“Let’s go home,” he whispers.
I smile. That sounds so good. “Okay.” We walk out the front, and he hails a cab. Ten minutes later, we pull up in front of my apartment.
“Thank you,” I say as I climb out. I turn and hand Jameson twenty dollars, and he shakes his head as if annoyed.
“I’ve got it,” he says.
He climbs out, and we walk through the foyer, hand in hand, as he remains silent.
“Where are the doormen?” he asks as he looks around.
“There are no doormen.”
“There’s no security in this building?” He frowns in surprise.
“There’s security.” I point to the intercom on the wall. “Nobody can get up without being let in.”
He frowns as he assesses it. “Any fucker could walk in here.”
“You are said fucker tonight.” I smirk.
He chuckles as he wraps his arms around me. “That I am.”
We ride to my floor and walk down the corridor; my heart is beating so fast. This is different from the other times we’ve been together. Normally we’re so blinded with arousal that we don’t even remember walking through the front door. I open the door and lead him into my apartment, and I hold my breath as his eyes scan the space.
My apartment is tiny—it would literally fit into his bedroom.
“It’s nice,” he says.
I giggle. “You’re a terrible liar.”
He chuckles and takes me into his arms. “Anywhere with you is good.”
Our eyes lock, and something changes between us. The anger and animosity between us has been replaced with tenderness.
The man I met in Boston is here.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. “We could get some Uber Eats. Caramel cheesecake.”
“What the fuck? You don’t actually get Uber Eats, do you?” he asks, horrified.
“All the time.” I shrug.
“Are you serious?” he stammers. “You actually give strangers access to your food?”
“They’re delivery drivers. Why wouldn’t I?”
“They see a meal for one. Put some Rohypnol into your food, wait for half an hour until they know you’ve eaten it and are unconscious, and then come back, break in, and take advantage of your body.” He dusts his hands in front of him. “Boom, easiest crime in history.”
My face falls. “What?” God, I’ve never thought of that.
“True story,” he says as he walks around my apartment. “If I were a rapist, that’s what I would do.”
“I don’t know whether to be impressed or terrified by your evil thought process.”
He turns back to me, and his face softens. “Impressed—let’s go with impressed.”
I giggle as he takes me into his arms. “Okay,” I murmur. “Impressed it is. Why have you been so cranky with me this week?” I ask softly as I run my fingers through his dark hair.
“Because you’re fighting with me,” he whispers. “I don’t like it.” His lips take mine, and his tongue swipes softly through my lips.
“I’m not fighting now.”
“And look how fucking beautiful you are,” he says tenderly as he cups my face in his hands.
Our kiss deepens, and I want him naked. In my bed and naked. I slide his shirt off over his head and unzip his pants; his lips stay locked on mine as if he’s unable to drag them away.
His chest is broad with a scattering of dark hair, and his stomach is rippled . . . but it’s his dick that’s a standout.
The man’s hung like a horse. I don’t know if this thing even goes down. I most definitely have never seen it soft.
“You need to get on my bed on your back now,” I whisper as my eyes drop down his delicious naked body.
He smiles broadly. “That’s the best thing you’ve ever said to me.” He drags me through the apartment by my hand and into my bedroom; in one quick movement, he’s unzipped my dress, and then he slowly slides it down.
He holds my hand as I step out of it, and his eyes drop hungrily down my body. “You are so fucking beautiful, Emily.”
My heart swells at the way he is looking at me.
He lays me down and spreads my legs and slowly strokes himself as he stares down. I writhe as I wait for his touch. His lips take my nipple into his mouth, and my back arches off the bed. His fingers slide through the lips of my sex. He hisses in approval as he feels how wet I am. My breath quivers on the inhale. He’s just so . . .
Jameson Miles knows how to touch a woman.