I’m falling fast – too fast. And his gentlemanly approach is not helping.
‘Livy?’ His soft rasp pulls my eyes open. I hadn’t realised they were shut. ‘Are you okay?’ He moves in and gets his face level with mine, stroking my cheek.
‘Yes.’ I shake my head mildly, offering a small smile.
‘I’ll stop. We don’t have . . .’ He pauses and slips into thought for a few moments. ‘I’ll have to accept it if you’ve had enough.’
‘No!’ I blurt, a little panicked. I’m fighting off unwanted hesitance. I’m having flashes of reluctance, despite my craving for this man. But he’s too tempting. He’s forbidden fruit. I’ve experienced him worshipping me, and even though I know it’ll be bad for me, I want more. ‘I don’t want you to accept it.’ Did I just say that out loud?
The wave of confusion on his dark stubbled face, mixed with a little relief, tells me I did. ‘You want to go on?’
‘Yes,’ I confirm, more calmly, more controlled, even if I’m not feeling it. I’m still sizzling with heat and want, and it’s all for this beautiful, respectful man before me. I gather some confidence, my hesitancy irritating me, and lift my chocolate-coated arms to place my hands on his smooth chest. ‘I want you again.’ I take a deep breath and drop my mouth to the flesh between my palms. ‘I want you to make me feel alive.’
That’s exactly what he does.
‘Thank God,’ he exhales, grasping me under my thighs and lifting me to his hips where my legs seem to automatically curl around his tight waist. ‘I would’ve accepted it, but I wouldn’t have been particularly happy about it.’ He gently pushes me up against the fridge and takes his hand between our bodies. ‘I can’t seem to get enough of you, Olivia Taylor.’
My back straightens, my arms finding the back of his neck when I feel the blunt head of his impressive manhood push against my entrance. ‘You can have as much as you like,’ I whisper quietly.
‘And I will while you’re here.’ The words kill me, but only very briefly because I’m distracted from his sobering declaration when he pushes into me on a hiss. ‘Oh Jesus, you’ve moulded to me already.’ His face falls into my hair while he gathers himself and I adjust to him inside me. He’s right. Every muscle and void seems to shape around him like liquid. There’s absolutely no pain, just crippling pleasure, more so when he draws back and pushes forward slowly, keeping his face buried in my neck. ‘You feel too fucking good.’
My heart is in my mouth. I can’t speak. My body seems to react mechanically to him, creating feelings, sensations and thoughts, none of which I can prevent. ‘Please, just fuck me,’ I beg, hoping a lack of sentiment and intimacy might cure my building problem. ‘You’ve broken me in.’
‘Savoured, not rushed.’ He reveals his face to me, and I notice chocolate coating his chin. ‘I’ve already explained that to you.’ His words are reinforced with a slow, continuous, meticulous pumping of his hips, over and over and over. ‘This is good, yes?’
I nod.
‘I concur.’ His grip on my thighs increases, and he lowers his mouth to mine. ‘I’m dragging this out for as long as possible.’
I accept his kiss, falling into the steady flow of his tongue’s delicate sweeps. This is easy. I have no reluctance. Following him is the easiest thing that I’ve ever done. Our mouths are moving like we’ve practised this kiss over and over, like this is the most natural thing in the world. It feels like it is. He feels so right to me, despite the fact that we’re worlds apart in every element of our lives – him, the powerful, confident, abrupt businessman, and me, the boring, unsure, sweet waitress. Opposites attract has never been so appropriate. My direction of thought is valid and should probably be of concern, but not now, not when he’s making me feel like this. My blood is heated, I’m crippled by pleasure, and I feel more alive than ever before.
He’s patient, thorough. His gyrating hips are going to be the death of me. My hands are wildly feeling him everywhere they can reach, my legs are aching and heavy, but I don’t care. ‘Miller,’ I say into his mouth, ‘it’s coming.’
He bites my lip and sucks, throwing me into sensation overload. ‘I can feel it.’
‘Hmmm . . . I attack his mouth forcefully, my hands moving to his hair and pulling. I need to loosen my iron grip of his hips, but with the pulsations between my thighs hammering violently, I can’t concentrate on anything else. My body movements are spontaneous. No instructions are filtering through. Everything is happening, but I’m not telling it to. ‘Please, please, please,’ I beg. ‘Faster.’ The need for him to tip me over the edge has lowered me to more shameless begging – that and the desperate need to make this something other than tender lovemaking. He’s holding me in limbo. I need to let go.
‘No, Livy.’ He pacifies me softly but adamantly. ‘I’m not ready yet.’
‘No!’ This is torture. Pure, evil torture.
‘Yes,’ he counters, pushing into me, upholding his balanced rhythm. ‘This is too good. You don’t call the shots.’
My temper surfaces and I brazenly tighten my fists in his hair and yank his head from my lips. I’m panting, and so is he, but it doesn’t hamper those hip movements. His hair is wet, his lips parted and the usual stray wave has been joined by a few more. I want him to slam me into the fridge. I want him to swear and curse at me for my viciousness. I want him to fuck me.
‘Livy, this isn’t stopping anytime soon, so rein it in.’
I gasp at those words and silently will him to follow them up with a powerful smash of his body into mine, but he doesn’t, damn him; he keeps his control. I yank his hair again, attempting to pull some fierceness from him, but he just smiles his full-on beautiful beam . . . so I pull some more.
‘Vicious,’ he mouths, still not giving me what I want, still easing gently into me.
I throw my head back and yell in frustration, ensuring I keep my fist clenched in his hair.
‘Livy, you can mistreat me all you like. We’re doing this my way.’
‘I can’t take any more,’ I cry.
‘Would you like me to stop?’
‘No!’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘No!’
‘So I’m just driving you crazy?’
I drop my head, accepting his careful pumping, still bubbling, and now sweating. I find his eyes, noting that familiar degree of arrogance. ‘Yes,’ I grate.
‘Is it wrong for me to be delighted by that?’
‘Yes.’ My teeth are clenching now.
His faint smile transforms into a sly smirk, and his eyes glisten. ‘I’m not going to apologise, but lucky for you, now I’m ready.’
And with that, he lifts me, gains more leverage and eases back before gliding smoothly into me and holding himself deep and high on a strained groan, shaking against me.
It does the job.
I convulse in his arms, my body becoming limp, my mind spacing out and my hands finally freeing their hold of his hair. I’m not trying to, but my internal wall is grabbing onto him with every pulse he delivers, elongating the waves of pleasure riding through me.
While I’m quite happy being held against the fridge, limp and useless, Miller decides he’s not so happy to hold me there. He folds down to the floor until I’m splattered on his chest, and then rolls over to get me beneath him. He watches me fighting to gain control of my short breath, then takes his mouth to my nipple and sucks hard, biting down and squeezing the surrounding flesh with his hand. ‘Glad you took me up on my offer?’ he asks, sounding confident of the answer I’ll give.
‘Yes,’ I exhale, drawing my knee up and willing some strength into my arm to lift and stroke the back of his head.
‘Of course you are.’ He kisses his way up my body until he’s at my lips, nibbling tenderly. ‘Shower time.’
‘Leave me here,’ I puff, my arms flopping to my sides. ‘I don’t have the energy.’
‘So I’ll do all the hard work. I said I’d worship you.’
‘You also sa
id you’d fuck me,’ I remind him.
He releases my lip from his grip and pulls back, thinking hard. ‘I also said I’d break you in first.’
Surprisingly to me, I don’t even blush. ‘I think we can safely say you can tick that item off your list, so now you can fuck me.’ What the hell has gotten into me?
Obviously, Miller is wondering the very same thing because his eyebrows have just jumped up in shock, but he doesn’t say anything. Perhaps I’ve stunned him into silence. His brow furrows slightly as he starts to climb off me, and after disposing of the condom and wiping the bottoms of his feet, he quickly pulls me up and takes his customary hold of my nape. Then he starts guiding me towards his bedroom. ‘Trust me, you don’t want me to fuck you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because what we just shared was far more enjoyable.’
He’s right, and though I know it’s stupid of me, I don’t want to add Miller to my list of meaningless encounters. ‘Your kitchen is wrecked.’ I point to the chocolate-coated floor and fridge, but he doesn’t follow my indication to look, pushing me onward instead.
‘I can’t look.’ His eyes turn dark, and he shakes his head. ‘I won’t sleep.’
I can’t help smiling, even though I know it won’t be appreciated. He’s a clean freak. He has odd ways, with the constant repositioning of things, but after being here and seeing that immaculate wardrobe, I think he might even be a little obsessive about it.
Just as we breach the entrance to his bedroom, I’m swiftly scooped up and carried across the room. I’m a little shocked, but the rightness of it prevents me from saying anything. He’s so strong and impeccably formed, a true masterpiece of a man, and he feels as good as he looks. When I’m placed on my feet just inside the bathroom doorway, I glance back into his bedroom and quickly reach a swift conclusion. The soles of my feet are covered in chocolate. His are not. He didn’t want to mess up his carpet. He’s pottering around the bathroom, all particular about where he puts things – the towels, the toiletries – and he doesn’t give me a second glance as he passes me, going back into the bedroom, leaving me feeling small and awkward. I frown to myself and wrap my arms around my naked body, while I stand silently gazing around the immense bathroom until he’s eventually back. He turns the shower on and tests the water. He has no problem with nudity, and it’s hardly surprising. There’s absolutely nothing for him to be shy about.
‘After you.’ He sweeps his arm out, gesturing toward the mega shower space.
I’m hesitant, however I manage to find direction and shuffle forward, naked and coated in chocolate. I glace up at an impassive face as I pass him. He’s all formal and cold, a complete about-turn from five minutes ago.
‘Thank you,’ I murmur, stepping under the hot spray and immediately looking down, seeing chocolate water pooling at my feet. I’m alone for a few moments, keeping my eyes down until his feet appear in my field of vision. Even they are perfect. My eyes start a slow climb up his body, studying every perfect, hard inch, until I’m watching him squirt soap onto his palm. Those palms are going to be on me any second, but judging by the look on his face, this isn’t going to be a steamy shower scene. He’s concentrating too hard on the massaging of suds between his hands.
Without a word, he crouches in front of me and starts rubbing the shower cream into my thighs, slowly washing away the chocolate. I can do no more than watch quietly, but the lack of speaking is making me feel uncomfortable. ‘What do you do for a living?’ I ask, trying to break the awkward silence.
He pauses, but quickly picks up his pace again. ‘I don’t think we should get into personal chit-chat, given our arrangement, Livy.’ He doesn’t look at me, choosing to remain focused on my clean-up. I wish I had kept quiet because those words haven’t relieved my unease; I just feel even more awkward. I’m compelled to know more about him, but he’s right. The knowledge will serve no purpose and will only make this cosier than it’s supposed to be.
He continues to sweep those splendid hands all over my skin, not saying a word or even looking at me. After the intimacy of our night so far, this is difficult and unwelcome. It’s like we’re strangers. Well, we are, yet the man kneeling before me is the only person on God’s earth whom I’ve shared myself with. Not my past or any troubles, but my sober body and my vulnerability. He’s made me question my approach to life and men. He’s lured me in with a false sense of security, and now he’s carrying on like this is business, not pleasure.
I’m perplexed, but I shouldn’t be. I knew the deal, yet his tenderness and the fact that he absolutely has not fucked me, perhaps gave me false hope of this being more, which is obscene. He’s really a stranger and an unpredictable, moody, intimidating one at that.
My speeding thoughts are interrupted when his hands make it to my shoulders, the firmness of his thumbs working into my flesh deliciously. And he’s now looking at me, his face still straight and his hair sopping wet, looking longer with the water weighing down his waves. Lowering his face, he kisses me gently but sweetly before resuming the task of ridding my body of chocolate.
What was that?
A tender display of affection? A caring gesture? Natural instinct? Or was it just a friendly kiss? The heat of our mouths together suggested otherwise, but his face doesn’t. I should leave. I’m not sure how I thought this evening would pan out, but I should have thought harder, and then I’m sure that I would’ve passed his offer up. This shouldn’t be me, and I’ve swiftly been dragged from awe to resentment.
I’m just about to declare my intention to halt our arrangement when he speaks. ‘Tell me how it’s possible that you’ve not been taken by a man in seven years,’ he asks, pushing some wet hair from my face.
I sigh, dropping my face until it’s quickly forced back to his. ‘I . . .’ Whatever can I say? ‘It’s just that . . .’
‘Go on,’ he pushes soothingly.
I find avoiding his question easy when I suddenly recall his previous statement. ‘Given our “arrangement”, I thought we weren’t going to do chit-chat.’
His frown matches mine. He looks embarrassed. ‘So I did.’ My neck is gripped by his hand over my wet hair and I’m directed from the shower. ‘Forgive me.’
I’m still frowning as he dries me off with a towel, and then takes my neck again, leading me from the bathroom towards his giant leather bed. It’s dressed beautifully, all plush with deep-red crushed velvet and gold scatter cushions placed delicately. I didn’t notice it before, but I know it couldn’t have been this neat when I got up earlier, so it’s been remade. I don’t want to ruin the preciseness of it again, but Miller releases me and starts taking the cushions and placing them neatly in a chest at the end of the bed before he draws back the quilt and nods for me to climb in.
I step forward cautiously and slowly clamber onto the huge bed, feeling like the princess and the pea. Nestling down, I watch as he slips in beside me and plumps his pillow before resting his head and snaking his arm around my waist, gently tugging me towards his body. I move instinctively into the warmth of his chest, knowing this is wrong. I know it’s wrong, even more so when he takes my hand, kisses my knuckles, and then places my palm on his chest and lays his over it, beginning a guided caress of his skin.
It’s quiet. I can hear my mind ticking over with endless hopeful thoughts. And I think I might hear his, too, but there’s an invisible strain now, and this invisible strain between us is far outweighing the great things that have come before. His heart is beating steadily under my ear, and the odd squeeze of his hand around mine is a gesture of comfort, but I’m never going to be able to sleep, even though my body is exhausted and my brain drained.
Miller suddenly shifts, and I’m removed from his chest and positioned neatly to the side. ‘Stay here,’ he whispers, kissing my forehead before removing his naked body from the bed and slipping his shorts on. He leaves the room, and I prop myself up on my elbows and watch as the door closes quietly behind him. It has to be the early hours of the mo
rning. What is he doing? The absence of the awkward silence should be making me feel better. But it doesn’t. I’m nude, sore between the thighs, and I’m tucked up neatly in a stranger’s bed, but I can do no more than lie back and stare up at the ceiling with only my unwelcome thoughts to keep me company. He makes me feel wonderful and alive, and in the next breath, awkward and an inconvenience.
I’m not sure how long I’m there, but when I hear a few bangs and definitely a polite curse, I can stay no more. I shuffle to the edge of the bed, taking the sheet with me, and pad across the bedroom, gingerly letting myself into the corridor and wandering quietly towards the source of the commotion. The noises and muttered curses get clearer and clearer until I’m standing in the doorway of the kitchen looking at Miller wiping down the fridge’s mirrored doors.
What should be making me stagger in disbelief is Miller’s frantic hand swirling a cloth over the surface, but it’s the muscles of his back, all rippling and sharp, that have my breath catching and my hand darting out to the door frame to steady myself. He can’t be real. He’s a hallucination – a dream or a mirage. I would be sure of this, if I wasn’t so . . . broken in.
‘Fucking mess!’ he hisses to himself, plunging his hand into a bucket of soapy water and wringing the cloth out. ‘What the fuck was I thinking? Fuck!’ He slaps the cloth on the mirrored doors again, continuing to curse and rub frantically.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask quietly, smiling like crazy on the inside. Miller likes everything just like him; perfect.
He swings round, surprised but scowling. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’ The cloth gets thrown viciously into the bucket. ‘You should be resting.’
My sheet gets pulled in closer, like I’m using it as a protective shield. He’s mad, but is he mad with me or with the smeared mirror of the fridge? I start backing away, a little wary.