Chapter 94

I roll my eyes at him. “You are incorrigible.”

“Yeah,” he replies. He lets his hand drop. “But you like that about me.”

Curse it all, I do. He’s a challenge, always keeping me on my toes, always holding me on the edge of desire. Most of the time, I’m toppling, not knowing where I’m going to fall next. Or how I’m going to feel next.

But it’s always exciting. After so many years of being in a stagnant situation, finally feeling something like this is invigorating. With Miles, I feel alive in ways I never did with Garnar or with anyone else.

Glancing down, I notice that despite everything else about his appearance being neat and proper, his tie is slightly crooked.

“Let me help you,” I say, and reaching forward, I take hold of his tie and begin to untie it. When he starts to squirm, I say, “Stay still please.”

“Bossy,” Miles chides with a cluck of his tongue, but he stays otherwise still while I continue to work.

My tie fixing days predate even my relationship with Garnar. From a young age, my father insisted that I learn, so that I would always be ready for situations like these.

“Any man of substance will wear a tie,” my father told me. “To fix his tie will create a trust.”

I don’t care about any of that now, at least the part about me gaining trust. As far as I can tell, I already have Miles’s. I just want to help him. I don’t want him going out there looking otherwise professional, with a crooked tie.

When the tie is fixed, I place my hand over it at the base of his neck. “There,” I say, and drag my hand down his chest, tracing the length of the tie. I don’t get far before he snatches my hand with his own and keeps it pressed to his chest.

The way he’s looking at me now sends pleasant shivers running along my spine. I’m otherwise frozen, afraid to move an inch in any direction and ruin this mood.

“Thank you,” he says and I can tell he means it. “But there’s one other thing I’d like to ask from you.”

I lift a brow. “Oh?”

His grin returns. “A good luck kiss.”

“Miles…” I say, lightly warning.

He doesn’t pay it any heed as he steps closer to me. His free hand slips around my waist, the other still holding my hand to his chest. Beneath my palm, I feel the steady beat of his heart.

I inhale quickly, and in the next moment, Miles presses his mouth to mine. At the same time, Miles slips his hand down from my waist to cup the meat of my ass. I gasp, and taking advantage of my open lips, Miles licks his way into my mouth.

He’s so good at this, I hum, sinking into the feeling of his mouth on mine, his insistent tongue curling with my own.

Whatever reasons I had for holding back from this go flying out the window.

His lips on mine are all I care about anymore. That, and getting closer.

He releases my hand to cup my jaw. Repositioning, he tilts his head and comes in for another kiss.

I trace my hands up to his shoulders where I hold on tightly, my knees going weak.

Wanting more, I press my thighs tightly together for friction. Feeling it, with his hand on my ass, he gives another firm squeeze. This pulls me closer to him, hips to hips, and I feel the swell of his dick pressing against my thigh.

“Miles,” I whisper, when we come up for breath again. I want him so badly, I can’t think straight. If he lifts me onto the vanity, pulls up my skirt and pushes down my panties, it would be the perfect height for him to shove his dick into my –

A loud knock sounds on the door. Startled, Miles and I jump away from each other just as the door opens.

The assistant stands outside, but I can see him glancing at us through the reflection in the mirror.

“Sir,” he says. “It’s time.”

“Thank you, Wendell,” Miles says. Glancing at the mirror himself, he straights the shoulders of his suit where I had been tightly clenching. To me, he says, “You better get back to the reporter area. I wouldn’t want you to miss any of this.”

His lips are kiss red. Seeing them like that makes me lick my own lips. Miles’s gaze snaps there, tracking the movement of my tongue.

“I better go,” I say, and not just because I don’t want to miss his speech. If I stay here with him, we’ll likely both miss it. Or at least be insufferably late, which isn’t a good look for a president-to-be.

I back my way to the door. Wendell, the assistant holds it wider for me. Miles and I maintain eye contact until I’m standing in the hallway and we physically can’t anymore.

“I trust you know your way back,” Wendell says.

I do, so I thank him and turn away.

The reporter area is at the base of the stage, behind where a line of cameras have been set up. There are already a sea of people there, some I recognize from television or other events I’ve covered, some are new. They all seem to know each other, though, laughing and talking to one another.

When I arrive, even though I recognize some, they glance at me like I’m an intruder. Subtly, I hold the press pass dangling from my neck, gently reminding them that I do belong here. That doesn’t seem to stop the looks of apprehension and distain.

Due to the compactness of the space, I have to stand near someone, so I look for the least agitated person I can find. I see a no-nonsense kind of woman, with her hair pulled up and her eyeliner on point. I stand beside her, thinking I’m safe.

Glancing at me, she huffs a breath and says, “No. Find somewhere else to loiter.”

That’s incredibly rude, so I tell her, “I work for Harbinger News Company. I have just as much right to be here as anyone else.”

“Sure,” the woman says. “Just be here somewhere away from me.”

I could continue to argue, I suppose, but I don’t really see the point. So I inch over, closer to a younger man who likely is newer like me.

“Don’t stand next to me,” he hisses. “They’ll think we’re here together.”

“We’re all here for the same reason,” I remind him.

“I’m not going to be an outcast just because you are a bitch,” he replies and shuffles away himself.

That was even ruder than the previous woman, though I suppose, at least I have more space to myself now.

No one else tells me to move, anyway, though many continue to shoot me dirty glances. They whisper to each other. Some snicker, glancing in my direction.

I have no idea what I did to these people. Do they treat all newcomers this way, or am I simply special?

Even at the other events I’ve covered, I wasn’t treated like this. Although, this is one of the larger events I’ve been sent to. Maybe it’s the sheer number of people that makes them feel more comfortable with bullying me?

The pear-shaped woman in front of me glances back, turns up her nose and says, “Ugh. Aren’t you that housewife?”