Miles puts his keys into a small bowl beside the door as I close it.
“I can take your coat.” He offers out his hand, and I shrug my coat off and hand it to him. He hangs both his and mine on a wooden coat rack behind the door.
The living room is modern in soft neutrals—an oversized cream corduroy sectional wraps around a low marble coffee table, layered over a black-and-white abstract rug. Minimalist art hanging on the walls gives it an easy, comfortable feel. From what I know of him, this feels veryhim. It’s clean, organized, and simple. But it looks lived-in. You can tell this is someone’s home.
Miles walks to the left, deeper into the apartment, so I follow, noting the rest of his apartment follows the same theme.
I need to stop focusing on his damn house. That’s not why I’m here.
“Do you want a—” Miles starts to say over his shoulder, but I grab his arm and pull him to me, smashing my lips to his. Hisbody is warm against mine, welcomed after the chill of the air outside. There’s still a bite of cold to his lips though, but I kiss it away.
I said I wanted simple. He agreed. There’s no point in waiting.
“Actually, I’d rather do this, if that’s okay?” I whisper against his lips.
He nods, his eyes closed. “Very okay.”
“Where’s the bedroom?” I ask, going back in to kiss his jaw and neck.
He lifts his arm, pointing somewhere to the left, where there are three doors, all of them closed. I kiss him again, this time slower and a little softer, as I guide us to where he pointed.
“Uh-uh,” he says, breaking our kiss to speak. “That one.”
His hands come against my chest, and he pushes me a little, making me move toward the door in the middle. I open it and we tumble inside, his hands roaming my body as mine stay tightly on his waist. Our mouths never break apart as he walks me to the queen-sized bed that’s covered in a navy blue comforter and too many beige and white throw pillows.
Miles is smaller than me in all aspects, and to be honest, smaller than I typically go for, but I don’t hate it. He’s at least six inches shorter than me and fifty pounds lighter, but he has plenty of curves and muscles for my fingers to sink into—which Idoenjoy.
My legs hit the mattress, and I spin us so he can lie down. I crawl over him, grinding against him so he knows exactly what my intentions are tonight. His legs come around me and he whimpers a delicious sound as I move my mouth to his jaw and down his neck. I lick and nip at his skin, testing the waters to see what he likes. So far, it doesn’t seem like he hates anything I’m doing. My ego could use that right about now, so I keep going, drawing this out just a little.
As I continue tasting him, I work on undoing the button on his jeans and slide my hand inside to stroke his dick. He’s a good size, enough to fill my hand. His hips chase my touch, wanting more. Eagerness turns me on.
I back off, getting to my feet to take off my shirt and shoes. Miles’ lust-filled gaze stays on me the entire time. He licks his lips, his focus going right to my abs.
“Do you have condoms and lube?” I ask.
“In the drawer.” He points to the nightstand by his bed.
“Get naked for me,” I tell him as I slide out of my jeans and boxer briefs and go for the drawer. I drop the lube and condom on the bed beside him as I stare down at his naked body.
I try so hard not to compare, but it’s difficult not to. When you’ve known something for so long, it’s hard to learn something new and forget the old… or the unwanted. No, not unwanted. Just… difficult.
But Miles is nothing like Franklin, just like all my other hookups. None of them are like my husband, and it’s clear that I do that on purpose. Even I’m aware of that.
Miles’ body is smooth with hardly any hair on his chest or stomach. With each intake of breath, I make out the outline of his ribs. My gaze moves down to his narrow waist. His cock is hard, resting on his belly with a small puddle of precum below the tip. His thighs are slightly thicker than you’d expect them to be. I do love a man with thick thighs.
I get on the bed, sitting back on my knees between his legs, running my hand up the outside of his thigh, and then across to his cock. I stroke him once, twice, watching the way his chest rises and falls. His lips are full, parted, and the prettiest shade of pink I’ve ever seen.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” I say.
“Yeah, I will,” he pants, his eyes squeezing shut.
His lashes are thick and darker than the blond hair on his head.
I get the lube, spreading it on my hand before running two fingers over his hole. There’s hair there, but not a lot, and light in color. He lifts his legs, pressing his feet flat to the bed, giving me more room. I slide a finger inside, his body tightening on reflex, but he eases up instantly, showing me how badly he wants me in here. His dick throbs when I brush over his prostate, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.
I grit my teeth, holding back what I want to say—I want to tell him how good he feels and how good he’s being for me. Dirty talk adds emotion, and I learned a long time ago to forgo it, so people don’t get the wrong idea. I already warned Miles that I need simple, but anything can make him wonder if that was a lie.
It’s not. I need simplicity because the rest of my life is chaos.
