Miles grinned. “Come on, you must have been hoping I would lose. Or did you not watch mine?”
“I saw part of it, though I was distracted by the cute French guy chatting me up.”
“Ah, well that’s far more important.”
He went back to the match, slipping into that watchful silence he had when he was giving something his full attention. I’d found myself its focus too often since he’d dropped his laundry bag at my door. Safer to let him stay absorbed in the TV for now.
When the oven timer went off, I plated up both our dinners,the thanks I received a grateful smile and the observation, “Piotr’s not just a big server.”
“No,” I agreed. “Long gone are the days you could get by on just that.”
“Sure. Although, I think last time I played him that serve was still the biggest challenge. Last year. Monte Carlo, perhaps. He’s definitely improved.”
We sat and ate and talked about the tennis, yet despite such domesticity, the space between us had a charged quality. After taking away the dinner plates, I expanded it by shifting to the corner of the couch, but the move seemed only to increase my awareness of him. Of his choice to sithereand watch the match rather than in his own apartment.
I kept forcing myself not to think about it, until nearing the end of the second set, Miles gave in to the tug of awareness that had been growing steadily stronger.
“So,” he said, lifting an arm onto the back of the couch. “Since I’ve utterly failed to predict you so far, why don’t you just make this simple and tell me what you like?”
The sudden question was like being thrown into a spotlight. My heartrate sped. “What I like?”
“Yeah, you know: frotting, toys, having famous tennis players suck your toes.”
I winced theatrically, forcing out a laugh in the hope of easing the awkwardness. “Not that one. Definitely not that one.”
“Oh, good, tennis is pretty rough on feet.” When I said nothing more, he lifted his brows. “You know we’ll be here all night if you make me list things for you to say no to. I have a pretty good imagination.”
His gaze was dark and intent and patient, that spotlight wholly on me. “Why does this feel like an on-court interview?” I asked.
With a mischievous grin, Miles held out his fist like it contained an invisible microphone. “So, Mat, that was a tough match, but you finally got it through your thick skull that you’re not the only one who likes dick, so tell us some things you like. Not things you want to do right now necessarily, just things you like in general.”
“I’m really not that complicated, I swear.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, or rather, the crowd will.” He gestured to an invisible crowd in the stands around us.
“Are you trying to make this harder?”
He laughed, the skin around his eyes crinkling in a way that was far too delightful. “No,” he said, “but I couldn’t resist. Just . . . say whatever first comes to mind.”
A lot of things came to mind, all things I wasn’t sure I wanted to say aloud, but then that was the point – the whole conversation just another challenge to see if I could keep up with him. And this would be a foolish place to stumble.
“Let me start you off,” he said when my silence dragged. “You’ve won the coin toss. Do you prefer to serve? Or receive?”
“Either,” I admitted. “Both.”
“Ah, versatile! The crowd are impressed. Go on.”
My laugh was more tension than humour as I tried not to worry what he would think of my answers. Looking past him helped. “I like . . . well, sometimes I like a bit of a tussle. I like dirty talk. Teasing. Begging. Really, any vocal enthusiasm is good. Having silent sex when you don’t have to is weird.” My heart hammered and I twisted my fingers together, still not looking at him. “I like nice shoulders. And handfuls of arse. Having my fingers in someone’s hair. I like going again ten minutes later because it was so hot the first time. I like how amazing people look when they’re enjoying themselves. And . . . I’ve recently discovered that I like famous tennis players blowing my mind with their lack of gag reflex,especially when they go on to post cute selfies at Queen’s that give me an existential crisis.”
I risked a glance at him, in time to catch the surprised laugh that broke through his smile. “Saw that, did you?”
“Yeah. That picture was quite something.”
His lips twitched as he tried to suppress an all-too-pleased grin. “Anything else?”
“Kissing,” I said with a shrug. “I’m a kisser.”
“You sound apologetic about that.”
