One Night: Promised Part 8

'And what's that?'

He looks down at his gla.s.s and swivels it on the table for a few moments before slowly returning his eyes to mine. They cut straight through me. 'It will determine whether I f.u.c.k you hard immediately, or break you in first.'

I gasp, my eyes widening at his obnoxiousness, not that he's affected by my shock or reaction to his cra.s.s words. He simply takes his tumbler and has another slow sip of the dark liquid, keeping his unrevealing eyes on me.

'I don't like repeating myself, but I'll make an exception,' he states. 'When was the last time you had s.e.x?'

My tongue is knotted in my mouth as I remain under his watchful eyes. I don't want to tell him. I don't want him to think that I'm even more pathetic than he must think already.

'I'll take your reluctance to answer as an indication that it's been a while.' He c.o.c.ks his head and that lock of hair falls onto his forehead, momentarily distracting me from my humiliation. 'Well?'

'Seven years,' I whisper. 'Happy?'

'Yes.' His response is swift and genuine, yet the stunned eyes are evident. 'I have no idea how that's possible, but it pleases me immensely.' He grabs my chin and lifts. 'And I'm talking to you, Livy, so look at me.' I follow through on his instruction until our eye contact is restored. 'I guess that means I'll be breaking you in.'

I don't gasp this time but my blood instantly heats, sending my pulse rate through the roof, replacing embarra.s.sment with want. I want him more than I know I should.

Meeting his intoxicating stare with my own driven gaze, I send instructions to the muscles in my arms to lift and feel him, but before I can engage them, my phone starts squealing from my bag.

'You should answer it.' He sits back, giving me s.p.a.ce to leave the intimacy of his closeness. 'Let her know that you're still alive.' There's no amus.e.m.e.nt on his face, but I hear it in his tone.

I stand quickly, keen to rea.s.sure my inquisitive grandmother that all is well. I don't look at the screen before I answer, but I should've. 'Hi!' I greet, way too chirpy, given my circ.u.mstances.

'Livy?' The voice on the end of the line prompts me to pull my phone from my ear and look at the screen, even though I know d.a.m.n well who it is.

I sigh, picturing Nan frantically dialling Gregory to inform him of the events earlier this evening. 'Hi.'

'That man. Who is he?'

'My boss.' I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping he buys it, but he scoffs disbelievingly, which quickly tells me I've failed to fool him.

'Livy, give me a break! Who is he?'

I'm stuttering all over my words, frantically searching my mind for some rubbish to feed him. 'Just . . . he's . . . it doesn't matter!' I snap, starting to pace. Gregory won't be happy, not after our conversations about Miller Hart.

'It's the coffee-hater, isn't it?' His tone is accusing, spiking my irritation.

'Maybe,' I retort. 'Maybe not.' Why I've added that is a mystery. Of course it's the coffee-hater. Who else would it be?

I'm so busy trying to fob off my friend I don't notice the coffee-hater looming behind me until his chin is on my shoulder, his breath heavy in my ear. I gasp as I turn around and, stupidly or not, I hang up on Gregory.

Miller's brow is a knot of confusion. 'That was a man.'

'It's rude to eavesdrop.' I stab at the reject b.u.t.ton of my phone when it starts ringing again.

'That may be so.' He holds his drink up, one finger detached from the gla.s.s and pointing at me. 'But like I said, that was a man. Who is he?'

'That's none of your business,' I say, fidgeting and diverting my eyes from his accusing blues.

'If I'm taking you to my bed, then it is my business, Livy,' he points out. 'Will you please look at me when I'm speaking to you?'

I don't. I keep my eyes on the floor, silently wondering why I don't just tell him who it was. It's not who he thinks it is, so what does it matter? I've got nothing to hide but his demand for the information is unearthing a childish rebelliousness in me. Or it could be my sa.s.s. I don't need to find it because it seems to come out to play willingly around this man, which is undoubtedly a good job.

'Livy.' He hunkers down and captures my eyes, his brow raised in authority. 'If there's an obstruction then I'll happily eliminate it.'

'He's a friend.'

'What did he want?'

'To know where I am.'

'Why?'

'Because my grandmother has obviously told him that you were at the house and he has put two and two together and come up with Miller.' My mortification is growing by the second.

'He knows about me?' he asks, those dark brows showing no sign of lowering.

'Yes, he knows about you.' This is getting stupid. 'Can I use your bathroom?' I ask, wanting to escape and gather myself.

'You may.' His gla.s.s extends from his body and points toward a corridor leading off the lounge. 'Third door on the right.'

I don't waste time absorbing his questioning look. I follow his pointed gla.s.s, turning my phone off when it rings again, and let myself into the third door on the right, immediately collapsing against the back. But my exasperation is interrupted as I take in the colossal s.p.a.ce in front of me. It's not a bathroom. It's a bedroom.

Chapter 7.

I straighten up and scan the s.p.a.ce, noting the obscene leather-framed bed, the gigantic chandelier suspended from the ceiling, and the floor-to-ceiling windows, with the most amazing view across the city. I shouldn't be so stunned. I knew his place was palatial, but this is something else. I see two doors across the room, and deciding that one should be a bathroom, I make my way across the squidgy cream carpet and open the first one I come to, forcing my eyes to avoid the huge bed. It's not a bathroom, but it is a wardrobe, if such a vast s.p.a.ce could be cla.s.sed as a wardrobe. The square room has floor-to-ceiling mahogany cupboards and shelves circling the three walls with a freestanding cabinet in the centre and a couch backing onto it. The surface of the cabinet displays dozens of small jewellery boxes, all open and exhibiting an array of cufflinks, watches and tie pins. I get the feeling that if I moved one of those boxes, he'd know. I quickly shut the door and hurry to the next one, pus.h.i.+ng my way into the most ridiculously regal bathroom I've ever seen. I gasp, my eyes bugging. A giant claw-foot tub sits proudly by the ma.s.sive window, with intricate gold taps and steps leading up to it, and the shower walls are adorned in a mosaic of cream and gold tiles. I try to take it all in. I can't. It's too much. It's like a show home. After was.h.i.+ng my hands, I wipe up carefully and straighten the towels, not wanting to leave anything out of place.

As I exit his bedroom I freeze, coming face to face with Miller. He's frowning again. 'Snooping?' he asks.

'No! I was using the bathroom.'

'That's not the bathroom; that's my bedroom.'

I look down the corridor, counting two doors before the one I'm standing outside of. 'You said third door on my right.'

'Yes, and that would be the next door.' He points to the next door, and I look, completely confused.

'No.' I turn and point in the other direction. 'One, two, three.' I indicate the door behind me. 'Third door on my right.'

'The first door is a cupboard.'

I can feel that irritation rising again. 'It's still a door,' I point out. 'And I wasn't snooping.'

'Okay.' He shrugs his perfect shoulders and slowly blinks those perfect eyes, before taking his perfection in its entirety and strolling down the corridor. 'This way,' he calls over his shoulder.

Irritation flares. Who does he think he is? My Converse start a moody march down the corridor in pursuit of him, but when I arrive in the lounge, he's not there. I gaze around to the various doorways, leading to G.o.d only knows where, but he's nowhere to be seen. All of these unfamiliar emotions are driving me insane.

Irritation, confusion . . . desire, want, l.u.s.t.

I stomp across to the hallway, yank my bag from the table and head for the door.

'Where are you going?' His smooth tone tickles my skin and I turn to see him with a refilled gla.s.s.

'I'm leaving. This was a stupid idea.'

He walks forward, a little surprised. 'You made a silly mistake by taking the wrong door and that's a cause to leave?'

'No, you make me want to leave,' I counter. 'The door has nothing to do with it.'

'I make you uncomfortable?' he asks. I can detect a little concern in his voice.

'Yes, you do,' I confirm. He makes me very uncomfortable, and on so many levels, which begs the question why I'm here.

He walks forward and takes my hand, tugging gently until I allow him to pull me back into the lounge. 'Sit,' he orders, pus.h.i.+ng me down onto the couch. He takes my bag and phone and places them neatly on the table before squatting in front of me. He has me with those eyes again. 'I apologise for making you feel uncomfortable.'

'Okay,' I whisper, my eyes dropping to his parted lips.

'I'm going to make you feel less uncomfortable.'

I nod because I'm too rapt by the slow motions of his lips as he speaks, but my vision is broken when he rises and puts his gla.s.s on the table, tweaking it slightly before collecting his jacket and leaving the room. I follow his back, frowning, and hear a door open and close. What's he doing? My puzzled face flicks around the room, admiring the art briefly and thinking his apartment is too neat and perfect to actually live in, before I'm back to wondering again. Then I hear the door open and close, and I nearly choke on my own tongue when he strolls back into the room, wearing a pair of black, loose sports shorts nothing else, just some shorts. Yes, his suit-adorned perfection is a little intimidating, but b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, this won't help. Now I just feel even more inadequate and even more l.u.s.tful, my hands mentally exploring the sharpness of his chest and stomach, my lips meeting the tanned smoothness of his defined shoulders, and my arms snaking around his tight waist.

He's back in front of me, lowering himself to the table and picking up his drink. 'Better?' he asks.

I'm sure if I could manage to rip my enthralled eyes off his torso I would find a look of superiority, but I can't knock him for it. He is by far superior. 'No.' I drag my eyes up his body until I see him tipping his drink to those lips. Slowly. 'How would this make me feel comfortable?' I ask.

'Because I'm casual.'

'No, you're half naked.' I take another glimpse, my eyes greedy for him.

'I'm still making you feel uncomfortable?'

'Yes.'

He sighs and gets up, striding from the room again, but he doesn't head towards his bedroom. He goes in the direction of the kitchen. I hear doors opening and closing for a few moments before he's back with me, sitting on the table in front of me with a tray in his hand. He places it down next to him, and I note that it's full of rocks and ice.

'What are they?' I ask, leaning forward to watch him. He swivels the tray, selects a rock and repositions his body forward, holding it out to me.

'Let's see if we can loosen you up, Livy.'

'How? What are they?' I nod to the rock in his hand, now noticing that it's concave on one side and has some sort of jelly s.h.i.+mmering in the pearlescent sh.e.l.l.

'Oysters. Open up.' He inches forward and I inch back, my face s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up in disgust.

'No, thank you,' I say politely. I don't know much about the sh.e.l.lfish, but I do know they're obscenely expensive and, supposedly, an aphrodisiac. I don't plan on finding out, though, because they look repulsive.

'Have you tried them before?' he asks.

'No.'

'Then you must.' He moves in closer, not giving me much more retreating s.p.a.ce. 'Open.'

'You try first,' I suggest, trying to buy myself some time.

He shakes his head, a little exasperated. 'As you wish.'

'I do.'

He watches me as he slowly tips the oyster to his mouth, his head falling back, but his eyes holding mine. His neck lengthens and his throat is taut and totally kissable. Then he swallows painfully slowly and an unfamiliar bang lands between my thighs, making me s.h.i.+ft. Oh f.u.c.k, he looks too s.e.xy. I feel hot.

He dumps the rock, grabs the front of my T-s.h.i.+rt in his fist and yanks me forward onto his mouth, catching me by complete surprise, but there is nothing I can or want to do to stop him. His hungry invasion is met with equal intent from me. I find his naked shoulders and relish in my first experience of his bare flesh under my palms. It's better than I imagined. His tongue is working through my mouth fervently, and I can do nothing more than accept, tasting the saltiness of the oyster, until he breaks our kiss and removes my hands from his shoulders, him panting, me gasping.

'That wasn't a result of the oyster,' he heaves, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, pulling me forward, his nose meeting mine. 'That was a result of you sitting here in front of me with a look of pure desire in your exquisite eyes.'

I want to tell him that he has that look too, but I quickly stop myself, considering, perhaps, that he may just look at all women like that, or maybe it's just the way he looks full stop. I don't know what to say, so I say nothing, instead choosing to continue with my fitful breaths as he holds me in place.

'I've just paid you a compliment.'

'Thank you,' I murmur.

'You're welcome. Are you ready to let me wors.h.i.+p you, Olivia Taylor?'

I nod as he slowly moves forward, his blues flicking from my mouth to my eyes constantly until his lips are lightly brus.h.i.+ng over mine, but this time he's relaxed and tender with his taking, gently seducing my mouth as he rises, encouraging me to stand with him, before he holds my nape once more and starts walking forward, forcing me to step back. I let him guide me until we're entering his bedroom and I'm feeling his bed at the back of my knees, and the whole time he holds our mouths together. He's an extraordinary kisser, overwhelmingly good, like nothing I've ever experienced before. If this is a sign of things to come, then I hope the next twenty-four hours last for ever. I'm bursting at the seams with desire, matching him. Sensibility has vanished again.

His hand leaves my neck and grasps the hem of my T-s.h.i.+rt, lifting it and breaking our mouth contact to get it past my head so I'm forced to release his shoulders and lift my arms. My lingering concern for my lack of s.e.xy underwear is long forgotten. I can't seem to focus on anything except him, his pa.s.sion and his energy. It's all-consuming, leaving no room for anxiousness or hesitation. Or, more importantly, that sensible gene that seems to have disappeared into thin air under his attention.

'Do you feel better?' he asks, breathing down on me, his groin pressing into my stomach.

'Yes,' I gasp, clenching my eyes shut, trying to comprehend what's happening.

'Don't deprive me of your eyes, Livy.' His hands encase my cheeks. 'Open.'

I do. I open my eyes, my line of sight leading me straight to s.h.i.+mmering blues.

Leaning in, he kisses me sweetly. 'I have to keep reminding myself that I need to take this slowly.'

'I'm fine,' I a.s.sure him, reaching up and resting the flats of my hands on his torso. He's being a gentleman, and I'm grateful, but I'm not sure that I want him to take it slowly. The desire ripping through me is getting hard to control.

He pulls away and smiles, and I fall some more. 'I'm looking forward to indulging in you slowly.' He reaches down and starts to unb.u.t.ton the fly of my jeans. 'Really slowly.'

'Why?' I ask, stupidly or not.

'Because something as beautiful as this should be savoured, not rushed. Kick your shoes off.'