The guitar strums, and the crowd settles immediately, their dancing turning into more of a sway. I sing from my soul. “Earthfall.” One of the most beautiful, heartfelt songs ever written and it was written by my mother.
I used to sing it with my mom because I loved this song, and because she loved me, she would indulge me. Our voices would mingle together, making one. Then I sang from the depths of my broken heart, for my mother, for my lost love, for my mess of a life. Tonight, I sing it from a new place. I sing for the new story I’m writing and the excitement I feel with each new word on the page.
I sing it for the way Miles looks when the firelight caresses his strong jaw. I sing for the friends I have in this room, filling my heart. I sing it for the shivers Miles sends down my spine when he puts his lips on mine. I sing it for the way he is looking at me right now. I sing for being able to remember my mother on this night with a smile, instead of a gut-wrenching sob.
Lost in my memories, in the song, in Miles’s gaze—no one else exists. The end of “Earthfall” almost surprises me. My friends and neighbors cheer so loud you would think I was singing to a packed auditorium instead of a tiny pub in a wee town.
I need air. I weave and bob my way through the sea of people. I catch Miles’s eye and tilt my head ever so slightly to the door. He nods, his stare burning a path through the crowd. I keep making my way outside when a man at the corner table catches myeye. Margie passes in front of me. She patters on about how lovely the song was.
I thank her and look again at the table in the corner, but it’s empty now. Shaking my head, I go outside, past the people out for a fag, and around the corner. For a second, I thought I saw Finn—myFinn. Well, he’s not mine. Anyway, it’s impossible. Must’ve been seeing things. Too warm. All the adrenaline.
The chilly night air fills my lungs and cools my cheeks as I lean against the cold stone wall—a welcome sensation after the oven-like pub. Miles comes around the corner, his smile wide.
“That was amazing.”
My cheeks grow hot at the compliment, or possibly from the heat of his gaze. It’s like standing too close to a fire. He reaches out and tucks a lock of my unruly hair behind my ears, then runs his hand behind my neck. I lick my lips in anticipation. He leans in, and our lips meet, soft at first and then more urgent. He presses me into the stone wall. Our bodies connect. I can feel his excitement as our kiss deepens. His hands move from my neck down the sides of my body, just skimming the places I want him to stop. Teasing. A moan of excitement and frustration escapes me.
A twig snaps, and Miles flies away from me like I’m an over-boiling pan on the stovetop. We both look left and right, but no one is there—just a couple of fellas heading down the road, cigars in hand.
“I thought it might be one of the crew.”
I nod. We shouldn’t be making out in the open like this. He’s explained his precarious situation with the film. Then it occurs to me… “The room.”
Miles’s eyes light up. “The room? Really?”
I nod.
“What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
“Shh. We still have to be quiet about it.”
I lead him around the side to the back of the pub. There is a thick wooden door. Right next to it is a flowerpot with a bunch of unruly rosemary sprouting out of it. I kneel, digging around until I find thekey. The back door stays unlocked for all the guests. The key is to the actual room. We open the door and creep up the stairs. At the top, I grab Miles’s hand. The hall is dark, lit only by three sconces along the wall. The room Margie keeps open is at the end of the long hallway. We move quickly so that we won’t be spotted by any other guests.
With shaking hands, I unlock the door. We’re finally going to be alone, in a proper room. I push open the door, my heart hammering in my chest. Once we’re both inside, I flick on the lamp with the switch and lock the door.
When I turn around, Miles is standing right there. He puts his hands on my waist and leans down, kissing me softly. His lips are addictive. I need more and more to feel satisfied, and tonight, only kisses won’t do. I grab his waistband and pull him closer, the firm muscles of his chest pressing against my breasts. It’s still not enough. I push him toward the bed and sit him gently on the edge. I move away so he has a better view, as I take my sweater off. Goosebumps rise on my flesh at the chill of the room and his intense gaze. I shimmy out of my trousers next. Probably not as graceful as I hoped, but they’re very tight jeans. He smiles as I throw them across the room.
I come closer. He runs his hands along my waist and over the swell of my hip, gripping it tightly and sending a pulse of want straight through me.
He moves his hands lightly up my ribs, along the silky fabric of my bra, tracing the lines covering my breast. Sticking a pinky finger under the satin, he just barely grazes my nipple, that tightens at his touch. Every nerve ending in my body stands at attention waiting, wanting him to move the fabric, but his hand keeps traveling.
He traces the line between my panties and my lower stomach, his pinky just grazing underneath the silky fabric there. My heart is racing. My breath comes out fast as his pinky skims where I want him to linger.
“Skye,” he says, his voice thick, “you are so beautiful.”
My chest swells at his voice, his touch. This is so unlike me to bestanding in the full light of the lamp in nothing but my underwear. But it feels right with him. I unhook my bra and let it fall to the floor. His eyes turn nearly black. “Then kiss me.”
He pulls me on the bed.I straddle him, feeling his ample bulge underneath the thin fabric of my panties. I wiggle a little, getting settled, and the grunt that escapes him makes my core clench.
He brings his lips to mine. It’s soft and slow. My hips move in the same rhythm, lightly rubbing on Miles’s growing bulge. As the kiss deepens, so do my movements. My breasts press against the soft fabric of his shirt, but I want his skin on mine.
I pull back, grabbing the hem. Miles raises his arms, letting me pull the shirt over his head.
Holy Shite. I run my fingertips over his defined chest, the ridges of his abs, all the way down to the waistband of his jeans. “You still have too many clothes on.”
He tugs on the edge of my underwear. “So do you.”
I smile and stand pushing down the last bit of my clothes while Miles watches me with a heavy gaze. “Your turn.”
