MIRANDA
Miles carries me through the dark hallway like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. His body radiates heat, his breath warm against the side of my neck. When he nudges my bedroom door open with his shoulder, the soft glow of the candles we lit earlier spills across the room, painting everything in gold.
He sets me on my feet slowly, like lowering something fragile and precious. His hands stay at my waist a moment too long, thumbs sweeping gentle, reverent circles against my skin.
“Miranda…” His voice is barely a sound.
“Yes.” The word breathes out of me on instinct.
He cups my face with both hands, and the tenderness in his touch nearly knocks the air from my lungs. His forehead presses to mine, his breath unsteady, like he’s holding back the weight of everything he’s wanted for months.
“I want tonight to be perfect for you,” he whispers.
“It already is,” I whisper back.
His mouth meets mine—slow, warm, searching. A kiss that unravels thought. A kiss that feels like he’s finally home.
He lifts the edge of my sweatshirt, and when I raise my arms, he pulls it over my head with aching care. His eyes roam my body like he’s memorizing every inch, not with hunger first, but awe. His fingertips trace the little curve beneath my ribs, soft enough to make me shiver.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.
The words hit me deeper than they should, settling somewhere fragile inside me.
I reach for him too, lifting his shirt, running my palms over his stomach and chest. Heat rolls under his skin, and he shivers when my hands spread over his heart.
We move to the bed without even realizing it—stumbling, laughing quietly, kissing in broken breaths. The covers are cool against my legs as he lays me down, but his body is a furnace hovering above mine.
“Miles…” I whisper, aching and unsteady.
His hand trails down my thigh, slow, deliberate, worshipful. He lifts my foot to his lips and kisses the arch with a tenderness that steals my breath. Then my ankle. My calf. The inside of my knee. Each touch deeper, warmer, pulling a whimper from my throat, I can’t swallow.
He kisses a path up my body like he’s discovering sacred ground.
My hips.
My waist.
The soft dip of my stomach.
My ribs, where his lips linger as if he wants to breathe me in.
My collarbones, where his mouth burns a brand I’ll never forget.
By the time he reaches my lips again, I’m trembling with something too big to name.
He kisses me harder this time—slow turning urgent, tender, turning hungry. My fingers sink into his hair, pulling him closer,needing him closer. He groans against my mouth, a low sound that sparks heat everywhere.
His body lowers to mine, chest to chest, heat to heat. The sensation is overwhelming, grounding and electrifying all at once.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he whispers between kisses, his breath shaky with restraint.
“I don’t want to stop,” I breathe, my voice breaking with the truth of it. “I want all of you.”
His eyes close for a second like the words undo him.
“Sunshine…” he exhales, rough and reverent.
He reaches my panties, the last article of clothing I wear, and pushes them aside, sliding two fingers into me. A shared, guttural groan escapes both of us as he discovers just how ready I am for him.
