Ugly Love(30)

Tate overrules sleep on his agenda.
I wonder what else Tate overrules?
“So,” I whisper as I drop his hand. I pause, because I don’t have anything to follow the So. Nothing. Not even a la-ti-do.
It’s quiet.
It’s getting awkward.
“So,” he says. His fingers move through mine and spread them apart. My fingers like his fingers.
“Do you want to know how long it’s been for me, since I know such an intimate detail about you?” I ask him.
It’s only fair, considering my entire family knows how long it’s been for him.
“No,” he says simply. “But I do want to kiss you.”
Hmm. Not sure how to take that, but I’m not about to analyze his no when it’s followed up with a statement like that.
“Then kiss me,” I say.
His fingers leave mine and move to the sides of my head, and he holds me still. “I hope you taste like orange juice again.”
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
I count the words in that last sentence, then search around in my head for a place to store those eight words forever. I want to hide them in a mind drawer and label it Things to pull out and read when his stupid rule number two becomes a sad and lonely present.
Miles is in my mouth. He’s invading me again. I shut the mind drawer and get out of my head and come back to him.
Invade me, invade me, invade me.
I must taste like orange juice, because he’s certainly acting as though he’s enjoying the taste. I must enjoy tasting him, too, because I’m pulling him to me, kissing him, doing my best to infiltrate him with nothing but Tate.
He pulls away to catch his breath and speak. “I forgot how good this feels.”
He’s comparing me. I don’t like that he’s comparing me to whoever else once made him feel this good.
“Want to know something?” he says.
I do. I want to know everything, but for some reason, I pick this moment to get revenge on that one word he spoke to me.
“No.” I pull him back to my mouth. He doesn’t kiss me back right away, because he doesn’t know what to think about what just happened. His mouth catches up pretty quickly, though. I think he hated my clipped response as much as I hated his, and now he’s using his hands to get his own revenge. I can’t tell where he’s touching me, because as soon as he touches me in one spot, his hands move to another. He’s touching me everywhere, nowhere, not at all, all at once.
My favorite part about kissing Miles is the sound. The sound of his lips when they close over mine. The sound of our breaths being swallowed by each other. I love the way he groans when our bodies join together. Guys usually tend to hold back their sounds more than girls do.
Not Miles. Miles wants me, and he wants me to know it, and I love that.
God, I love that.
“Tate,” he mutters against my mouth. “Let’s go to my bedroom.”
I nod, so he pulls away from my mouth. He reaches across the bar to get the box of condoms. He begins walking with me to his bedroom, but he quickly walks back into the kitchen and grabs the orange juice. When he shoulders past me to lead the way to his bedroom, he winks.
The way that one little wink makes me feel leaves me terrified about what it’ll feel like once he’s inside me. I don’t know if I can survive it.
Once we’re in his bedroom, I begin to grow apprehensive. Mostly because this is his place, and this whole situation is pretty much on his terms, and I feel a little bit at a disadvantage.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. He’s slipping off his shoes. He walks to the bathroom and flips off the light, then closes the door.
“I just got kind of nervous,” I whisper. I’m standing in the middle of his bedroom, knowing exactly what’s about to happen. Usually, these things aren’t discussed and prearranged like this. They’re spontaneous and heated, and neither party knows what’s happening until it happens.
But Miles and I both know what’s about to happen.
He walks to the bed and sits on the edge of it. “Come here,” he says. I smile, then walk a few feet to where he’s seated. He cups the backs of my thighs, then presses his lips to the T-shirt covering my stomach. My hands fall to his shoulders, and I look down at him. He’s looking up at me, and the calmness in his eyes is contagious.
“We can go slow,” he says. “It doesn’t have to be tonight. That wasn’t one of the rules.”
I laugh, but I also shake my head. “No, it’s fine. You’re leaving in a few hours and won’t be back for, what, five days?”
“Nine this time,” he says.
I hate that number.
“I don’t want to make you wait nine days after getting your hopes up,” I say.
His hands slide up the backs of my thighs and come around to the front of my jeans. He flicks the button open effortlessly.
“Being able to imagine doing this with you is in no way torture for me,” he says as his fingers touch my zipper. He begins to pull it down, and my heart is hammering away in my chest so hard it feels like it’s building something. Maybe my heart is building a stairway for himself all the way to heaven, since he knows he’ll explode and die the second these jeans slide off.
“It’ll for sure be torture for me,” I whisper.
My zipper is undone, and his hand is sliding inside my jeans. He pushes his hand around to my hip, then begins to tug them off.
I close my eyes and try not to sway, but his other hand has lifted up my shirt just enough for his lips to press against my stomach. It’s overwhelming.
Both his hands slip inside my jeans now, around to my backside. He pushes my jeans down slowly until they’re around my knees. His tongue meets my stomach, and my hands get lost in his hair.