One Night: Promised Part 37

'I don't know how you do this to me,' I mumble to my darkness, my head slowly shaking from side to side.

'Do what?' he whispers, blowing a cool stream of air across my pulsing core, the chill of his breath mixed with my flaming skin making me shudder.

'This,' I gasp, mindlessly grappling at the side of the bath and crying out when he punishes me with a precise set of soft nips with his teeth, slow rotations with his tongue and firm drives of his fingers. 'And that!' The power of the spasms bolting through me is sending my body into muscle meltdown as I try my hardest to remain relatively still in the water.

My eyes open and I take a few moments to allow my vision to clear until my sight is distorted again, simply because of what I'm faced with: indescribable flawlessness a pureness in his eyes that I only ever see when he's wors.h.i.+pping me and his dark hair that's on the verge of being too long, the soft flicks curling out from behind his ears.

Despite my restrained fever, he's cool, calm and collected as he gazes back at me, never ceasing the motions that bring me so much pleasure. 'You mean like if this was for ever,' he murmurs, 'then you'd be happy with that.'

I nod, hoping he's agreeing with me and not just trying to vocalise my thoughts.

He doesn't confirm my silent wondering with words, instead returning his attention to the screaming nerves between my thighs. His face buried there and his eyes looking up at me is the most sensual vision I'm ever likely to see. Yet I can't help closing my eyes as I prepare for the onslaught of pressure that's set to blow my mind.

'Don't stop,' I breathe, begging for more insane, torturous pleasure. He's moving all of a sudden, the water splas.h.i.+ng crazily around us as he crawls up my body and seals our mouths, his tongue caressing me in time to the wicked thrusts of his fingers, his thumb working firm circles on my throbbing c.l.i.toris.

My hands grip his wet shoulders, holding on for dear life, his strength the only thing preventing me from slipping under the water. I'm a little fevered, but Miller keeps things steady and controlled, despite my moans of desperation.

And then it happens.

The explosion.

The release of a million lightning bolts that force me to break our kiss and hide my face in his neck as my body tries to deal with the blitz of pleasure. He's quiet as he helps my trembling body settle. His only movements are of his fingers circling deeply and his thumb resting lightly on my twitching ma.s.s of nerves, easing the persistent, sharp throbs.

'I thought that I was supposed to de-stress you,' I wheeze, not willing to release my hold not ever.

'Livy, you have.'

'By you wors.h.i.+pping me?'

'Yes, a little, but mostly by just letting me be with you.' He sits up, taking me with him, and pulls me onto his lap. My heavy, wet hair is arranged just so, and his palms wrap around the tops of my arms, holding me firmly. 'You're so beautiful.'

I feel my skin heat, and I drop my eyes, a little embarra.s.sed.

'I'm paying you a compliment, Livy,' he whispers, pulling my eyes back up.

'Thank you.'

He smiles a little and s.h.i.+fts his hands to my waist, his eyes journeying over every visible part of my body. I watch him closely as he slowly drops his lips to my breast and kisses it tenderly, and then he starts trailing his finger over every part of me, so lightly I sometimes can't feel it. He inhales a deep, thoughtful breath and lets it out, his head tilting a little to the side, adding to his thoughtfulness. 'Every time I touch you,' he whispers, 'I feel I need to do it with the utmost care.'

'Why?' I ask quietly, a little perplexed.

He takes another long pull of air and turns his eyes to me, blinking slowly. 'Because I'm frightened you might turn to dust.'

His admission chokes me. 'I won't turn to dust.'

'You might,' he murmurs. 'What would I do?' His eyes scan my face, and I'm shocked to see nothing but complete seriousness, maybe even a little fear.

Guilt tells me I shouldn't, but I can't help feeling quietly happy by his question. He's falling, too, just as hard as I am. I embrace his uncertainty and cuddle him tightly, locking my arms around his neck and my legs around his hips, like I'm trying to squeeze some rea.s.surance into him. 'I'm only going away if you send me,' I say, because I think that's what he means. I couldn't possibly turn to dust.

'There's something I'd like to share with you.'

'What?' I ask, remaining where I am with my face stuck to his neck.

'Let's get washed and I'll show you.' He reaches behind his neck and pulls my arms away, forcing me to vacate my comfort zone. 'You'll be the first.'

'First?'

'The first person to see.' He's turning me in his arms, therefore turning my inquisitive face away, too.

'See?'

His chin rests on my shoulder. 'I love your curiosity.'

'You make me curious,' I accuse, pus.h.i.+ng my cheek onto his lips. 'What are you going to show me?'

'You'll see,' he teases, releasing me.

I turn around and face him again, seeing him sliding down, dunking his head and rubbing some shampoo through it, before rinsing and following it up with some conditioner.

I make myself comfortable at the other end of the bath and watch as he works the conditioner through his waves. 'You use conditioner?'

He pauses with his ma.s.saging hands and studies me carefully for a few moments before he speaks. 'I have very untamed hair.'

'Me too.'

'Then you must feel my pain.' He slides back down the bath and rinses his untamed waves, while I grin like an idiot. He's embarra.s.sed.

When he surfaces, I'm still grinning, and he rolls his eyes at me as he pushes himself up, my gaze lifting with him forever until he's towering over me and I'm staring at his soaking, naked perfection.

'I'll leave you to wash your untamed mane.' He's not smiling, but I can tell he wants to.

'Thank you, kind sir.' I continue to admire his wet nakedness as he takes the steps from the bath, his b.u.t.t cheeks tensing and swelling delightfully. 'Nice buns,' I say quietly to myself, slipping further into the bubbles.

He turns slowly and c.o.c.ks his head to the side. 'I beg you don't adopt your grandmother's terminology.'

I burn bright red, and with nowhere else to escape my embarra.s.sment, I disappear under the water.

When I'm finished taming my own wild locks with conditioner, I reluctantly leave the warm serenity of Miller's colossal bath and dry off. Ensuring I've emptied the tub, rinsed the bubbles away and tidied up the bathroom after me, I pad into his bedroom and find a pair of black boxer shorts and a grey T-s.h.i.+rt spread neatly on the bed. I smile to myself as I dress, his boxer shorts barely staying up on my waist, his T-s.h.i.+rt completely swamping me, but they smell of Miller so I tolerate the annoying need to hold the shorts up as I go in search of him.

I find him in the kitchen, looking breathtaking in his own pair of black boxers and a T-s.h.i.+rt to match the one he has picked for me. Seeing Miller without a perfect suit adorning his perfect body is a rarity, but the casual edge that his casual attire puts on him whenever I do is always welcome. I'm beginning to resent his suits, seeing them as a mask that he hides behind.

'We match,' I say, pulling up my boxers.

'So we do.' He approaches me and runs his fingers through my wet tendrils before bringing them to his nose and inhaling deeply.

'I should call my grandmother,' I say, closing my eyes and absorbing his closeness his scent, his heat . . . his everything. 'I don't want her to worry.'

He releases me and arranges my hair, staring at me thoughtfully.

'Are you okay?' I ask.

'Yes, I apologise.' He shakes himself from his daydream. 'I was just thinking how lovely you look in my clothes.'

'They're a bit big,' I point out, glancing down at the material swamping me.

'They're perfect on you. Call your grandmother.'

Once I'm done checking in with Nan, my nape is taken lightly and I'm led over to the docking station where his iPhone is kept. He presses a few b.u.t.tons before leading me from the kitchen without a word. The xx's 'Angels' joins us, soft and hypnotising in the background, seeping quietly through the integrated speakers. We pa.s.s Miller's bedroom and turn left, then he unlocks a door and pushes me gently into a large room.

'Wow!' I gasp, stumbling to a stop on the threshold. 'Oh wow!'

'Come in.' He encourages me in and flicks a switch that floods the room with powerful artificial light. I s.h.i.+eld my eyes, annoyed my view has been spoiled for a few seconds while my eyes readjust.

Once I've stopped squinting, I drop one hand, keeping his boxers up with the other, and stare in complete wonder at my surroundings. I'm in awe. I'm in heaven . . . I'm shocked.

I turn towards him and give him a confused look. 'This is yours?'

He looks almost embarra.s.sed when his shoulders jump up a little on a mild shrug. 'This is my home, so I guess so.'

I slowly turn back to the source of my shock and start to take it all in. The walls are covered, they're propped up on the floor, and they're stacked on wire racking systems. There are dozens, possibly hundreds, and they are all of my beloved London, whether of architecture or landscapes.

'You paint?'

He's up against my back and resting his arms over my shoulders. 'Do you think you could say something without it sounding like a question?' He nips at my ear, which would usually make my breath falter, but I still haven't caught it yet. This can't be right.

'You did all of these?' I wave my arm in the general direction of the whole studio, casting my eyes around again.

'Another question.' He bites my cheek this time. 'This was my habit before I found you.'

'This isn't a habit, this is a hobby.' I look at the paintings on the wall again, thinking that such excellence couldn't really be cla.s.sed as a hobby. These belong in a gallery.

'Well, now you're my hobby.'

I have a moment of comprehension, and I'm suddenly on the move, breaking free from Miller's hold and making my way out of his painting studio, heading for the lounge area until I'm standing before one of the oil canvases gracing his wall. This one is of the London Eye, blurred but clear. 'You did this?' I'm speaking in sodding questions again. 'I'm sorry.'

He approaches from my left and stands next to me, observing his own creation. 'I did.'

'And that one?' I point to the opposite wall, where London Bridge is holding court, still keeping the d.a.m.n boxers up.

'Yes,' he confirms, and I'm on the move again, back to his studio. I walk further into the room this time, surrounding myself with Miller's art.

There are five easels, all holding white canvases with partially finished works. The giant wooden table running the length of the side wall is cluttered with pots of brushes, paints in every colour on G.o.d's earth, and photographs scattered everywhere, some pinned on cork boards among the art. An old squidgy sofa is sitting in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the gla.s.s so you can sit and admire the view across the city, which nearly matches the magnificence of the paintings around me. It's a typical artist's studio . . . and it completely defies everything that Miller Hart stands for.

It's expressive, but even more shocking, it's an awful mess. I feel like I'm in a bit of a trance, an Alice in Wonderland kind of moment, and in a really silly fit of curiosity, I begin a.s.sessing everything more closely to try and establish whether there is some sort of method to his arrangement of things in here. It doesn't look like it; it all looks very random and haphazard, but to be sure, I walk over to the table and pick up a pot of brushes, turning it casually in my hand. Then I put it down aimlessly before turning to see his reaction.

He isn't twitching, he isn't looking at the pot of brushes like it could bite, and he hasn't come over to move it. He's just considering me with interest, and after absorbing his gaze for a few moments, I break out in a smile. My shock has transformed into happiness because what I'm seeing in this room is a different man. This almost humanises him. Before me, he expressed himself and de-stressed by painting, and it doesn't matter that he has to be super-duper precise in every other element of his life, because in here, he's chaotic.

'I love it,' I say, taking another slow gaze around the room, not even the beauty of Miller keeping me from it. 'I just love it.'

'I knew you would.'

It's suddenly dark again, except for the glow of London by night pouring in from the window, and he walks slowly over and takes my hand, leading me to the old worn couch in front of the window. He sits and encourages me down beside him.

'I fall asleep here most nights,' he says wistfully, pulling me a little closer. 'It's hypnotic, don't you think?'

'Incredible,' I agree, but I'm more in awe of what's behind me. 'Have you always painted?'

'On and off.'

'Just landscapes and architecture?'

'Mainly.'

'You're very gifted,' I say quietly, tucking my feet under my b.u.m. 'You should exhibit them.'

He laughs a little, and I'm soon looking up at him, annoyed that he always chooses to do this when I can't see him. He's not laughing any more, but he's smiling at me. It's good enough. 'Livy, it's just a hobby. I have the club and plenty of stress. Turning a hobby into something more makes it stressful.'

I frown, not seeing his logic at all, at the same time hoping his theory doesn't apply to me. I'm a hobby. 'I was paying you a compliment.' I raise my eyebrows cheekily, making him smile more, eyes sparkling and all.

'So you were. I apologise.' He kisses me tenderly and tucks me back under his arm. 'Thank you.'

'You're welcome,' I reply, letting my body mould into the sharp edges of his frame and my hand slip up the hem of his T-s.h.i.+rt. This Miller Hart I really adore laid-back, carefree, and expressive. I'm tucked snugly under his arm, relis.h.i.+ng in his tender kisses on my head and soft strokes of my arm. But then he starts to move me, positioning me on my back so I'm spread down the couch with my head on his lap. My hair is stroked away from my face and he gazes down at me for a few moments before he sighs and lets his head drop back. He continues feeling me as he stares up at the ceiling silently while the wistful tones of the track float in the peaceful air around us. Everything is just lovely the calmness s.p.a.cing out my serene mind and Miller's touch lazily skimming my cheek. But then the sound of his phone ringing from the kitchen interrupts our peace.

'Excuse me.' He s.h.i.+fts me and exits the room, leaving me feeling bitter and now resentful of the view, so I get up and follow him.

When I enter the kitchen, he's removing his iPhone from the docking station on the shelf, bringing the lovely song to an abrupt halt. 'Miller Hart,' he greets, making his way back out of the kitchen.

I don't want to follow him when he's on the phone, he'd definitely think that rude, so I sit at the empty table and twiddle my ring, wis.h.i.+ng us back into his studio.

When Miller re-enters the room, he's still on his phone. He walks with purpose to a stack of drawers and pulls the top one open, removing a leather-bound organiser before flicking through the pages. 'Short notice, yes, but like I said, it's not a problem.' He takes a pen from the drawer and starts writing across the page. 'Look forward to it.' He hangs up and quickly flips his organiser shut, placing it back in the drawer. He doesn't sound like he's looking forward to it at all.

It's a few moments before he faces me, but when he does, I see immediately that he's not happy, even if his face is completely straight. 'I'll take you home.'

My back lengthens as I sit up. 'Now?' I ask, slighted and annoyed.

'Yes, I apologise.' He strides out of the kitchen. 'Last-minute meeting at the club,' he mutters, and then he's gone.

Upset, irritated and wounded, I return to face the perfectly empty table, but then curiosity makes me stand and before I can stop myself, I'm by the drawers, pulling the top one open. The leather-bound organiser is tucked in the bottom right-hand corner, screaming for me to peek, so I study its exact positioning before lifting it out and glancing over my shoulder. I shouldn't be doing this. I'm snooping when I have no right to . . . but I can't help it. d.a.m.n curiosity. And d.a.m.n Miller Hart for spiking it.

I flick the pages, seeing various notes, but conscious that Miller could rumble me prying at any moment I hastily skip them all until I reach today's date. And there, in that perfect handwriting, is a note.

Quaglino's 9:00.

C.

Black suit. Black tie.

I frown and jump all at once, hearing the shutting of a door. Panicked and with a thundering heart, I make a terrible attempt of putting Miller's organiser back just right. I don't have time. I dart to the table and sit back down, using every modic.u.m of strength to stop shaking and look normal. C? Ca.s.sie?