Page 77 of Falling

If I was a more poetic man I could’ve written sonnets about the way his nose wrinkled, the perfect O of his mouth, the snap of his hips and then the breathless sigh as he finished, pushing himself against me as though he couldn’t possibly be close enough.

I groaned at the feel of him coming in my hand, smearing the mess over my stomach where my t-shirt had hitched up as he panted his way through it, hips rolling slow and even.

When he looked at me, red-mouthed and heavy-lidded, I couldn’t hold back any longer, either. I flopped back against the couch as I followed him over, adding to the mess and grinning at the thought of it.

We were a disaster, but I wouldn’t have wanted us any other way.

When my ears stopped ringing and reality faded back into my consciousness, Miles was leaning against me—making a mess of his shirt, no doubt—still catching his breath. The perfect weight in my lap. He could live here, if he wanted. In exactly this spot, forever.

“Miss me?” I asked once I could speak again.

Miles huffed, snuggling closer. “Obviously,” he said. “Sorry I had to disappear a little early this morning.”

“You’re allowed,” I said. “Any particular reason?”

Miles sat back then, and looked me in the eyes. He reached out, ran a hand through my hair, stroked the shell of my ear, and then sighed.

“I’d like to take you to dinner. Before umm. I tell you. Oh!” he added, opening his jacket, pausing, wiping his hand on my t-shirt—which made me laugh—and then extracting something from his inner pocket.

“Maddie gave this to me to give to you,” he said, unfolding it. “Look.”

He held it up for me to look at, and I couldn’t help smiling as I realized what I was seeing. Me and Miles, sketched out lovingly if not especially accurately in crayon, holding hands with a big red heart drawn between us.

“She said you’re supposed to give people something they like for their birthdays,” Miles explained. “So she gave you me.”

“She was right,” I said. “I do like you.”

That earned me another kiss, which I wasn’t about to object to at all.

“Hey,” I said. “You know whatever it is, you can tell me?”

“I know,” Miles said. “I will. It’s… I need to think about it a little more. It might be nothing.” He smiled, and I got the sense it was meant to look more sincere than it did.

“Anyway,” he continued. “You’re picking me up from the cabin at six.”

“I am?” I asked.

“You are.” Miles grinned at me. “In your truck.”

I pulled up to Miles’s cabin at six as instructed, grabbed the flowers I’d managed to convince Dawn to part with after closing—I’d owe her one later—and headed for the door with a gut full of butterflies.

Apparently you were never too old for those. Or at least, I wasn’t too old for them, yet.

When Miles answered the door, it was like I’d forgotten what he looked like in the handful of hours since I’d last seen him. That was the thing about Miles. He happened to me all over again every time he walked into a room. It was like I was seeing him for the first time every time I saw him.

The way his whole face changed when he saw me made me think maybe he felt a little the same way. I doubted I inspired the kind of awe he did, but it was still nice to have someone light up the moment they saw you.

I hadn’t really had that before.

“Are those for me?” he asked quietly, gaze falling to the flowers.

“Uh,” I said, blinking at him. He was dressed up again, in a navy suit with a maroon waistcoat, the top two buttons of his off-white shirt undone to show off the tempting hollow of his throat. I’d apparently forgotten he cleaned up nice, too, since yesterday. “Yes.”

Miles’s face split into a grin. “Come inside while I put them in some water?”

I followed him in, still wondering what the hell was going on.

“Make yourself at home,” Miles called out, already hunting through his cupboards. “But don’t get too comfy. I’ve got reservations.”