Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Which is, admittedly, a nice compliment.
Except, I’ve no choice but to shift around to accommodate his face in my neck, and with my right ear nearly pressed against the cushion, the top of my hearing aid is knocked loose.
Oh, shit.
The custom mold is still inside my ear—that’s not likely to come loose on its own ever—but the behind-the-ear part? That little silver bitch has jumped off my ear and burrowed into my hair. That usually only happens when something gets caught in my hair, like the string from a face mask at the doctor’s office, or corded headphones.
And now, a hot, strapping man fucking me hard into the cushions has done the job.
Subtly, or as subtly as I can, I sneak a hand into my hair, hunting for it in my strands. But Miles rises up, looking down at me curiously.
Awkward.
Never have I ever searched for a hearing aid post-sex. Because never have I ever had one dislodge during sex.
“Is everything okay?” he asks with genuine concern.
“Yes, fine.”
“Do you need—”
“Nope,” I say brightly, cutting that idea off at the knees. I don’t need help freeing my hearing aid from my own hair, but I also don’t want anyone else touching it. They’re expensive and necessary. They’re for my hands only.
In a few seconds, I free the piece from my hair without having to pull the whole thing out of my ear, thank god. But still, I scoot up on the chaise and turn away from him, quickly tucking the small silver piece back where it belongs.
It’s not that I can’t hear without it. I can manage. But it’s that—none of this is sexy. And it’s kind of embarrassing. Like some asshole once said to me after a couple dates last year when he learned I wore them. Nick’s words? “Well, that’s embarrassing. Especially at your age.”
Yup. I’m twenty-three and wear something most people associate with the elderly and have since I was sixteen.
Fun times.
Best to move on. “I should get dressed,” I say evenly since I don’t want him to think this bothers me. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. Or to tell me I’m beautiful right now, because if he does that, it will feel like he means you’re beautiful even with your hearing aids.
I don’t want that kind of response, and I don’t need that kind of reassurance. But before I can slide out from under him, Miles wraps a hand gently around my arm, and says, “I’m sorry. Did I knock it out?”
I pause, absorbing the words. The question. The intent. He’s not trying to make me feel like I’m oh so inspiring for being able to have sex with hearing aids in. He’s just acknowledging that they’re part of it and that he’s, well, cool with it.
And that’s a much better response. “Yes, but it’s fine now,” I say. “They survived the great fucking.”
He laughs, then turns sober quickly. “Do you need anything?”
For you to stop being so fantastic because I’m going to start expecting a unicorn to arrive on my doorstep tomorrow.
And since I’m too much of a realist to believe in good fortune that I don’t make happen with hard work, I say, “I’m good.”
I should get dressed. Say goodnight. Head home to my roommates. Go out on a high note, so to speak.
But before I can grab my shirt, he slips an arm around my waist and pulls me back to him, forcing me to look at his too handsome face. “Can you hand me my glasses?”
My heart stutters from the simplicity of the request. They’re not the same—glasses and hearing aids—but neither one of us has perfect senses and I know that was a purposeful reminder. I hand them to him, and he slides them on, pushes them up, then says, like it’s a goddamn order, “Let’s have that second date now.”
“Now?” I repeat in case I didn’t hear him right. Because who does this? What man puts himself out there this way? This can’t be real. I’m not sure I feel ready for a man like Miles, who seems so certain of who he is and what he wants. I’ve never dated anyone like him before.
“Yes,” he says. “I want to see you again. I have to go out of town tomorrow, but come over tonight, Leighton. Let me cook dinner for you. Are you hungry?”
This isn’t how dating works. This isn’t how men work. This isn’t how I usually work…but I don’t want tonight to end either.
“I guess we’d better find your watch and get out of here then,” I say, and after we clean up the studio we’re closing the door behind us a few minutes later.
8
YOU COULD SAY I’M A FAN
Miles
I don’t believe in wasting time. I’ve lost enough of it, from an injury that sidelined me for half a season a few years ago, to the dark place I went in my head from all that downtime, to the long hours on the bench when I first started out. Proving myself, earning my spot—none of that came easily. I know how fast time can slip away, especially in this life, where focus and luck matter as much as talent.