Page 42 of Deception & Daylight (Oak Ridge #3)
“I’m… happy,” I confess, still blissed out from a long night of orgasms and cuddles.
I woke up tangled around Miles as he snored softly — he looked so peaceful and I couldn't bring myself to wake him, so I carefully slid out of his arms and escaped to the porch swing I spotted last night while he spent a good five minutes struggling to get the door unlocked.
It’s so quiet here, and I’m dangerously close to calling Oak Ridge home, if only for the peace it brings. Even my usually chaotic thoughts have quieted to a dull whisper. Miles looks at me like I’m something precious, and I almost believe him.
“Don’t you have to work today?” I ask, pushing down my disappointment at the thought of cutting our morning short.
“Why? You gonna miss me, Wildcat?”
“Pfft. Hell no. Just wondering when I’ll be getting rid of you.”
“That’s not what you said last night when I had my head between your thighs. Or when I took you in the shower. Or when —”
Before he can rehash all of the sordid details of arguably the hottest night of my life, I cut him off. “Ok. You’ve made your point.”
“Good. You’re stuck with me anyway. The custom order for Luca’s place is delayed, so we’re off for the next two days.”
“Who says I’m sticking around,” I tease.
He slides his hand up my calf beneath the Barlow Construction t-shirt. “I can be very convincing.” I suck in a sharp breath as he reaches the juncture of my thigh and pauses. “I have cinnamon rolls in the oven. If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you have one.”
With a fleeting kiss on the cheek, he checks his watch and at the same time a loud beep sounds from inside the house.
As if on queue, my stomach rumbles in the confined space and Miles lets out a bark of laughter.
“Come on. Gotta make sure my girl is well fed and well fucked, and if my math is right, we’re only batting five hundred right now. ”
“Is that some sort of sports ball reference?” I joke, knowing full well what he meant. I already spotted the little league trophy on his bookshelf in the den. There’s still so much I don’t know about my fake boyfriend, but being in his space has been an eye opening experience.
Miles’ home is pristine, and I’d bet money he has someone on his payroll who keeps it that way.
There are a few family photos scattered throughout the expansive living room, mainly of Miles and Lucy, but I also spotted a photo of a much younger version of Miles standing beside a younger kid I’m assuming is Matty.
It’s like he’s holding onto the fractured pieces of their past and it breaks my heart a little bit for the kid who adored his baby brother.
He snags my cup of tea from my hand then deposits it on the floorboard, and before I can protest, I’m being hauled over his shoulder.
He carries me inside, through the foyer and into the kitchen, depositing me on the cold marble island.
I didn’t bother to put any pants on since Miles’ shirt reaches almost to my knees, but the fabric is bunched around my hips, leaving my thighs sticking to the stone surface.
The sweet smell of cinnamon and sugar permeates the air as Miles pulls on a pair of oven mitts that barely cover his massive hands.
With a beaming smile, he makes a crab-like motion with his hands before reaching into the oven, a wave of heat billowing out as he extracts a baking dish of perfectly golden brown cinnamon rolls with a crispy outer edge and an ooey gooey center — not unlike the man himself.
I’m practically salivating as I watch him drizzle on the frosting, and I’m not sure if it’s the act of Miles Barlow baking, or the pastry that’s doing it for me.
I’d say I’m the one batting a thousand in this scenario.
When Miles slips his thumb between his lips to suck off some of the frosting, I damn near combust on the spot.
He quirks a brow as if he knows exactly where my thoughts landed, before sweeping his finger into the dish and bringing it to my lips.
Without hesitation, I pull his index finger into my mouth and suck off the sweet confection, moaning around the digit.
“If you keep making sounds like that, I’ll be having you for breakfast.”
“Be my guest. As long as I can have a cinnamon roll while you get yours, I’m all for it. In fact, I encourage it.”
Shaking his head, he busies himself around the kitchen, plating up a massive roll for each of us before pouring himself a cup of coffee and handing me another mug of tea since mine was abandoned on the front porch.
Leaning his elbows on the island next to where I’m sitting cross-legged, he devours his breakfast in only four bites, going back for seconds while I’m struggling to finish the first one.
We eat in companionable silence, and when I can’t finish the last bite that’s trapped between my thumb and forefinger, Miles grasps my wrist and brings it to his mouth, swirling his tongue around my fingertips.
“Delicious,” he says, but the look in his eyes tells me he’s not talking about the cinnamon roll.