I nod.
“To sleep,” he clarifies. “I can do that.”
My heart hammers out an unsteady rhythm while warning sirens blare inside my head. But I don’t care. Put it off to the storm, my raging hormones, my near-death experience, or the romantic flicker of the dozens of candles around us, but I simply want Miles.
My needy stare finds his, and we stay there, locked in indecision and lust. My tongue peeks out to wet my lips. I lift my hand and run the pad of my thumb over his bottom lip. It trembles at my touch.
Miles’s chest rises and falls in unison with mine.
Heavy breaths saturate the space between us.
I turn toward him and lean up on my knees. His hands slide beneath the oversized sweatshirt and fist at my waist. My hands cup his jaw now. His day-old scruff pokes against my skin, and I drag my thumb against his lip again. He closes his eyes, breathing heavy.
I can feel his entire body trembling. The need he feels for me is palpable, but I’m not going to pretend that I haven’t known it was there this whole time. Miles has wanted me for months,maybe from the start. But he held off because he knew that wasn’t what I wanted.
He’s holding back now. Always the gentleman.
I don’t want him to hold back anymore. I just need to say the words, and I’ll get to experience what I’ve been craving from the moment I stared into his beautiful blues months ago.
Still cupping his jaw, I tilt forward and brush my lips against his.
He opens his eyes. “Are you sure?” His voice sounds pained.
I nod.
“I need to hear it.”
“I’m sure,” I breathe out.
The space between us disappears slowly—so slowly it feels like the world is holding its breath. Soft candlelight flickers around the room, casting warm gold across Miles’s face, across the blanket pooled around his shoulders. His hands slide up my bare skin beneath the sweatshirt, leaving radiating heat in their wake.
“Miranda,” he breathes, like my name itself is a confession.
My heart trips. Something shifts—quiet but seismic. He’s looking at me like he’s been fighting this moment for months, like he’s out of places to hide. I should pull back. I should say something light, something safe. But I can’t. Not with his big hands heating my skin or his lips so desperate for connection they’re trembling.
He slides his hands out of the sweatshirt and lifts one, slowly, giving me every chance to stop him. His fingers graze my cheek, the touch unbearably gentle, as if he’s memorizing the shape of me. I melt into it—helplessly, thoughtlessly.
“Say it again,” he whispers.
“I’m sure,” I murmur.
His thumb traces just beneath my lip.
The admission steals what’s left of my breath.
He leans in—not with urgency, but with intention. His forehead gently rests against mine, our breaths mingling in the warm, candlelit air. Everything inside me goes quiet. Soft. Wide open.
When his lips finally touch mine, it’s not a crash—it’s a slow exhale. A question. A promise. His hand slips to the back of my neck, warm and steady, guiding me closer. The kiss deepens by degrees, every second a careful unraveling of months of wanting and pretending.
My fingers curl into the front of his sweatshirt, anchoring myself to him as the world narrows to candlelight, warmth, and the gentle pressure of his mouth moving against mine—reverent, certain, devastatingly tender. He kisses me like I’m something precious, something fragile, something he’s afraid to break.
When we finally part, we don’t pull away entirely. Our noses brush. Our breaths tangle. His forehead drops back to mine, and he whispers, voice rough with something too real.
“Sunshine… I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”
And for the first time, I let myself admit it…
“So have I.”
