Chapter Twenty-Eight

Zoe

M y pillow has been permanently replaced.

These days, I go to sleep with my nose buried inside my boyfriend's arms, and I wake up drooling on a massive wall of muscle.

The alarm clock suffered an upgrade, too, and some days I stir with Miles's mouth between my legs—which means I'm the one waking up the house with screams and multiple orgasms.

I'd never quite understood the appeal of early mornings until now.

Other than that, our lives changed without much changing.

Only the smallest shift of the last wall that crumbled between us. We tore it down to stand in the same room, and nothing separates us now—no lies, no pretenses, no hidden feelings.

The room is a bedroom, and we now share a bed. My sleepless nights don't belong to my ghosts anymore, just like my dreams.

They all belong to my boyfriend. My boyfriend .

There was no strangeness or awkwardness, since transitions were unnecessary. Most nights, I fall asleep wondering what I was so afraid of in the first place.

Whatever lies I told myself before, the truth is we were already sharing a life together. The evidence is our routine, that has remained unchanged—with the exception of some nightly rituals. And morning. And the occasional afternoon.

Every day, we have breakfast together. Miles sits me on the counter so that I devour my cereal where he can cop a feel—or many—while preparing his fruit and fiber and protein, whatever that means.

As he leaves for the club facilities, I close myself in his library, which is officially my home office. My desk stayed, after all, albeit moved to a spot where I enjoy some vitamin D while I busy my hours with work.

My project officially launched on Miles's birthday, in perfect harmony with the theme. The story of the man behind the athlete. The little boy before stardom.

If I'm honest with myself, I have to confess it started as an excuse to collect new pieces of the puzzle that is Miles Blackstein; who he is, and what made him who he is.

It quickly escalated into something else—something bigger. As my then-fake-boyfriend gave me a peek into his childhood through the eyes of his memories, something else glared at me.

In a world that treats athletes like public property, shiny things denied the basis of humanity—flaws and mistakes, or the simple concepts of privacy and dignity—there was a need to reclaim their humanity for them.

The series of intimate interviews that would translate into an article soon morphed into a short story in which a little boy was the main character. And through a character, we tell a real story.

A cartoon illustration of a young boy sets the tone. Then, the tale.

The official website reached proportions that I hadn't anticipated, crashing countless times in the first twenty-four hours due to high traffic, the social media accounts hitting numbers overnight that had me questioning whether I posted the wrong picture of Miles.

In face of the numbers, I'm forced to consider that what started as a distraction had become as a project with serious potential.

In my head, plans are already taking shape: transfer the interviews into podcast format, and my priority: manipulate Rodri into being my next guest.

Although I miss the sidelines and the energy of a boiling stadium, I don't miss the stress of my days in the newsroom or my dearest colleagues. I don't even get to miss Liam, as he keeps badgering me with an average of eighteen texts per hour. I have no desire to participate in the hostility of the corporate ladder for a job that, as much as I love, no longer challenges me—and I'm fortunate enough to have the possibility to risk other ventures. To do something bigger than the sum of its parts, bigger than the work itself.

Still, I keep my remote duties, juggling both things. Resigning feels too final, though I know I eventually will.

Like clockwork, I'm alerted it's lunchtime by Miles's Mercedes. Almost every day, he makes the effort to come home—though he repeatedly states it can't be called an effort . On the days he has practice in the afternoons as well, he gets a start on dinner—which he religiously insists on cooking for us—as I do the dishes.

Occasionally, we meet downtown for a meal with our friends and family—or simply live life outside of work and outside of the two of us.

I push myself to get out of the house as often as possible, too. Alone or accompanied, I still look over my shoulder every two steps—I will, until my attacker is caught and imprisoned, which is starting to look more and more like an illusion as the months pass without developments.

Over the past days, we've been rereading and rewriting our story, erasing all the barriers and veils between us to relearn each other.

Or maybe it was just me.

Miles seems to know me by heart already—every little piece of me. And he loves each one.

It's a tangible thing, his love; evident in his actions.

In the way his arm tightens around me every morning before he takes the first awake breath.

In the way his hand measures his cooking, because I don't enjoy the extra spicy flavors he favors.

In the way his eyes search my horoscope before checking his own sign.

In every kiss given with absentminded lips.

Like he can't stop himself from walking a mile in my direction to press his smile on my mouth. On my cheek, on my temple, on my neck, and every patch of skin he can find. Like the simple featherlight touch is enough because there will be featherlight touches for the rest of our life.

Those are my favorite kisses—wordless evidence that he wants this forever, that he believes in forever.

And it's in the way he meets my need to know, to comprehend, to absorb every little thing. Without questions or judgments.

My rational mind is still making peace with the fact all of this is real, all of it mine.

"Tell me something." I ache to know him inside out, back and forward—all the pieces, upside down.

"The first time I ever saw you," Miles starts, adjusting the sheets on my back, "was not when I knocked on your door to introduce myself."

The circles I trace on his bare torso stumble.

"It was a Tuesday afternoon, January 31st. I had a tour to see the apartment, and I was late because I couldn't find a parking spot. Then, miraculously, there was one. The ignition wasn't even off when I saw you."

One arm behind his head and the other around me, he plays with the strands of my hair, and I lay on my stomach with my chin resting on his sternum. Watching him. Watching the way my boyfriend looked at me the first time he saw me.

"You sat on the swing, slowly swaying back and forth. head tipped back. At first, I thought you were looking at the sky. It was really cold, but it was a beautiful day. A clear sky, only a few white clouds here and there, now and then." Fixed in the ceiling above us, his gaze watches the skies he describes, transported back in reminiscence. "But when I looked closer—because I couldn't look away—your eyes were closed. I don't know how long we stayed like that. You were swaying and smiling, and I was just staring like a blind man who just saw light."

The messy tips of his hair rustle on the pillow as he shakes his head, self-deprecation mixed with sheepishness.

"Then a little girl appeared out of nowhere. I didn't see her approaching until she was lecturing you."

I never thought of that day again, but I remember the little girl. Two dark pigtails and hands on her waist. ‘Ma'am, you are far too old to be stealing the swings. What if it were your child wanting to ride?'

‘My child will be taught to push their mother,' I had taunted.

And she answered accordingly with the cutest frown. ‘Yeah, push their mother out .'

"Afterward, you pushed her until her squeals rose to scared shrieks." Miles guides us through a memory we share from different perspectives. "You laughed like a villain and ran away."

"She was begging me to push her again." And it is as amusing now as it was then.

Miles chuckles like that's exactly what he assumed. "You tripped, almost tumbled down, and the two of you only laughed harder. And right then, all I saw was a flash of all the things I wanted. A glimpse into my future."

Pink traces of embarrassment tickle his cheekbones, but he forges ahead in his admissions not giving me a chance to interrupt. Not that I would.

"My mom was raised by a single mother too. My grandma became pregnant with my mother before marriage. Her religious parents kicked her out, and the father didn't stick around. Since I was old enough to understand patterns, I promised myself it would end with me. I would build the perfect family, and I would never leave them. I was so fixated on that idea I couldn't see beyond."

Lit by intimate lamps on either side of the bed, every angle of Miles is a work of art painted by intimate colors, the room a sacred space for his confessions. I want all of them, each one more than the last. Instead of quelling my hunger, they feed it, and I'm insatiable.

I'm insatiable for all things Miles Blackstein.

"And then you came in and changed everything. Without reason or explanation, suddenly there was something else on my mind. Something I wanted more than I'd ever wanted a picture." Coming to the present, he locks our eyes, tapping the ink on my pulse point. It thrashes and thumps and it can't be my heart—it's in his hand. "You. I do want a family. But I don't want one that doesn't include you, Zoe."

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, overwhelmed. Still a little scared he'll see how much I want that, too—and how scared I am of what I want.

"Anyway, that day, I saw you walking out of the elevator," he continues. "It felt like a fucking sign from the universe. So, I told the realtor to close the deal immediately. I literally blurted it out in the same sentence that had started with all the reasons I wanted a house with a backyard and a fucking pool."

We both laugh because that's just so… him .

"For the past year, I'd been at war with myself. I tried to hate you after our first meeting went so well, but I could never hate you as much as I wanted you. I tried to convince myself I didn't want you because I was convinced I could never have you."

The twirl of his fingers stills, switches into a handful, roughly forcing me to face him.

"Until…"

"The kiss of deception."

"The kiss of deception," he confirms. He's greedy and needy for a real kiss. Nonetheless, his confession isn't over. He has to finish. "I didn't plan it, Zoe. But after everything, it was my only chance. No way in hell would I waste it."

"I know," I pat his chiseled pecs. "You're not so skilled in scheming. As evidenced by your poor decision-making, you are much more prone to impulsiveness than plans and plots… or just good old thinking-before-doing."

Miles grins. "Being mean to me has only ever made me want you more, love."

The joke reminds me of my own sins and confessions.

"I haven't apologized to you, yet. For the way I treated you." He opens his mouth to retort, but I clamp it shut with my palm. "You could be the vilest human being—it still wouldn't excuse my behavior. I know you know I regret it, but I haven't said it. I'm sorry."

His tongue darts out to lick me. "Well, I think we could find some ways for you to make it up to me."

"We could." The same hand began a trail down his chest. It's stopped before the destination. "What do you propose?"

"It is a blue moon tonight. We write each other a poem with blood from a bonding ritual and tattoo each other's initials on our pinkie fingers." He boops my nose with said finger. "Or we can go to Vegas and tell Elvis all about our love."

For a moment, I'm stunned into silence.

"I—I was thinking of sexual favors," I stutter a little. Considering my jaw hangs open, it isn't shocking. "But blood rituals don't sound so bad."

Those damn dimples taunt me. "Ouch. But I like the way you think. Sexual favors are much more fun."

He breaks into chortles that tickle the palm of my hand. Short-lived, they dissolve before I have time to smack him and his awful jokes. A gust of air sends shivers down my spine when he shoves the white sheets away, uncovering us completely.

He pushes my back against the mattress with his body. It hovers, not touching. Determined and desperate to fix the error of his ways and feel the sparse trail of coarse hair that scatters his chest, my back jumps from the bed, arching for him.

"Make no mistake, Zoe." His declaration is delivered directly against my lips. "We will talk to Elvis, eventually."

"Okay," I breathe against his lips, returning his oxygen.

The only time I ever want to meet Elvis is with Miles Blackstein by my side. I know that with a certainty that should scare me, yet, against all odds and all logic, it doesn't.

"Okay," I repeat.

I'm bathed in silver as he traces every little line, every small indentation on my face until he lingers on the fading ghost over my eyebrow. Soundlessly, he brushes his lips in a soft caress over the scar. An apology.

I see the guilt creeping up on him, clouding his silver gaze. It claws its way up and climbs through the furrowed lines on his face until it distorts under a veil of shadows in his eyes.

"Baby." Framing his jaw, his racing heartbeat, I demand his gaze. "It wasn't your fault."

Miles nods, but doesn't agree.

He plants another apology on my temple, such a soft sweet kiss it almost hurts. "I promise I'll never let anything bad happen to you."

Then he seals his vow with a kiss on my lips. It lingers, lasts until his tongue joins, prying my mouth open, nipping and sucking until we're nothing but frenzy and need and bared souls .

Dragging his mouth down, he draws a wet path to the triangle of my throat, to the exact spot from which he sucks a deep moan.

"Let's see how good you make it up to me." Desperate and delirious, I whine as he withdraws completely from me. "Get up on your knees and ride my cock, love."

After a few breaths to recover, I push onto my knees. He's sprawled on the mattress like a fucking king, with his dick pointing to heaven and that damn smirk that's so utterly mine.

His hands find their place at my hips like every angle of my curves was drawn to his size as I straddle his stomach shamelessly, dragging myself south until I'm perfectly aligned over his length.

"Jesus fucking Christ." He watches me undulate, utterly transfixed as I coat him with my wetness.

"And here I thought I would be saying grace today," I manage to rasp. "On my knees."

Miles paints his fingerprint into my pulse, his hand spanning my neck, and I'm at his mercy.

"Such a smart mouth." His hand flexes. "Perhaps I should put it to work."

My mouth waters, unable to lie and say I would mind.

"Later," I promise.

With the slightest raise and tilt of my hips, I slide down until I'm seated, and he's completely inside of me.

And Jesus fucking Christ, indeed.

I am full.

I'm full and brimming, and I might burst at the seams and become little specters of stardust.

Such overwhelming fullness that the first slide always comes with a little sting.

"Fuck—fuck."

Yeah. My thoughts exactly.

Emboldened by his incoherence, by his jaw that sharpens, his nails that claw into my hips in an effort to keep himself back, I throw my head back and bounce.

"Good girl." His praise is a direct line to my pussy. I clench around him, and he groans. "Look at you taking me so well. Riding my cock so eagerly."

I am eager. I'm frantic. I want him so bad I would gladly die from exertion.

"Do you realize we could've been doing this all along if you weren't so stubborn?" He punishes me with a spank. "Makes me wanna paint your ass pink."

I moan, grinding my clit against his pubic bone. Panting, I ask, "Will you kiss it better?"

Two more slaps. On the third, his hand doesn't leave, curling around my cheek to pull me up from his dick.

I don't have time to complain—or even grasp what's happening.

The wall is cold against my palms as I steady myself, but all I feel is scorching heat and his breath on me.

I don't have a voice to wonder. I'm too busy screaming in response to the delicious brush of his teeth on my clit as soon as he settles me on his face, my knees framing his head on the crisp white pillow. My whole body shudders and convulses and unravels for him.

I have no presence of mind to worry if I'll smother him to death. The sounds that leave his throat say he would happily go out like this, and his tongue proceeds to kiss me better with thorough devotion.