Undrinkable on day one—but smoother as the years dragged on. Milo was proof she could build a tolerance, wasn’t he?
She tapped the glass rim, wondering what notes her mother would carry—the soft vanillas still living in a nearly empty perfume bottle she couldn’t bring herself to throw out, a strange blend of unlabeled spices that never had a name but Lisa used it in everything just to cover her bases.
For not the first time, Hanna’s mind landed on a question she’d avoided since they met.
If she did manage to give up her vice, would they have anything left between them?
Eventually, he decided he’d collected enough data on her. He pulled her from the bar, swinging their hands between them as they walked home.
“So,” he said, rounding the corner onto Brannan. “You’re moving back to Matty’s on Sunday, but I thought that since you’ll wake up at my place that morning, you’re still technically in the time box until midnight...”
“Okay,” she stared at him, already trying to figure out how she’d tell Olivia about the time box without sounding fucking stupid.
Milo looked incredibly nervous. “What are your thoughts on joining me for dinner Sunday night?”
“At your mom’s?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled. The confident Milo she’d been with all this time was completely gone. He pulled at her fingers, cracking the knuckles.
“I think I’d like that,” she answered, a little confused about what he was asking. “Do you introduce your mom to all your friends with benefits?”
She stopped in front of the building and dropped his hand, prepared to run, perhaps. Anxiety pooled in her stomach—she’d managed to avoid it for so long, but the dread built by the second.
“No.” He shook his head, searching her eyes. “I don’t.”
“Okay,” she said softly, smiling as he held the door open to the apartment lobby. He trailed behind her to the elevator, his hand on the small of her back as they got in and hit the fourth floor.
Before the doors even closed, he was on her, one hand in her hair, the other up her dress. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, wasting no time making good on the promise he’d made back at the bar.
It was different from the last time he’d had her pinned against an elevator wall, something more than just sparks between them.
In the hallway, she pressed herself against his back while he tried to get the door unlocked, running her hands over his chest from behind. She kissed his shoulders through his shirt, taking every piece of him she could. The door gave way and he walked forward, throwing keys, wallets, purses, and shoes down in little piles on the way to the living room.
She barely let him get his pants off before she ripped at his shirt, buttons be damned. She pulled at her dress, but he stopped her, his voice low—a far-off storm—but coming for her all the same.
“Leave it on for a bit. We’re not rushing this.”
Milo pushed against her in his underwear, his skin warm under her hands as he kissed her slowly, controlled. It was not the desperate, messy kissing they’d gotten used to. This was intentional, much more like at the bar.
It was how he would have kissed her if it was a real date and he was dropping her at her doorstep, instead of standing there half-naked.
Part of her was terrified. Part of her wanted to lean into that reality for as long as she could, unwilling to give up the dream. She reached for his face, stroking a thumb along the line of his stubble.
Every inch of her connected to somewhere on his body, and he slowly walked them toward the couch, where he laid her down, settling on top of her. His hands moved from her back to her legs—caressing the soft skin of her calves as they wrapped around him—and back up again, finding a spot just under her breasts to rest while he moved from kissing to sucking on the skin next to her ear.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispered between kisses. “I’ll do anything for you.”
She’d promised herself she would thoroughly enjoy him while she could, and she had been keeping a few ideas in her back pocket. She cycled through places they hadn’t gotten to in the apartment, but she was too distracted by his touch to concentrate.
He worked one hand under her dress, slipping a finger inside of her before she could focus on coming up with an answer, enjoying the wave of pleasure that radiated from between her hips into her chest. She let out a moan when he added a second finger, picking up his pace.
Hanna ran her hands over his back, tracing the cluster of tattoos that flowed along the top of his shoulder. She reached one hand to his jaw and pulled his face to hers, staring him in the eye. She felt him between her thighs, just under his hand, and she rotated her hips to create more friction.
His fingers quickened and he ground against her. Her breath came in spurts, her eyes rolling back.
“That’s right, Arizona, come for me,” Milo whispered against her neck, and she was gone.
She tightened around his fingers and cried out, her back arching off the couch, pushing him even further into her. He kissed her chest, her neck, her jaw, letting her ride the wave until she came back down.
