Ugly Love(56)

Sex, I remind myself. It’s just sex. Nothing more. He’s not giving me any other part of him.
I can tell myself that all I want, but at the same time, I’m taking, taking, taking as much as I can get. Deciphering every sound he makes and every touch, attempting to convince myself that what he’s giving me is so much more than what it probably is.
I’m a fool.
At least I’m a self-aware fool.
I unbutton his jeans, and he unfastens my bra, and before we’re even in my bedroom, my shirt is off. Our mouths never separate as he shuts my door, then yanks off my bra. He pushes me onto the bed and pulls off my jeans, then stands and removes his own.
It’s a race.
It’s Miles and me against everything else.
We’re racing our consciences, our pride, our respect, the truth. He’s trying to get inside me before any of the rest of that stuff catches up to us.
As soon as he’s back on the bed, he’s over me, against me, then inside me.
We win.
His mouth finds mine again, but that’s all it does. He doesn’t kiss me. Our lips touch and our breath collides and our eyes meet, but there isn’t a kiss.
What our mouths are doing is so much more than that. With every thrust inside me, his lips slide over mine, and his eyes grow hungrier, but he never once kisses me.
A kiss is so much easier than what we’re doing. When you kiss, you can close your eyes. You can kiss away the thoughts. You can kiss away the pain, the doubt, the shame. When you close your eyes and kiss, you protect yourself from the vulnerability.
This isn’t us protecting ourselves.
This is confrontation. This is a standoff. This is eye-to-eye combat. This is a dare, from me to Miles, from Miles to me. I dare you to try to stop this, we’re both silently screaming.
His eyes remain focused on mine the entire time as he moves in and out of me. With each thrust, I hear his words from just a few short weeks ago repeat in my head.
It’s easy to confuse feelings and emotions for something they aren’t, especially when eye contact is involved.
I completely understand now. I understand so well I almost wish he’d close his eyes, because he’s more than likely not feeling what his eyes are showing me right now.
“You feel so good,” he whispers. The words fall into my mouth, forcing moans out of me in reciprocation. He lowers his right hand between us, placing pressure against me in a way that would normally cause my head to fall backward and my eyes to fall shut.
Not this time. I’m not backing down from this confrontation. Especially not when he’s staring straight into my eyes, defying his own words.
Even though I refuse to back down, I do let him know I like what he’s doing to me. I can’t help but let him know that, because I don’t have control over my voice right now. It’s possessed by a girl who thinks she wants this from him.
“Don’t stop,” my voice says, becoming more possessed by him the longer this continues.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
He applies more pressure, both inside and outside me. He grabs my leg behind the knee and pulls it up between our chests, finding a slightly different angle to enter me. He holds my leg firmly against his shoulder and somehow thrusts into me even deeper.
“Miles. Oh, my God.” I moan his name and God’s name and even shout out to Jesus a couple of times. I begin to shudder beneath him, and I’m not sure which one of us broke down first, but we’re kissing now. We’re kissing as hard and as deep as his thrusts inside me.
He’s loud. I’m louder.
I’m shaking. He’s shaking harder.
He’s out of breath. I’m inhaling enough for both of us.
He pushes into me one final time and holds me firmly against the mattress with his weight. “Tate,” he says, moaning my name against my mouth as his body recovers from the tremors. “Fuck, Tate.” He slowly pulls out of me and presses his cheek against my chest. “Holy shit,” he breathes. “It’s so good. This. Us. So f*cking good.”
“I know.”
He rolls onto his side and keeps his arm draped across me. We lie together quietly.
Me—not wanting to admit that I just let him use me again.
Him—not wanting to admit that it was more than just sex.
Both of us lying to ourselves.
“Where’s Corbin?” he asks.
“He’ll be home later tonight.”
He lifts his head and looks down at me, his brows furrowed in a line of worry. “I should go.” He rolls off the bed and pulls his jeans back on. “Come over later?”
I nod as I stand up and slide into my own jeans. “Grab my shirt from the kitchen,” I tell him. I pull on my bra and fasten it. He opens my bedroom door, but he doesn’t walk out. He pauses in the doorway. He’s looking at someone.
Shit.
I don’t have to see him to know that Corbin is standing there. I immediately rush to the door to stop whatever’s about to happen. When I hold it open further, Corbin is standing in his doorway across the hall, glaring at Miles.
I make the first move. “Corbin, before you say anything—”
He holds up his hand to shut me up. His eyes drop for a second to my bra, and he winces as if he was hoping that what he heard didn’t really happen. He looks away, and I immediately cover myself, embarrassed that he heard everything. He looks back at Miles, and his eyes are an equal mixture of anger and disappointment. “How long?”
“Don’t answer that, Miles,” I say. I just want him to leave. Corbin has no right to be questioning him like this. It’s ridiculous.
“A while,” Miles says, shamefully.