if you’re too stupid to keep up, then that’s on you.
This foot massage is changing my mind, though. Nothing about this reads selfish. Just the opposite, actually. It’s so obviously about me and not him that I feel a little guilty for just lying here and reveling in every second.
But all good things must come to an end and eventually he stops rubbing me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t whimper a little at the loss of his thumbs digging into all the sore spots on the bottom of my foot.
His only response to my involuntary protest is the look he shoots me, jaw clenched and blue flames dancing in the depths of his eyes. It’s a look designed to make me hot—to make me want—and it succeeds.
Oh God, does it succeed.
Instead of taking advantage of the fact that jumping his bones is suddenly the only thing I can think about, Miles just calmly checks the butterfly bandage on the heel of my hurt foot before gently lowering it back to his lap. Then hands me the bowl of popcorn.
It’s a poor fucking substitute for what I really want in my mouth at this moment, but beggars can’t be choosers. At least he sprinkles the M&M’s on top and then shakes the bowl, so that they can get all gooey and melty amid the hot popcorn.
I don’t know how, but this man really doesn’t miss a trick.
As the movie progresses, I pretty much eat my weight in popcorn from the bowl—though I do alternate between shoving pieces into my mouth and tossing them the small distance to Miles’s open mouth. Which is why—by the time the movie is two-thirds over—the bowl is empty.
And my cheeks are wet again.
For the love of God, why is the love-and-die movie an actual thing? Why?
I find myself rooting for them—for Lou and Will—even though I know how this is going to turn out. Even though I’ve read the book, too, curled up on my bed and sobbing like a baby all through the Mauritius trip.
It’s just so hopeless, this quest she has to convince him to live. Hopeless and romantic and so, so beautiful. And when he tells her that it doesn’t matter, that he loves her but nothing she does is going to convince him not to die, I pretty much turn into a broken, sniveling mess.
Miles shifts, then, letting my feet drop to the floor as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his lap. As he does, one hand tangles in my hair, keeping my cheek pressed to his shoulder as the other hand strokes soothingly up and down my back.
We watch the rest of the movie that way, with me piled on top of him and him wrapped around me. It’s hot and sticky and maybe even a little uncomfortable, but I wouldn’t trade it for a second. It’s what I’ve been missing from the moment I opened the door to my irate father this morning, the comfort of another human body pressed against mine, making me feel less alone in this nightmare.
Making me feel like somehow—someday—things are going to be okay again. That thought, combined with Will’s trip to Switzerland, is all I need to go from silent tears to full-on sobs.
Miles holds me through all of it, rocking me gently and murmuring soothing nonsense in my ear as the movie draws to a close.
I’m not sure how long we sit there like that, with me curled on his lap, my face pressed—hot and wet—against the curve of his neck.
Long enough for the ending credits to scroll across the screen.
