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The room we’re in was probably a parlor—a very long time ago. I blink, taking in the strangeness of it. There’s a big-ass chandelier hanging from the ceiling, glittering under a coat of dust. The floor is dirty hardwood, littered with paint peels that fell from the caving ceiling. The walls have plywood scaffolding exposed through patches that seem to have just crumbled away. At the top and bottom, they’re lined with thick, fancy crown molding.
“This room used to be a letter-writing room,” Mills tells me. “See, look at this…” He leads me past the rotting, wing-backed chair and sagging velvet couch to what looks like a gnome-sized bookshelf built into the wall.
“Those little cubbies were for letters?” I ask.
“Yep. To store your correspondence with…whomever.”
I run my fingertip over the coating of dust in one of them. There’s a piercing pain in my chest as I think of letters…journals. To distract myself, I touch the wallpaper, which actually feels textured.
“Damn, I’m kinda digging this shit.”
“Yeah,” he says, “the pattern’s pretty vintage.”
“Kinda…gemstone forest.”
“It is,” he laughs. “I know this place is old and weird, but I love the vibe. Wanna see more?”
Miller leads me down a hall where two paintings still hang. They’re so old and weather-worn that I can’t tell what they once featured.
“This is so weird,” I murmur, stroking the top of his hand with my thumb. “Like whoever lived here just…left.”
I blink as we move into the kitchen. It’s shaped like a hexagon, with shattered windows all along the back three walls. Teal green fridge, gold-veined marble-looking countertops, a rickety-looking table, and a big, trough sink that’s caked with dust and grime.
“Most of the drawers are empty,” Mills says. “The historical society hauled a lot of that stuff away, after the cops said people were taking it. Last time I looked, all I saw was some old blender. It’s orange. Wanna see?” He tugs me down with him as he crouches in front of one of the cabinets. Then he turns toward me, putting his free hand on my shoulder. “Sorry, is this making your legs sore?”
I grin. “I’m not gonna break, Mills.”
I bring our joined hands to my mouth so I can kiss the back of his.
I can almost see his pupils dilate as he looks at me. Heart eyed, like the damn emoji. He blinks slowly, and it’s like he goes into a daze.
My heart rate kicks up as I wonder for a second if something is wrong, but then his free hand grips my shoulder and his mouth covers mine.
Twenty-One
Ezra
I’m don’t think he’s ever kissed me like this. His mouth is open and the kiss is rough and frenzied. Just a second after we start up, his arm wraps around my upper back to lock me up against him. Somehow, the movement makes us both fall over. Miller ass-plants on the floor while I end up between his knees. He leans up to kiss me again, moaning as his tongue licks into my mouth.
I’m so fucking consumed, I feel dizzy as I lean on one arm and rub my other hand over his bulge. His hand squeezes my ass, and I groan.
Miller wrenches his mouth off mine. “Sorry,” he breathes.
He shoves me up against the cabinets, so I’m the one who’s sitting back against them and he’s straddling my outstretched legs, stroking my neck and shoulders, kissing my cheeks.
“Is this okay?”
I answer by kissing his mouth. I don’t know how good I am at this, but I love how soft his lips feel. The moment his tongue laps against mine—fire. When we get going, it feels rhythmic, sort of like a dance or something. We get into the zone again fast, and soon his tongue is stroking mine, which always makes my dick get way up. Miller’s a mind reader; his hand comes down on my cock, rubbing.
“Can I?” he breathes.
“Touch my dick?”
He nods, looking desperate and dazed. “Yeah. I wanna touch it.”
“Please do.”
He grinds his palm over my cock as his tongue…shit, it’s sort of fucking my mouth. I try to fuck his back, and then his hand is in my pants. Both his hands are breaking into my shorts as his mouth runs the show. Who knew Miller would be such a skilled kisser?
“Fuck,” he whispers, pulling off my mouth to catch his breath.
I cup his damp neck. “Good?”
“Too good.” He laughs, soft and throaty. “I’m about to jizz my pants.”
He looks down and then up at me. His mouth is red, his eyes glassy. “Can I suck you? I know it’s hard on the floor. I—”
I push his head down in answer, rough at first but then more gentle so he doesn’t feel manhandled.
He gets my dick out pretty damn fast. When he gives the first suck, I shiver.
“Okay?” he whispers.
“Oh yeah.”
He starts really blowing me, and my eyelids drop shut. I’m rubbing his hair, his arms, stroking lightly as my back aches from the hard floor and my dick throbs and my balls feel so good I can’t help a loud groan. Then he’s going harder, taking me in deeper, and I’m fisting my hands on top of his head, telling my careening mind not to pull his hair.
