I could have picked his house out by a mile. Pun intended. With my arms wrapped tightly around his waist, Miles pulls down a short gravel lane that’s tucked away from the main highway that runs through Jamestown. When a rusty, shabby chic ranch nestled right in some beautiful foothills comes into view, I know it’s his place. It just screams, Miles: masculine, rustic, and a little overgrown.
The outside is stained cedar plank siding, and it has two tuck-under garages beneath a huge wraparound porch. He has a couple of Adirondack chairs positioned by his front door, and I can so easily picture him sipping a cup of coffee and gazing at the creek that runs through his property.
He stops his motorcycle in front of the garage and kicks out the kickstand before cutting the motor.
“Oh my God, Miles!” I exclaim, shaking his shoulders a little to show him my enthusiasm.
“What?” he asks, pulling down his aviators and looking over his shoulder at me. His mood seems slightly better than earlier, but I have a feeling I know what will turn him around completely.
“Your place is stunning!” I exclaim, gazing at his face in the setting sun. The golden colors really making his blue eyes pop.
“Eh.” He shrugs and climbs off the bike, turning around to take the helmet from me.
I comb my hair out with my fingers, my eyes wide in disbelief. “Are you kidding? It’s gorgeous!”
He props the helmet under his arm and looks out toward the creek. “I couldn’t find anything in Boulder, at least nothing I could afford that gave me a little land and some privacy. I really hate neighbors.”
I laugh and look around to see he’s completely secluded here. His own private little sanctuary plunked onto a stretch of the wilderness a mere twenty minutes from Boulder. “Well, this is perfect. Something like this would easily cost two million in Boulder.”
“No shit,” he replies instantly and rubs the back of his neck. “As I said, it’s a work in progress, but it’s mine.”
I smile brightly and throw my leg off the bike. “Show me the inside!” I have to stop myself from jumping up and down like a doofus.
He chuckles softly. “Okay, but then we’re getting dirty in the garage.”
“Okay,” I chide and let him drag me upstairs and through his front door.
He’s in a hurry to get back down to the garage, but as I take in the space through his rushed tour, I can see that Miles has vision. Most people probably wouldn’t have looked twice at this property, but he’s already turned it into something really unique and special.
He first points at where a big wall was knocked out last summer that originally separated the dining room from the living room. Since it was a load-bearing wall, he put in knotty wood support beams stained a deep espresso color that contrasts nicely with the white shiplap on two of the living room walls. The desired effect is a rustic, shabby chic farmhouse feel that oozes charm and natural light.
His furniture is minimal. Masculine. A leather couch and loveseat face a giant big screen TV. His kitchen is his current work in progress, but the new slate countertops were just installed last week, and now, he’s refinishing the cabinetry. The cupboard doors are all removed and apparently down in his garage awaiting their next coat of varnish.
He shows me to his bedroom, and it has a giant bed screaming practical comfort. But when he walks me around the corner to his master bath, it’s clear where all his money has been going.
A huge two-headed waterfall shower occupies one whole wall of the bathroom with a perfectly clear glass door to showcase his incredible tilework. I may have sprouted a lady boner when he told me he did the work himself. He also removed the wall that separated the bathroom from the spare bedroom so he could turn that space into an attached walk-in closet.
Honestly, his ex is a fucking idiot. This man is husband material right here.
He quickly shows me a spare bedroom adorned with shag carpet and wood paneled walls. He says it’s next on his list, but it’s kind of fun to see because it shows how much work he’s already put into this house. Miles is clearly not someone who sits idle.
As we walk down the interior steps and he opens the door to his garage, he smiles over his shoulder and tells me this is where the magic happens.
You know the kind of sex that’s fumbling and messy and shit gets knocked over a lot, and you feel like you’re apologizing for everything the entire time, but you still somehow manage to have an epic orgasm and break something?
No?
Yeah, me neither…until tonight.
Not only did Miles show me his filthy garage and list all of his tools that seriously sound like they were meant for a sex toy room. He also gave me a hard and rough quickie by bending me over his toolbox and getting my arms all grimy from some spilled brake fluid. I had to wash up in his paint-splattered work sink afterward just to get the smell off me.
Whatever was bothering Miles earlier, the tour of his house and the quickie he gave me seemed to have helped calm him down immensely. And considering I had a glass-shattering orgasm, I’m not complaining one bit.
Before heading upstairs to clean up in that stunning fucking shower, Miles walks me over to his second garage to show me a project he’s been working on.
He pulls on a couple of metal chain switches on the ceiling, and the illuminated bulbs swing over our heads, showcasing a stunning classic truck.
“It was my grandpa’s,” he states, sliding his hands in his pockets, his muscles extra veiny from our efforts in the other garage. “It’s a ‘65 Ford pickup. I just got the white paint completed a couple of months ago, and the interior done last week. All it needs now is this special carburetor that only works in this particular model. It’s really hard to find and crazy expensive because of that. Most of my money has been going into house renovations, so I’m waiting until I have the funds to get it up and running again.”
“So it looks pretty, but it’s not functional,” I state, sliding my hands over the glossy white paint. It’s perfect. The chrome finishes shinier than a mirror. I smile and add, “It’s like art.”
“You could say that,” he replies, watching me curiously from the doorway.
I continue my perusal. “It looks like it belongs in a Pixar film,” I muse with a smile, checking out the front end and imagining the grille opening up to talk.
This makes Miles laugh, which is nice because I’ve missed the happy-go-lucky demeanor he had when we were camping. I should have guessed classic cars were boner-worthy for mechanics.
“You said this was your grandpa’s?” I ask, walking around the hood toward the passenger side door to check out the interior a little closer. The white leather bench inside the cab is beautiful.
“Yes.” Miles nods, his posture visibly tensing as he adds, “He passed away two years ago.”
My eyes lift to his, and instant sympathy casts over me. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
He exhales heavily and offers a sad smile. “Yeah, it was a shock to all of us. I mean, he was seventy-seven, so it’s not like he didn’t live a good, long life. But he was one of those guys who seemed like he’d live forever.”
“Never aging? Always just in that perfect grandpa look?”
“Yeah,” Miles agrees. “Do you have a grandparent like that?”
I laugh softly. “My grandma who schedules meetings for me with her priest. She’s going to live forever, I’m sure of it. And if she dies, she’ll definitely haunt me from her grave.” Miles shakes his head, but I stave off his sympathy. “In some ways, I like pushing the old bird. It’s like our special connection, you know?”
He nods, moving to the front of the truck and staring down the hood. “I get that. For my grandpa and me, it was cars. I remember working on this with him as a kid. He taught me so much. I knew the names of tools before the names of my cousins. Drove my mom nuts.”
I giggle. “God, I bet you were a cute kid. Dark hair, bright eyes. I bet you got whatever you wanted from your grandpa.”
Miles lifts his brow. “Well, he always kept candies in the glove box for me.” He walks over to where I stand and moves me out of the way so he can open the passenger side door. Leaning in, he presses the button to the compartment and grabs a bag of round, pink candies.
“Want one?” he asks with a tipped smile, the scent of wintergreen hitting me right in the nose.
I laugh and shake my head. “No. If those were your grandpa’s, they should stay right where they are.”
He nods and replies, “They’re so old, but I can’t bring myself to eat them or throw them away.” He leans back into the truck and puts them back where he found them.
When he pulls back to close the door, I think I see a sheen to his eyes that wasn’t there before. He props himself on the door and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I think that brake fluid is still stinging my eyes.”
I reach out and rub my hand on his arm in a smooth, comforting motion, a knot forming in my throat at the pain he’s trying so hard to hide.
“What is it?” I ask, my thumb rubbing the inside of his wrist in slow, gentle circles.
He shakes his head with a sad smile. “Nothing.”
“Miles,” I repeat, looking up at him encouragingly. “Just tell me.”
He exhales and leans his back against the open door. “I wish I had it running already.” He looks up at the ceiling as if he’s trying to get the sprouting tears to go back into his body. “It was kind of a dying promise I made to him, and I feel bad I haven’t finished it yet.”
“Miles,” I say with a sad laugh. “Look at this thing. It’s gorgeous. It’s art! You’ve already done so much to it.”
He shakes his head and gives me a laugh. “He’d give me shit for not having it done, though. He liked to pretend to be this grumpy old man, but he had a soft side he only showed to a couple of us.”
This image makes me smile. “Those are the best kinds. It means more when you’re one of the lucky ones who get that side of them.”
“Exactly,” Miles replies, looking back down at me.
“Did he like your ex?” I ask, the question tumbling out of my lips unexpectedly.
Miles seems puzzled by this question but shakes it off. “Nah, he pretty much hated her. The first time I’d ever heard him use the word bitch was in reference to her.”
This makes me giggle so hard I have to cover my mouth. “I think I would have liked your grandpa a lot.”
Miles tilts his head thoughtfully at me, assessing me up and down for a moment. “For some reason, I think he would have liked you, too.”
“Oh?” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning on the car. “Why would I get special treatment, you think?”
He shrugs. “I think because you’re so real, Mercedes. You don’t put on a show for people, and everything you say is exactly what you are. It’s a rare quality—to be exactly what you show people.”
Guilt crushes down on me at his words. Then the words from Dean the other day pile on top of that. I need to tell him my name. This was the point of tonight. It’s gone on long enough. I’m playing games, and when you play games, someone always loses.
Miles’s stunning blue eyes are full of pain and passion, and so open to me that I feel like I can see his entire soul. I know the time for the truth is now. I need him to know all of me. The boring and the brave. “Miles, I need to tell you—”
I can’t finish my sentence because his mouth is on mine. His huge frame hunched over, and my face cradled in his hands as his tongue sweeps between my lips to caress my tongue.
My hands reach up and grab the back of his arms, holding on for dear life as his lips possess me in such a tender way that I feel butterflies erupt in my toes, in my legs, in my belly, my head. Even in my chest. Especially in my chest, right in the place that thumps harder as he presses my backside flush to the cool metal behind me.
He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, thoughtfully paying homage to both my upper and lower lip before his tongue dives into my mouth, massaging against my own, artfully giving and taking. Ebbing and flowing. A gentle claiming.
I feel his arm shift and flex under my hand before hearing the audible opening of the truck door. Without taking his lips from mine, he slides me over so my butt hits the soft bench of the truck. He kisses me all the way into the truck until I’m laid out flat on my back, my thighs squeezing tight around his sides as his weight presses down on me, hard and heavy.
Finally, I break away, our bodies rolling uncontrollably into each other. “Miles, are you sure?” I croak because I want him to be aware of where we are right now. “You want to, here?”
“Shhhh, Mercedes,” he husks, dropping a soft kiss to my lips before opening his pleading eyes to mine. “Just give me this moment. Please. No research. No thinking. I…you feel so good, and I need to feel good right now.” He exhales heavily and adds, “I need this.”
I swallow down the agony of his voice, my own guilt consuming me entirely as he pulls back and undoes my jean shorts, slowly pulling them down and off my legs along with my underwear. He presses his palm to my mound and swipes between my folds. “You’re always ready for me. Always.” He says it with such reverence that I almost feel guilty.
He falls back down on me, taking my lips again and kissing me feverishly, unceremoniously shoving my shirt up and pulling my bra cups down to pull a nipple deep into his mouth. So hard.
My hands slice through his hair, raking through the thick, short tresses as I pump my hips up into him, riding the delicious punishment he’s giving to my body.
We grind against each other so much my clit is almost raw from his jeans. “Miles, I need you,” I husk softly, no longer able to withstand another moment of this painful torture.
He lets out a deep grumble. “I don’t have a condom on me.” He presses his forehead against my chest, clearly tortured by the idea of having to go upstairs.
I don’t want him leaving me like this, so I reply quickly, “I’m on the pill.” Miles’s head pops up, his eyes so serious on mine. It makes me nervous, so I quickly add, “And I trust you.”
He stares at me, blinking several times and taking me in for a long moment before asking slowly, “Are you sure?”
I nod because honestly, I’m the untrustworthy one here. Miles is perfect.
I reach down between us and begin shakily fumbling with his jeans, a frenzy overcoming me with every minute that ticks by that he’s not filling this ache inside me. I need him just as badly as he needs me. Pleasure will take away the guilt and anguish consuming me. I need to lose myself with his weight and his body and not think about everything I’m hiding from him and how badly this could all come to an end.
I push his jeans down his butt cheeks and fist his girth tightly in my hand, positioning him between my slit and right where I need him.
“Miles,” I cry out in a beg. “Do it.”
“Mercedes,” he growls and thrusts into me. Deep. So deep.
“Yes,” I cry out because the flesh against flesh contact is wonderful. The fullness is miraculous. The pressure is life-affirming.
“Mercedes,” he moans again and again, alternating between my name and kisses to my neck and collarbone. And it isn’t long before I feel tears prick the backs of my closed eyes. Tears of my impending doom.
He’s never going to forgive me.