Unveiled

  keeping hold of me until I’m sure I’m not going to fold to the floor. ‘Are you hurting?’ His hand slips to my bum and starts massaging life back into my bottom.

  ‘Just a little stiff.’ I hold on to his shoulders while he spends time working his firm hands all over me, finishing at my tummy. He pauses circling motions and gazes down, but he doesn’t say anything for a long, long time. I let him have his moment, happy to watch him watching me.

  ‘Do you think he’ll be perfect?’ he asks, genuinely concerned. It makes me smile fondly.

  ‘In every way,’ I say, because I know he will be . . . just like Miller. ‘He?’

  He looks up at me, and I find his eyes gushing with happiness. ‘I sense it. It’s a boy.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  He shakes his head a little, shying away from my curiously amused stare. ‘I just sense it.’

  He’s lying. I take his dark stubbled chin and pull his face up. ‘Elaborate.’

  He tries to narrow his eyes, but they’re sparkling too madly to allow it. ‘I dreamt it,’ he says, finishing up with his massaging hands and bringing them to my hair. He toys with it, twiddling some strands here and there before fixing it just so. ‘I allowed myself to dream the impossible. Like I did with you. And now I have you.’

  My shoulders drop from my exhale of contented breath and his face falls to mine.

  He’s going to worship me.

  Soft, slow, Miller Hart-perfect.

  ‘I need to make love to you, Olivia,’ he mumbles into my mouth, turning me away from him so his lips drag across my cheek, to my ear, and into my hair. ‘Bend.’ He grasps my waist lightly and walks back a few paces, taking my hips with him. ‘Hands on the couch.’

  I hum my acceptance and brace my arms on the back of the old worn sofa, hearing him unfastening his trousers. He’s not prepared to waste time undressing, which is fine by me. I’m as naked as the day I was born and Miller is fully dressed, but I feel a certain sense of enhanced power from him with us this way. He needs that power right now.

  ‘Are you wet for me?’ he asks, slipping his fingers between my thighs and sinking them into the hot moisture. I’m inviting him in, begging for him. I groan my answer, not that it’s needed. I’m saturated. ‘She’s always ready for me,’ he whispers, dipping and kissing the centre of my spine before licking his way up to my neck. ‘And she knows how I feel when she deprives me of her face.’

  I inhale through my pleasure and do as I’m bid, turning my face to the side so he can see my profile and I can lose myself in him. The absence of his bare chest isn’t of concern. My eyes stay glued to his face.

  ‘Better.’ He withdraws his fingers, leaving me feeling hollow and denied, but not for long. They are soon replaced by the slippery head of his thick cock, teasing at my entrance, spreading my moisture everywhere. I whimper, shaking my head in a silent plea. He acknowledges it straightaway. ‘I have no desire to make you wait for me, sweet girl.’ He pushes forward on a deep groan, his head dropping back but his eyes still locked with mine.

  My fingers claw into the soft couch, my arms going rigid. I ram back without thought or consideration of the sharp pain it might cause. ‘Shit!’

  ‘Shhhhh,’ he hushes me on a strangled choke, his hips beginning to shake. ‘That feels too fucking good.’ He slips from my passage shakily and then immediately circles forward again, grinding hard into my bum.

  My breathing is instantly disjointed and strained.

  ‘I love that sound.’ He withdraws again and plunges forward, enticing constant and consistent moans and mumbles from me. ‘I so love that sound.’

  ‘Miller,’ I breathe, working hard to hold my body in place for him, my feet shifting to widen my stance and give him better leverage. ‘Oh God, Miller!’

  ‘Feel good, huh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The best?’

  ‘God yes!’

  ‘I fucking concur, sweet girl.’ He’s in his flow now, pumping slow, grinding circles repeatedly into me. ‘I’m taking my time with you,’ he promises. ‘All . . . night . . . long.’

  I’m fine with that. I want to stay stuck to him forever.

  ‘We’re starting here.’ He shudders forward, hitting me deeply. I yelp, grabbing on to the tingling sensations inching forward. ‘Then I’m taking you up against the fridge.’ Pulling back, I see his chest expand beneath his shirt and waistcoat from his deep inhale. ‘In the shower.’ Forward he drives again. It’s taking everything out of me not to close my eyes. ‘On my paint table.’ His hips grind into my bottom, pushing me up onto my tiptoes on a moan. ‘In my bed.’

  ‘Please,’ I beg.

  ‘On the couch.’

  ‘Miller!’

  ‘On the kitchen table.’

  ‘I’m coming!’

  ‘On the floor.’

  ‘Oh God!’

  ‘I’m having you everywhere.’ Bang!

  ‘Arhhhhh!’

  ‘Do you need to come?’

  ‘Yes!’ Urgency has taken over. I’m shaking and sweating. I’m gulping down air and tensing – anything to tackle the orgasm that’s surging forward at a ridiculous speed. It’s going to be an intense one. It’s going to make my legs give and my throat sore from my scream. ‘It’s coming!’ I shout, knowing nothing is going to stop it.

  ‘Don’t deprive me of those eyes,’ he warns, seeing and sensing my frantic movements and thoughts. ‘Don’t hide them from me, Olivia.’

  He’s performing rotation after rotation, each one delivered more accurately than before. His skill, pace, and rhythm wouldn’t be comprehensible unless you were subjected to it. And I am. I comprehend it fully. It’s about to fling me into blissful, mind-blanking euphoria. I’d scream if I could speak. I’m swallowing repeatedly, and when I feel him jerk and swell within me on a gritted curse, I also comprehend how close he is.

  ‘I need us to go together,’ he pants, increasing his pace slightly, slapping against my bottom, digging his fingers onto my waist. ‘OK?’

  I nod, watching his eyes smoke and his lids drop as he pulls me onto him constantly, and now with a degree of force.

  My mind fogs and a haze of pleasure sweeps through my body like a tornado, nearly knocking me off my feet. ‘Miller!’ I scream, finally finding my voice. ‘Miller, Miller, Miller!’

  ‘Holy fucking shit!’ he bellows, yanking me onto him and holding me there, shuddering above me. He’s shaking, and his eyes close, prompting me to drop my head in exhaustion, feeling his essence flood me. Warm me. Complete me. ‘Jesus, Olivia, you fucking goddess.’ He collapses forward, the material of his suit meeting my sweaty back, and breathes erratically into my neck.

  We’re wiped out, both of us struggling for breath. My eyes are heavy, but I know I’m not going to be allowed to sleep.

  ‘I’m going to worship you all night.’ He peels himself away from my naked back and turns me in his arms, then spends a few moments wiping my damp face before kissing every wet piece of it. ‘To the fridge,’ he whispers.

  Chapter 25

  I’m aching. I’m deliciously sore between my thighs and spread-eagled in Miller’s bed with the sheeting tangled around my waist, my bare back exposed to the cool air of his bedroom. I’m sticky and I’ve no doubt my hair is a mass of wild blonde, sticking out everywhere. I have no desire to open my eyes. So instead in my darkness, I replay every second from last night over and over. He did, indeed, take me in every available place. Twice over. I could sleep for a year, but the absence of Miller soon registers in my waking brain and I pat across the bed on the off-chance that my Miller-senses have failed me. Of course, they haven’t and I fight with the bedding until I’m sitting up and brushing my sweat-infested mane from my sleepy face. He’s not here.

  ‘Miller?’ I look across to the bathroom, seeing the door wide open, but no noise coming from beyond, so on a crumpled brow, I start to edge my way to the side of the bed, pulling up when something tugs on my wrist. ‘What the . . . ?’ Ther
e’s some thin white cotton looped over my wrist, and I take it with my free hand and toy with it, noticing a long length extending from the knot. I follow the cotton with my eyes, seeing it leading to the bedroom door. I half frown, half smile, getting myself to my feet. ‘What’s he up to?’ I ask the empty room, tucking the sheets around me and taking the line with both hands. Keeping hold of the thread, I pad to the door and open it, peeking down the corridor, listening intently.

  Nothing.

  Pouting to myself, I hold the line and follow it down the hall, smiling as I go, until I find myself in Miller’s lounge, but the guide still carries on, and my smile falls away when it takes me across the room and lands me in front of one of Miller’s paintings.

  Not any of the famous London landmarks.

  It’s a new one.

  Me.

  My palm meets my mouth, stunned by what I’m looking at.

  My naked back.

  My glazed stare traces the curves of my tiny waist, drifting into my seated bottom, and back up again until I’m gazing at my side profile that’s looking down at my shoulder.

  I look serene.

  I look clear.

  I look perfect.

  There’s nothing abstract about me at all. Every detail of my skin, the side of my face, and my hair is impeccably clear. All of me. He hasn’t adopted his usual painting style of blurring the image or making it unappealing.

  Except with the backdrop. The view beyond my naked body, all of the buildings on the skyline, they’re all a wish-wash of colour, mostly blacks and greys with hints of yellow blobs to enhance the glow of lights. He’s captured the glass of the window perfectly, and though it defies possibility, my reflection is faultlessly clear, too – my face, my naked chest, my hair . . .

  I slowly shake my head and register my lack of breathing when I remove my palm from my mouth, tentatively stepping forward. The oils are shimmering. It’s not completely dry, so I refrain from touching, even though my fingertips are being lured towards the picture to trace the lines of me with my eyes and my touch.

  ‘God, Miller,’ I breathe, awestruck by the beauty of what I’m looking at – not because it’s me in the painting, but because my beautifully damaged man created it. He’ll never cease to amaze me. His complicated mind, his power, his tenderness . . . his astonishing talent.

  I’m painted to perfection, almost lifelike, but I’m framed by a mess of paint. I begin to comprehend something, just as a scrap of paper catches my eye on the bottom left-hand corner of the painting. Reaching forward with only a teeny tiny fraction of uncertainty, because Miller Hart has a history of breaking my heart with his written words, I pull it down and unfold the paper while nibbling on my bottom lip.

  There are just four words.

  And they choke me.

  I see only you.

  His message begins to blur as tears collect in my eyes, and I wipe furiously as they release and tumble down my cheeks. I read again on a tiny sob and look to the painting to remind myself of its magnificence. I don’t know why. This image and these words are imprinted on my mind already, after only a few sparse minutes absorbing it all. I’m willing the onset of internal fireworks, I need to feel him, see him, but after a few moments of silently begging for him to come to me, it’s still just me and the painting.

  But then I remember the string attached to my wrist and I seize it, noticing it stemming off from the other side of the painting, so I detach myself from the one connecting me to the artwork and claim the new lead, following it to the kitchen, frowning when I see a line of thread leading back out. It quickly tells me that my hunt isn’t over yet, and it also tells me that Miller isn’t in the kitchen. But a huge mess on the table is, and I’m suddenly hit by the lingering smell of burning, but it’s the very unlike-Miller mess that has me hurrying over where I find scissors, scraps of paper everywhere, and a pot. I look into it, too curious, and gasp when I clock the burned contents.

  ‘Oh . . .’ I whisper to myself, returning my attention to the table and absorbing the scattering of ripped and cut pages. Diary pages. I gather a few up and turn them in my hands a few times, searching for anything to confirm what I think I’m looking at. And there it is. Miller’s handwriting.

  ‘He burned his date book,’ I murmur, letting the scraps of paper float down to the table. And he’s left a mess? I’m not sure which I’m most shocked by. I’d give this quandary more thought if I wasn’t now staring at a photograph. All of the feelings I felt when I first saw this photo hit me like a sledgehammer – the helplessness, the wretchedness, the sorrow, and I begin to tear up again, yet I still collect the picture of Miller as a boy from the table and regard it for a while. I don’t know why, but something makes me turn it over, despite knowing the back is blank.

  It’s not now, though.

  Miller’s handwriting is scrolled across the back, and I’m off again, now sobbing like a baby as I run my eyes over his next message.

  Dark or light, only you.

  Come find me, sweet girl.

  I pull myself together fast, now panicked for another reason. I leave the mess and grab the string, following it fast and not giving it much thought when it leads me to the front door. I’m out of his flat, wrestling with the sheets concealing me, and trailing my lead, but I abruptly come to a stop when my trail ends and the string disappears.

  Between the doors of the lift.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I blurt, smacking the call button like a loon, my aching heart beating a strong staccato against my rib cage. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.’

  Each second feels like centuries as I wait impatiently for the lift to open, persistently smacking the button for no purpose, other than for something to physically hit. ‘Open!’ I yell.

  Ding!

  ‘Oh, thank God!’ The string falls from mid-air, down to the ground at my feet when the doors begin to part.

  And the fireworks hit me like a charging bull. Flurries or them – all attacking me, making me light-headed and dizzy, challenging my ability to see.

  But I see him.

  My hand shoots out and holds the wall to stop me from collapsing in shock. Or is it relief? He’s sitting on the floor of the lift, his back to the wall, his head dropped, and the thread leads to a loop fastened around his own wrist.

  What the hell is he doing in here?

  ‘Miller?’ I inch forward, wary, wondering what state he might be in and how I might handle it. ‘Miller, baby?’

  His head lifts. He slowly opens his eyes. And my breath is robbed from me when piercing blue eyes sink into me. ‘There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, sweet girl,’ he breathes, reaching for me. ‘Nothing I couldn’t do.’ A slight cock of his head gestures for me to come to him, which I do without thought, keen to comfort him. Though why he’s in the lift is a bloody mystery. Why would he put himself through this? I take his hand and engage my muscles to help him up, but I’m on my way down to his lap and being arranged just so before I can react on instinct and remove him from the monster hole.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask, resisting the urge to fight with him.

  I’m wrestled into position. ‘You are going to give me my thing.’

  ‘What?’ I’m confused. He wants his thing in a scary lift?

  ‘I’ve asked once,’ he snaps impatiently, and he wholeheartedly means it. Why is he doing this?

  With nothing else to say and not being permitted to help him from this hellhole, I take my only other option and wrap my arms around him, squeezing him to me. It takes a good few minutes of fierce cuddling before I recognise the lack of shakes coming from him. And it all becomes clear.

  ‘You got in here willingly?’ I ask, wondering how else I thought he could have accidently stumbled into the lift.

  He doesn’t answer. He’s breathing into my neck, his heart is beating a nice, calm thrum against my chest, and there are no signs of distress. How long has he been in here? I don’t ask. I doubt I’d get an answer anyway, so I let him squeeze m
e to his heart’s content, hearing the doors closing behind me. I definitely detect a stutter of his heart rate now.

  ‘Marry me,’ he says quietly.

  ‘What?’ I cry, flying back from his lap. I didn’t hear him