The couches in Miles’s office might look very flush, but it’s a ruse. The padding is hard as a rock. Even with the cushion of Miles around me, holding me as I rest against his chest, the parts of me that touch the cushion – my elbow, my thigh – might as well be sitting on concrete.
We’re clothed enough now to not worry about who might walk in. Miles still has my panties in his pocket, but my skirt is pushed back down.
The bliss of the afterglow has come and gone by now, but I’m still enjoying Miles’s closeness and way he’s holding me so tenderly, like I’m something precious.
I want to compliment Miles for killing me and then bringing me back, but he’s smug enough, smirking like he’s the cat who caught the canary.
I sigh because, honestly, he’s earned the right to be smug.
Eventually,
