Page 65 of Shattered Queens: Veronica
He immediately notices it. “Are you all right?”
“Ye-Yes, I’m just not comfortable doing that.” I can imagine he’s shocked by everything that he’s seen or heard about me.
“I’ll take whatever you give me…for now. But I’m going to have all of you.” He caresses his fingers through the space between my cheeks. “Now, where were we?” I pick up the pace, lifting myself up. I’m fully seated on him now, and I ride him. One of his hands grabs my hair and pulls it. It causes me to arch my back; his other hand moves to my breast and pinches my nipple. The orgasm hits me like a wave.
“God, Veronica, you’re squeezing me so tightly.”
I don’t let up. He releases my hair and slaps my ass as I ride out my orgasm while he pumps into me. Sweat coats our skin and mixes with our release. I stay locked in place, loving the control I have over him. The feeling of him peppering kisses on my back is delicious. Finally, I lift myself. I’m exhausted. He pulls me to him, and without a second thought, I go, my face resting on his chest.
I wake up to Miles’s arms around me. In the last couple of hours, we changed positions. He’s still asleep, no doubt due to the pain medication. I slither my way out of his hold and put on his T-shirt. It smells of cinnamon and sandalwood, a seductive and sweet aroma.
I need coffee, so I go to his meticulous kitchen. You would think no one lives here with how clean it is. After a couple of minutes, I find the coffee pods and creamer—hazelnut, my favorite. It’s so quiet I can hear a pin drop. Sunlight streams through the large window, filling the open space with natural light.
On the wall, there are three paintings, all beautiful and vibrant. The light catches every colorful brushstroke, revealing details I missed when I was last here weeks ago. I feel as though I’ve seen the painting before.
“Cattleya orchid.” I jump, almost dropping my coffee at his words. Miles is leaning against the wall. “It’s a native flower to Colombia.”
“They’re beautiful,” I say, turning back to the wall to admire the other two. Each one is as vivid as the last. “I didn’t know you collected art.”
His face turns somber as he walks up to me. He places a kiss on my lips and walks to the kitchen. “I don’t. Those were painted by my mother.”
My stomach drops. I know his mother passed, but I don’t know any of the details. “She was very talented.”
He stops and stares into space, then proceeds to grab some bowls from a cabinet. From the refrigerator, he grabs yogurt, fruit, and what looks like granola. He doesn’t say anything as he combines the ingredients in a bowl, placing it with a spoon in front of me.
“Eat,” he orders. “You need to fuel your body.”
He makes himself a bowl, and we sit next to each other at the kitchen island. I put a small amount onto my spoon and bring it to my mouth. It’s simple and delicious.
“My mom, Marisol, loved to paint,” he says. “She did it as a hobby. She would paint and give the pieces to her friends. When she died, I couldn’t bear the thought of getting rid of them.”
“I hate eating in front of people.” I admit the words before I think better of it. He’s sharing, so maybe I can too.
His eyebrows furrow. “Why?”
“Look at me.”
I hear the chair screech on the floor and look up to see him facing me. “I am.”
“I’m not exactly a size two. I’ve been told too many times that I’m too big, not tall enough, or something else. I’ve been picked apart. Look at me versus my brothers, my parents. I look nothing like them. All my life, I was compared to my mother and brothers. Scrutinized for my body. I always felt like I didn’t measure up to everyone’s expectations of me. I guess feeding into the persona that people have created is easier.” I feel myself getting worked up. “After what happened in Miami and thosemen taking pictures of me in the dressing room, I just felt so low.” I try to put on a brave face. “Even you’ve treated me with such animosity.”
Miles flinches as if I’ve struck him. He doesn't look away, but his eyes cloud with a deep, visible shame. He reaches out and takes my hand in his, his grip firm but trembling slightly.
“I’m sorry.”
He squeezes my hand, his thumb tracing a slow circle over my knuckles. “You are so much more than just Ian and Gabe’s sister. You are more than the daughter of Abigail and Miguel Kayde. You are smart, witty, kind, and beautiful. The problem with expectations is that they are built on shadows, not the person standing in the light.” He tilts his head, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Stop trying to please everyone.” He takes a moment to organize his thoughts. “Is this why you always lie about having dinner or lunch before our meetings?”
“Yes.” I take a shaky breath. “I get anxiety about people watching me eat. I’m only comfortable with my family.” Admitting my fear has the tension in my chest loosening just a fraction.
“Thank you for telling me.” He looks at my plate. “I’d like to help you.”
I look from the vibrant petals on the wall back to him, and for the first time in a long time, I have a meal with someone other than my family. He stands up, and a moment later, he returns, setting a small box in front of me.
“What’s this?”
He inhales deeply. “This is the reason for last night.” He runs his hand through his curly hair. “Eric Harrison sent this to you yesterday.”
I feel as though the air has been sucked out of the room. “How does he know I live here?” I ask as I open the box. It’s a pair of diamond earrings with an apology note.
