“Miles Mikel Archer,” I say. “That’s a strong name.”
Miles rises onto his elbow and looks down at me with a peaceful expression. He brushes my hair behind my ear as his eyes roam over my face. “Anything interesting happen this week while I was working, Elizabeth Tate Collins?” There’s a playfulness in his voice. One that I’m not familiar with, but I like it. I like it a lot.
“Not really, Miles Mikel Archer,” I say, smiling. “I worked a lot of overtime.”
“Do you still like your job?” His fingers are touching my face, sliding across my lips, trailing down my neck.
“I do like it,” I say. “Do you like being a captain?” I just throw versions of his own questions back at him. I figure it’s safe that way, because I know he’ll only give what he’s willing to take.
Miles follows his hand with his eyes as he unbuttons the top button of my shirt. “I love my job, Tate.” His fingers work on the second button of my shirt. “I just don’t like being gone so much, especially knowing you’re right across the hall from where I live. It makes me want to be home all the time.”
I try to contain it, but I can’t. His words make me gasp, even though it was probably the quietest gasp to ever pass anyone’s lips.
But he notices.
His eyes meet mine in a flash, and I can see him wanting to backpedal. He wants to take back what he just said, because there was hope in those words. Miles doesn’t say things like that. I know he’s about to apologize. He’s going to remind me that he can’t love me, that he didn’t mean to give me that inkling of false hope.
Don’t take it back, Miles. Please, let me keep that.
Our eyes remain locked for several long seconds. I continue to stare up at him, waiting for the take-back. His fingers are still on the second button of my shirt, but they’re not attempting to unbutton it anymore.
He focuses on my mouth, then back to my eyes again, then back to my mouth. “Tate,” he whispers. He says my name so softly I’m not even sure if his mouth moves.
I don’t have time to respond. His hand leaves the button of my shirt and slides through my hair at the same moment as his lips connect fiercely with mine. He slides his body on top of me, and his kiss instantly becomes intense. Deep. Dominating. His kiss is full of something that’s never been there before. Full of feeling. Full of hope.
Until this moment, I thought a kiss was a kiss was a kiss. I had no idea kisses could mean different things and feel so completely opposite from one another. In the past, I’ve always felt passion and desire and lust . . . but this time, it’s different.
This kiss is a different Miles, and I know in my heart that it’s the real Miles. The Miles he used to be. The Miles I’m not allowed to ask about.
•••
He rolls off of me when he’s finished.
I stare up at the ceiling.
My head is full of so many questions. My heart is full of confusion. This thing between us has never been easy. One would think limiting oneself to just sex would be the simplest thing in the world, but it makes me question every move and every word that comes out of my mouth. I find myself analyzing every look he gives me.
I don’t even know what move I’m supposed to make next. Do I lie here until he asks me to leave? I’ve never stayed the night with him before. Do I roll over and put my arms around him, hoping he’ll hold me in return until we fall asleep? I’m too scared he’ll reject me.
I’m stupid.
I’m a stupid, stupid girl.
Why can’t this just be sex for me, too? Why can’t I come over here, give him what he wants, get what I want, and leave?
I roll onto my side and slowly sit up. I reach down for my clothes, then stand up and dress myself. He’s watching me. He’s quiet.
I avoid looking at him until I’m fully dressed and slipping on my shoes. As much as I want to crawl back into the bed with him, I walk toward the door instead. I don’t turn around to face him when I say, “See you tomorrow, Miles.”
I make it all the way to his front door. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t tell me he’ll see me tomorrow, and he doesn’t tell me good-bye.
I’m hoping his silence is proof that he doesn’t like how it feels to be walked away from.
I open the door and walk across the hall and into my apartment. Corbin is seated on the couch, watching TV. He glances up at the door when he hears me enter, then shoots me a condescending look of disapproval.
“Lighten up,” I say as I make my way inside. I slip off my shoes by the door. “You have to get over this eventually.”
I see him shake his head, but I ignore it and walk toward my bedroom.