One Night: Promised Part 19

'Are you going to come, Livy?'

'Yes! Please don't say you're not ready,' I beg, my legs squeezing against his sides.

'f.u.c.k, I'm always ready for you.' He sits up and heads straight for my neck, latching on with his mouth, kissing and biting. 'Let it go.'

I do. Every muscle constricts and I yell, my head falling back and dangling freely while I shudder around him, my mind a complete fuzz of jumbled thoughts.

'Jesus!' he shouts, surprising me, even through my numb, blissed-out state. 'Livy, you're pulsing around me.' He guides my non-responsive body on him. I'm useless, except for the relentless muscles gripping greedily onto Miller inside me.

He climaxes with a loud groan and an uncontrolled buck of his hips. I'm just swaying in his hold, relying on him to hold me up. 'You do serious things to me, Olivia Taylor. Serious, serious things. Let me see your face.' He helps me pull my limp head up, but I don't stay upright for long, my chest falling forward and forcing him back to the headboard. He doesn't complain. He lets me burrow into his neck and leaves me to catch my breath. 'Are you okay?' he asks with slight amus.e.m.e.nt in his tone.

I can't speak, so I nod, my hands stroking down his biceps as he drags his palms all over my back. The only sound is strained breaths, mostly emanating from me. But it's comfortable. It feels right.

'Are you thirsty?'

I shake my head no and burrow deeper, content to remain exactly where I am, grateful for his acceptance of me.

'Have you lost your voice?'

I nod, but then I feel him jerking underneath me. He's laughing and I desperately want to see it, so I spring to life, scrambling from his chest and quickly getting his face in my field of vision. It's straight, and his eyes are wide with shock.

'What's the matter?' he asks, all concerned, scanning my face.

I gather all of the air in my lungs and use it to form a sentence. 'You were laughing at me.'

'I wasn't laughing at you.' He's all defensive, clearly thinking that I'm insulted, but I'm not. I'm delighted, but p.i.s.sed off I missed it.

'That's not what I meant. I've never seen or heard you laugh.'

He looks uncomfortable all of a sudden. 'Maybe that's because there's not much to laugh about.'

I feel my brows meet in the middle. I get the impression that Miller Hart doesn't laugh very often. He barely smiles either. 'You're too serious,' I say, sounding more accusatory than the simple observation that it was meant to be.

'Life is serious.'

'Don't you laugh in the pub with your friends?' I ask, trying to imagine Miller drinking a pint in a spit and sawdust pub. I can't see it.

'I don't frequent pubs.' He almost looks offended by my question.

'What about friends?' I press, finding it hard to imagine Miller laughing and joking with anyone full stop, with or without a pub added to the mix.

'I believe we may be getting personal,' He snubs me completely, making me choke. After everything I've shared?

'You pressured me into sharing something very personal, and I told you. When someone asks you a question, it's polite to answer.'

'No, it's my prerogative to-'

I cut him off with a dramatic roll of my eyes and fail to halt my mischievous hand from slipping up to his armpit. He watches me suspiciously, his eyes following my hand until I'm tickling him there.

He doesn't even flinch, just raises his eyebrows c.o.c.kily. 'Afraid not.' He's straight-faced but smug, making me more persistent, so I walk my fingers across his collarbone to his stubbled chin and attack him with wriggling fingers, but still nothing. He shrugs. 'I'm not ticklish.'

'Everyone's ticklish somewhere.'

'Not me.'

My eyes narrow and my fingers creep down to his stomach, giving a little dig in the hard, muscled area of his abdomen. He remains impa.s.sive and unaffected by my tactics. I sigh. 'Feet?' He shakes his head slowly, making me sigh deeper. 'I wish you'd express yourself more.' I crawl back up his body and settle to his side, propping my head up on a bent elbow as he s.h.i.+fts to mirror me.

'I think that I express myself just fine.' His hand reaches over, taking a lock of my blond, and he starts twirling it between his fingers. 'I love your hair,' he muses, watching his slow-playing fingers.

'It's unruly and unmanageable.'

'It's perfect. Don't ever cut it off.' His hand slides around my nape and tugs me closer so there are just a few inches between our faces. My eyes are torn, not knowing whether to focus on his eyes or his lips.

They choose his lips. 'I love your mouth,' I confess, inching forward and resting mine over his. My bravery is increasing, my ability to express myself with this expressionless man becoming easy.

'My mouth loves your body,' he mumbles, pulling me in further.

'My body loves your hands,' I counter, falling into the relaxed movement of his tongue.

'My hands love how you feel under their touch.'

I hum as he glides those hands to my stomach, onto my hip and down my thigh. The smoothness of his palms defies his masculinity. They're clean, soft and have no rough calluses, hinting to a life free of manual labour. He's always in suits, always impeccably turned out, and his manners are faultless even with his moody arrogance. Everything about Miller is mystifying, but incredibly enticing, and the invisible pull that's constantly yanking me towards him is confounding and aggravating, but impossible to resist. And in this moment, when he's wors.h.i.+pping me, feeling me and taking me so tenderly, I conclude that Miller Hart does express himself. He's expressing himself right now. He does it like this. He may not laugh or smile much, or give me any facial expressions when we're talking to tell me what he's thinking, but his whole physical being tells me his emotional state. And I don't think I'm mistaking it for feelings, not just fascination.

I'm a little annoyed when he breaks our kiss and pulls away, gazing at me quietly before turning me away from him and pulling me back against his chest. 'Get some sleep, sweet girl,' he whispers, burying his nose in my wild blond.

Falling asleep with a man wrapped around me is not something I'm used to, but with his soft breaths in my ear and him humming that soft melody quietly, I find slumber too easily, smiling to myself when I feel him break away and get out of bed.

He's going to tidy up.

Chapter 13.

He's standing in the doorway to his bedroom in his suit trousers and s.h.i.+rt, fixing his tie, while my arms are wrapped protectively around my naked body. I would pull the covers over me, but the side of the bed that he slept on has been made and I don't want to disturb it. His hair is wet and his face unshaved, and though he looks divine, I'm hurt that he's not still in bed with me.

'Will you join me for breakfast?' he asks, undoing his tie and starting again.

'Sure,' I answer quietly, hating the awkwardness closing him off from me. I'm surprised to have woken up to daylight. When I dozed off last night, I was certain that I'd only be given a few hours' recovery time before Miller woke me up to recommence wors.h.i.+pping me . . . or, more to the point, I was hoping he'd wake me up. I'm disappointed, and I'm trying not to make it obvious.

I don't know why I glance around the room for my clothes because I know they won't be anywhere in sight. 'Where are my clothes?'

'Take a shower. I'll prepare breakfast.' He strolls over to his wardrobe and appears moments later, b.u.t.toning up his waistcoat. 'I need to leave in thirty minutes. Your clothes are in the bottom drawer.'

I s.h.i.+ft uncomfortably, wondering what's changed. He's more closed off than ever before. Has he spent all night thinking, validating exactly what I've told him? 'Okay,' I confirm, not able to think of anything else to say. He's barely even looking at me. I feel cheap and worthless, something that I've fought to avoid for years.

Not saying another word, he gets his suit jacket from the wardrobe and leaves me in his bedroom, feeling slighted and confused. I desperately want to escape the uneasiness, but I really don't want to, too. I want to stay and loosen him up again, make him see me, not the illegitimate child of a hooker, but it doesn't sound like I have much choice. He needs to leave in thirty minutes, and I need to shower before I join him for breakfast, which is limiting my time further.

Jumping up naked from the bed, I rush into the bathroom to shower. I use his body wash, working it in firmly, like some way to keep him with me. Reluctantly rinsing off, I step out of the shower and pull one of the crisp, perfectly folded towels from the shelf and dry myself in record time before throwing my clothes on.

I traipse through his apartment, finding him in front of the mirror in the hallway, messing with his tie again. 'Your tie is fine.'

'No, it's skew-whiff,' he grumbles, yanking it free from his neck. 'f.u.c.k it!'

I watch as he stalks past me into the kitchen. I follow, a little bemused, and I shouldn't be shocked when I find him standing in front of an ironing board, but I am. He lays the tie neatly, then with the utmost concentration he glides the iron across the blue silk before flicking the switch on the socket and draping the tie around his neck. He sets about putting away the board and iron, then returns to the mirror and starts the meticulous task of fastening his tie again, all as if I'm not even here.

'Better,' he affirms, pulling his collar down and looking over to me.

'Your tie is wonky.'

He frowns and turns back to the mirror, giving it a little jiggle. 'It's perfect.'

'Yes, it's perfect, Miller,' I mutter, making my way into the kitchen.

I admire the selection of breads, preserves and fruit. But I'm not hungry. My stomach is a knot of anxiety, and his formality isn't easing my trepidation.

'What would you like?' he asks, taking up his seat.

'I'll just have some melon, please.'

He nods and takes a bowl, spooning some of the fruit in and handing me a fork. 'Coffee?'

'No, thank you.' I take the fork, and then the bowl, setting it down as neatly as I can.

'Orange juice? It's freshly squeezed.'

'Yes, thank you.'

He pours me some juice and tops his coffee up from the gla.s.s pot. 'I forgot to thank you for smas.h.i.+ng my lamp,' he muses, lifting his cup slowly and watching me as he takes a sip.

I feel my face burn up under his accusing stare, my stomach knotting further. 'I'm sorry.' I s.h.i.+ft on my chair, my eyes dropping to my bowl. 'It was dark. I couldn't see.'

'You're forgiven.'

My eyes fly up on a small laugh. 'Why, thank you. You're forgiven for leaving me in the dark.'

'You should've stayed in bed,' he retorts, sitting comfortably back on his chair. 'You made an incredible mess.'

'I'm sorry. The next time you abandon me in the middle of the night, I'll have my night-vision goggles at hand.'

His eyebrows jump up in surprise, but I know it's not because of my sarcasm. '"Abandon"?'

I cringe, diverting my eyes away from him. I should think before I speak, especially in the presence of Miller Hart. 'That came out wrong.'

'I hope so. I left you sleeping. I didn't abandon you.' He continues with his French toast, leaving those words lingering unwanted in the awkward air surrounding us unwanted by me, anyway. 'Eat up and I'll take you home.'

'Why do you hope so?' I ask, feeling anger flare. 'So I don't tarnish you with the same brush as I do my pathetic mother?'

'Pathetic?'

'Yes, spineless. Selfish.'

He blinks his shock, twitching in his chair. 'We have a deal for twenty-four hours,' he fires across the table.

My teeth grit as I lean forward. I can see with one hundred per cent clarity that I'm drawing anger from this normally impa.s.sive man with my accusation. Yet what's not clear is whether he's angry with me or himself. 'What was yesterday? In the car and last night? An act? You're pathetic!'

Miller's eyes darken and a flash of anger crosses his face. 'Don't push me, sweet girl. My temper isn't something you should toy with. We had an arrangement and I was ensuring it was fulfilled.'

My falling heart splinters painfully, remembering a very different man from last night. An accepting man. A loving man. The man sitting opposite me now is confounding. I've never seen Miller Hart lose his temper. I've seen him get agitated and I've heard him curse mostly when something isn't Miller-perfect but the look in his eyes right now tells me I've seen nothing. That coupled with his serious warning also tells me I really don't want to.

I stand abruptly, my body seeming to engage before my brain does, and walk away, letting myself out of his apartment and taking the stairs to the lobby. The doorman nods as I pa.s.s through, and when I emerge into the fresh morning air, I let out a heavy sigh. The smell and sound of London doesn't make me feel any better.

'I was talking to you.' Miller's annoyed tone hits me from behind, but it doesn't prompt me to find my manners and turn to acknowledge him. 'Livy, I said that I was talking to you.'

'And what did you say?' I ask.

He appears in my line of sight and stands in front of me, regarding me closely. 'I don't like repeating myself.'

'I don't like your mood swings.'

'I don't have mood swings.'

'Yes, you do. I don't know where I am with you. One minute you're sweet and attentive, the next you're cold and short.'

He's thinking hard about my words, and it's a good few moments of staring at each other before he finally utters some himself. 'We were getting too close to personal.'

I pull in a long breath and hold it, desperately trying to stop myself from shouting at him. I knew this was coming from the second I opened my eyes this morning. But it still hurts like h.e.l.l. 'Is this anything to do with your business a.s.sociate, or is it just me and my sordid history?'

He doesn't answer, choosing to watch me silently instead.

'I should never have given you more of me,' I whisper quietly.

'Probably not,' he agrees without hesitation. It cuts too deep, and I force myself to walk away before I lose control of the building emotion. I will not cry on him. I plug my ear buds in, select random on my iPod and have a quiet laugh to myself when Ma.s.sive Attack's 'Unfinished Sympathy' fills my ears, keeping me company all the way home.

'You don't look any better, Livy,' Del says, giving me the once-over with concerned eyes. 'Perhaps you should go home.'

'No.' I force a rea.s.suring smile, but struggle terribly. Nan is at home, and I need to be distracted, not interrogated.

She was all smiles when I walked through the front door this morning, until she registered my face. Then the questions started, but I quickly escaped to my bedroom, leaving her pacing the landing outside my room, tossing the odd question through the door, all of which I brushed off. I shouldn't feel annoyed with Nan; I should reserve it all for Miller, but if she hadn't poked her old nose in and invited him to dinner, then last night wouldn't have happened and I wouldn't currently be in turmoil.

'I feel much better, honestly.' I escape the kitchen and dodge Sylvie at the till, who's been trying to nail me down all morning. Luckily for me, we're busy, so I can evade all interrogation for the meantime and busy myself clearing tables and serving coffee.

On my break, I accept the tuna mayo sandwich that's handed to me by Paul, but choose to eat it on the go, knowing that taking a timeout will lure Sylvie over to press me for answers. It's cunning, but my head aches with constant thoughts of him and talking will certainly spur tears. I refuse to cry over a man, especially a man who can be so cold.

'Are you enjoying that?' Paul asks on a smile, tossing some wet lettuce leaves in a colander.