I never thought I’d be the kind of person to indulge a no-strings fling. Not because I’m a judgmental asshole but because it’s not in my DNA. When I do something, I commit fully. I’m all in. I don’t know how to hold back.
But I’m already head over heels when it comes to Miles.
If no-strings sex is the only way to purge him from my system once and for all, at least it’ll be a pleasure-filled ride.
He grins up at me, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Miles moves so fast that one second, I’m looking down on him, my hair spilling over his bare chest, and the next I’m flat on my back, his hard body hovering above mine, pressing me into the soft mattress.
Dios mío.
I’m going to have sex with Miles Hart.
I’ve fantasized about this moment more times than I can count, but never in my wildest dreams did I think we’d be shacking up in some tacky honeymoon suite.
Giiiiirl.
Right. It doesn’t matter. Despite everything, the reality is so much better than the fantasy.
Miles’s kisses are passionate, deep, wild.
A fount of unchecked desire.
Best of all? They’re real.
He lowers his mouth to mine, and my breath catches, my pulse beating an erratic rhythm as anticipation coils low in my belly. I arch into him, and when our lips meet, there’s no hesitation. No gentleness. It’s a primal mating of mouths and flesh and unspoken need. Our teeth clash, but I barely notice as his tongue slides past my lips, moving with swift, sure strokes.
It’s like a dance, and I match him step for step, straining to erase the divide between us.
My hips move of their own accord, desperately seeking the relief only he can provide.
He’s long and hard, and I savor every inch as I grind against him, my panties growing damp with need.
“What’s the rush?” He cups my cheek with a strong, capable hand. “We have all night.”
Easy for him to say. He’s only been fantasizing about this for seven days. I’m sitting on seven hundred and thirty days—give or take—of pent-up sexual frustration.
I’d hardly call it rushing.
I trail a finger down his abdomen, hooking it in the waistband of his shorts. “Is that your way of saying you’re a one-and-done kind of guy?”
It’s not possible. I refuse to believe it, because that would just be a cruel twist of fate. But the question has the desired effect.
Miles smirks. “Did you just question my stamina?”
“Did I?”
He laughs quietly and lowers his hand from my cheek, cutting a path down the left side of my body. It’s slow and sensual anda la verga, it feels so freaking good my toes actually curl. His touch leaves a trail of fire in its wake, and when he moves to my breast, cupping and kneading and pinching my nipple with those deft fingers, a quiet moan escapes my lips.
“Like I said, we have all night.”
“You might be onto something.” I thread my fingers through his damp hair, clasping them behind his neck to draw him in for another kiss. It’s slow and languid, a promise of things to come, and I melt into it, my fingers making an exploratory journey down his back, memorizing every ridge and plane. Every hard muscle.
Because once I know his body, what he likes, and how he sounds when he comes, I’ll be able to lay my fantasies to rest. To sate this ferocious hunger that’s plagued me for two long years. I won’t need to spend my days dreaming about Austin’s most eligible bachelor, because I’ll know what it feels like to be wrapped in his strong arms.
To have his sinful mouth pressed to mine.
To join my body with his in exquisite pleasure.
