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“History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it,” I say. “Quoting Winston Churchill now, Mr. Miles?” she breathes.
“Ask him if he feels like he might die if he doesn’t get to touch you again.” I frown. “Why would I ask him that?” I whisper. “Because there’s another man who does.” The phone clicks as he hangs up.
Please don’t be any more gorgeous. I won’t be able to deal with you at all.
“But it was the way you kissed me that I remember the most.” My eyes search his. “How did I kiss you?” “Like you’d been waiting your whole life to kiss me.”
“Have you ever been so physically attracted to someone that you lose the ability to think around them?”
he lifts my legs around his waist and in one strong movement slides deep into my sex. We stare at each other as the air is knocked from our lungs.
“Fuck, Emily,” he whispers. “You turn me inside out, baby.” If I could reply, I would, but I’m too busy in making-love heaven here. Being fucked hard by Jameson Miles is hot as hell, but being made love to by Jameson Miles is life changing. I’ll never be the same.
“You must have done something stupid in your life, Jameson Miles.” He smiles softly over at me in the darkness. “Yeah. I have.” “What?” I smirk. He reaches over and cups my face in his hand, and his thumb dusts over my bottom lip. “I never asked for your number.”
“I’m in love with you, Emily Foster.” He leans in and kisses me slowly. His tongue swipes through my open lips with such emotion that I get a lump in my throat. “I can’t help it. I tried to stop it, and I couldn’t. I think I’ve loved you since our first night together in Boston. You stayed with me. I fought it, and still, I couldn’t forget you. I’ve been carrying your scarf around like a lovesick fool for more than a year.”
“So please forgive me if I want to go full steam ahead. This is not a snap decision. It’s been coming for a long time, and now that I’m in a position to act on it, I don’t want to waste any more time. I want you with me. By my side.”
misrepresentation of society with unrealistic images that portray a fake lifestyle with impossible ideals,” I reply as I sip my wine. Don’t piss me off, bitch.
Her love is a light . . . my light. “Jay,” she murmurs as she runs her fingers through my stubble. Her eyes search mine. “Yeah, baby?” “Can we come back here next weekend?” she asks hopefully. “Really?” I whisper. She nods with a soft smile. “I love this old house.” I smirk. If the truth be known, I’m kind of keen on it myself. “Maybe.” She snuggles against my chest. I feel her relax in my arms, and after a while,
the gentle pattern of her breathing notifies me that she’s drifted off to sleep. I inhale deeply into her hair and smile as I watch the fire. This is it. I can stop searching. I’ve found her.
“When someone shows themselves to you . . . believe them.” My chest constricts at the significance of that statement. For weeks now, I’ve refused to believe that Jameson Miles was coldhearted. He is, though; no matter how the man I thought I knew presented himself . . . his reality is a lie. “Jim doesn’t exist,” he said. My phone rings, and the name Tristan lights up the screen. I frown. “Hello.” “Oh my God, Em. They think they’ve found it.” I sit up. “What?” “Lara Aspin’s computer—there’s evidence on there that it was used to log in to our bank accounts.”
“Being in love is like being on a deserted island, Jameson. You focus on them and them only, and you make everything else fit around that person.”
“Because you love me . . . and two wrongs don’t make a right. If you don’t let me make this right between us out of stubbornness, which is a real possibility . . . we will both regret it forever; you know we will.”
