Ugly Love(22)
Author: Colleen Hoover

I kind of miss sex. It’s been a while.

I know I’m definitely attracted to him and can’t think of anyone else in my life I’d rather have casual, meaningless sex with than my airline pilot, laundry-folding neighbor.

I set the cup of juice back down, then press my palms into the counter and lean slightly forward. “Listen to me, Miles. You’re single. I’m single. You work way too much, and I’m focused on my career in an almost unhealthy way. Even if we wanted a relationship out of this, it would never work. Our lives wouldn’t fit one. We also aren’t really friends, so we don’t have to worry about our friendship being ruined. You want to have sex with me? I’ll totally let you. A lot.”

He’s watching my mouth like all my words just became his new favorite words. “A lot?” he asks.

I nod. “Yes. A lot.”

He looks me in the eyes with a challenging stare. “Okay,” he says, almost like it’s a dare.

“Okay.”

We’re still several feet apart. I just told this guy I would have sex with him without any expectations, and he’s still way over there, and I’m way over here, and it’s becoming clear that I definitely had him pegged wrong. He’s more nervous than I am. Although I think our nerves stem from two different places. He’s nervous because he doesn’t want this to turn into anything.

I’m nervous because I’m not so sure that just sex with him is possible. Based on the way I’m drawn to him, I have a pretty good feeling sex will be the least of our problems. Yet here I sit, pretending to be fine with just sex. Maybe if it starts out this way, it’ll eventually end up being something more.

“Well, we can’t have sex right now,” he says.

Dammit.

“Why not?”

“The only condom I have in my wallet has probably disintegrated by now.”

I laugh. I love his self-deprecating humor.

“I do want to kiss you again, though,” he says with a hopeful smile.

I’m actually surprised he isn’t kissing me. “Sure.”

He slowly walks back to where I’m seated, until my knees are on either side of his waist. I’m watching his eyes, because they’re looking at me like he’s waiting for me to change my mind. I’m not changing my mind. I probably want this more than he wants this.

He brings his hands up and slides them through my hair, brushing his thumbs across my cheeks. He inhales a shaky breath while looking down at my mouth. “You make it so hard to breathe.”

He punctuates his sentence with his kiss, bringing his lips over mine. Every remaining part of me that had yet to melt in his presence is now liquefied like the rest of me. I try to recall a time when a man’s mouth felt this good against mine. His tongue slides across my lips, then dips inside, tasting me, filling me, claiming me.

Oh … my.

I.

Love.

His.

Mouth.

I tilt my head so I can taste more of it. He tilts his to taste more of mine. His tongue has a great memory, because it knows exactly how to do this. He drops his injured hand and rests it on my thigh, while his other hand grips the back of my head, crushing our lips together. My hands no longer have hold of his shirt. They’re exploring his arms, his neck, his back, his hair.

I moan softly, and the sound causes him to press into me, pulling me several inches closer to the edge of the bar.

“Well, you’re definitely not g*y,” someone says from behind us.

Oh, my God.

Dad.

Dad!

Shit.

Miles. Pulling away.

Me. Jumping off the bar.

Dad. Walking past us.

He opens the refrigerator and grabs a bottle of water, like he walks in on his daughter being felt up by his houseguest every single night. He turns around and faces us, then takes a long drink. When he’s finished, he puts the lid back on the bottle of water and puts it back in the fridge. He closes the refrigerator and walks toward us, passing between us, putting even more space there.

“Go to bed, Tate,” he says as he exits the kitchen.

I cover my mouth with my hand. Miles covers his face with his. We’re both completely mortified. He more so than I, I’m sure.

“We should go to sleep,” he says.

I agree with him.

We walk out of the kitchen without touching. We reach my bedroom door first, so I pause and turn around and face him. He pauses, too.

He looks to his left, then briefly to his right, to make sure we’re alone in the hallway. He takes a step forward and steals another kiss. My back meets my bedroom door, but he’s somehow able to pull his mouth away.

“You sure this is okay?” he asks, searching my eyes for doubt.

I don’t know if this is okay. It feels good, and he tastes good, and I can’t think of anything I want more than being with him. However, the reasons behind his six years of abstinence are what I’m concerned about.

“You worry too much,” I say with a forced smile. “Would it help if we had rules?”

He studies me quietly before taking a step back. “It might,” he says. “I can only think of two right now.”

“What are they?”

His eyes focus on mine for several seconds. “Don’t ask about my past,” he says firmly. “And never expect a future.”

I absolutely don’t like either of those rules. They both make me want to change my mind about this arrangement and turn and run away, but instead, I’m nodding. I’m nodding because I’ll take what I can get. I’m not Tate when I’m near Miles. I’m liquid, and liquid doesn’t know how to be firm or stand up for itself. Liquid flows. That’s all I want to do with Miles.

Flow.

“Well, I only have one rule,” I say quietly. He waits for my rule. I can’t think of a rule. I don’t have any rules. Why don’t I have rules? He’s still waiting. “I don’t know what it is yet. But when I think of it, you have to follow it.”

Miles laughs. He leans forward and kisses me on the forehead, then walks toward his room. He opens the door but glances back at me for a brief second before disappearing into the room.