Page 68 of Fighting Fate
I might make an exception . . .
. . . for one person.
Well, fuck. This conversation could take two different directions, and before I can even figure out which way it's going, my phone goes off again, making me let out a low groan. Is this woman trying to get my body to react this way? To twitch and burn for a release?
Mills
And we both know who that is.
Is it me? That's who she's referring to, right? Because, God help me if she isn't.
Miles
Ugh, Mills, are you trying to finish me off? And no, that's not an innuendo ;)
I text, remembering one of our rules of tutoring. I can almost hear her chuckle, making me laugh inwardly.
"Miles, what's going on in there?" I hear Devon's voice from outside my door.
"Get lost, Devon," I snap back.
He just laughs, and I hear Cam whisper, "Probably getting a hard-on from that damn Emma Watson poster on his wall." Right on cue, my eyes find the image he's talking about, although it's not exactly a poster. It's a part of my Women of the World Calendar, and she happens to be on this month. No shame. She's attractive as hell, anyway.
My phone buzzes, jerking my focus back to the screen, and I audibly groan this time.
"Hey, Chasen, we get it. You're into Emma Watson, but can you hold off until we're out of here?" Cam says, undoubtedly smirking.
What a dumbass.
Mills
I mean I have to wear the outfit. Whether it floats your boat is up to you.
The Saturday game against the Midtown Mavericks takes an unexpected turn when Milli shows up in her new dance outfit. She is breathtaking, and I am utterly captivated. After the game, in the showers, I can't hold back. My hands pump the fuck out of my cock. I don't want to get off—I never have before with Milli—but the way she moved, those suggestive glances, the deliberate teasing during team breaks—yeah, that got me going. It's the kind of torment that's both torturous and addictive. The sort that leaves you wanting more even though it's driving you nuts.
I have this deep-seated sense that what is unfolding between us is the beginning of something. What that "something" is, I have absolutely no clue, but I am more than ready to dive in and explore every aspect of it.
"Come on, you can't keep feeding me that same old line," I remarked, my voice carrying a teasing edge.
Leaning against the time-worn barstool, Miles arches an eyebrow, that signature smirk playing across his face—a silent, knowing conversation in itself. The dim, nostalgic glow of Grub 'n Guzzle Tavern casts a comforting shadow over his relaxed posture. It is like he is a part of the tavern's fabric, blending into the ambiance of clinking glasses and soft murmurs, a place that feels like a forgotten snapshot from a simpler time.
I had only stumbled upon this tavern after a chance encounter with Wyatt post-dance practice. His suggestion to try it out for tutoring sessions had been an unexpected but welcome change. Sundays, he said, were calm here, a stark contrast to the lively college nights. And here I am, soaking in the mellow tunes from the jukebox, the hum of conversation around us, my eyes occasionally catching the movements by the pool table or the laughter at the bar. The aroma of comfort food fills the air, merging seamlessly with the sounds of a lazy Sunday evening.
Miles inches nearer, his elbow grazing mine in a silent communication. His eyes sparkle with that familiar mischief, one that usually precedes his attempts at charming his way out of something. But I am determined to stay on course, despite the distraction he presents.
Yet, in the midst of it all, a thought flickers through my mind, unbidden. Is this what it would feel like to be on a date with Miles? Not something grand, but simple, comfortable—something true to us. I wonder if the casual touches, the shared glances, are small gestures of something more, akin to the tender moments I have read about in countless romance novels.
"Give me a break, Mills," he implores, his voice a blend of playfulness and persuasion. He throws in a nostalgic reference; his eyebrow quirk in a way that makes my heart skip a beat. "Remember the good old days?" he asks, his words wrapping around me like a warm, familiar blanket.
His laughter, genuine and tinged with fondness, fills the air as he reminisces about our shared past. "You always had my back, even when I lagged behind in schoolwork. Remember how you'd make me sit and study, determined as ever, even though you were younger?" His voice softens with the memory.
I smile, thinking back to those days, our roles reversed, me trying to keep him on track through his struggles and hospital stays.
He reclines on his stool, a distant look in his eyes as he relives those moments. "And that time after Dad's relentless football drills, when I was completely wiped out?" he muses, a faint smile on his lips.
I nod, the memory vivid in my mind—him, exhausted yet persistent, and me, lost in a book, oblivious to the world except for his presence.
He continues, a softness in his voice, "I remember finding you in your backyard, Luke lost in his games, and there you were, so absorbed in your book, glasses perched on your nose. You looked...fucking cute."