I’m eased back down to the bed, and I do nothing to help as he positions me on my side and lies behind me, pulling me into the hardness of his chest. ‘What about you?’ I breathe, feeling him hard against my back.
‘I’ll let you recover first. I could be a while. Let’s just cuddle.’
‘Oh,’ I whisper, wondering how long a while is. ‘You want to cuddle?’ I never in a million years expected cuddling to be included in my twenty-four hours.
‘Cuddling’s my thing with you, Olivia Taylor. I just want to hold you. Close your eyes and enjoy the silence.’ He gathers my masses of honey hair and pulls it out of his way so he can access my back, then he starts a hypnotising, slow routine of lazy kisses over my skin. It makes my eyes heavier, finding immense comfort from the attention and his warmth coating every part of my back as he gives me his thing.
It makes me realise that I’ve existed in solitary.
Chapter 8
I come to in a dusky darkness, completely naked and completely disorientated. It takes me a few moments to gather my bearings and when I do, I smile. I feel relaxed. I feel at peace. I feel sated and comfortable, but when I roll onto my side, he’s not there.
I sit up and gaze around his bedroom. Should I look for him? Should I stay put and wait for him to return? What should I do? I have just enough time for a trip to the bathroom, ensuring I leave everything exactly how I found it, before the door opens and Miller appears. He has his black shorts on again, and his semi-naked perfection attacks my sleepy eyes, making me blink repeatedly just to ensure I’m not dreaming. He looks at me standing and fidgeting, a sheet wrapped around me and my hair probably resembling a bird’s nest.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, walking forward. His hair looks adorable, the dark waves wild and messy, and that lock sitting perfectly in place on his forehead.
‘Yes.’ I pull the sheet in tighter, thinking maybe I should’ve got dressed.
‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ He takes the sheet and wrestles it from my grip until he’s holding a corner in each hand and opening it, exposing my naked body to shimmering blue eyes. His lips don’t smile, but his eyes do. He moves into the sheet and drapes the ends over his shoulders so we’re both enclosed in white cotton. ‘How do you feel?’
I smile. ‘Good.’ I feel more than good, but I won’t admit it to him. I know why I’m here and it’s searing painfully on my conscience and morality each time I think about it. So I simply won’t.
‘Just good?’
I shrug. What does he want? A thousand-word essay on my current state of mind and state of body? I could probably write ten thousand words. ‘Really good.’
His hands slide around to my bottom and squeeze. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Not for oysters,’ I blurt on a shudder.
He removes himself from the confines of the sheet and wraps me back up with the utmost care. ‘No, not for oysters,’ he agrees, pecking my lips lightly. ‘I’ll feed you something else.’ His hand finds the nape of my neck over my hair, and then turns me away from him, leading me from the room.
‘I should get dressed,’ I say, not attempting to stop him, but wanting him to know that I’m not entirely comfortable with a sheet of cotton covering my modesty.
‘No, we’ll eat, then bathe.’
‘Together?’
‘Yes, together.’ He doesn’t give my concerned tone the attention it deserves. I can shower or bathe myself. I don’t need him to worship me to that extent.
I’m taken into his kitchen and placed on a chair at a huge dining table, and I thank the cotton gods for the bed sheets separating my backside from the cold seat beneath me. ‘What time is it?’ I ask, silently hoping that I’ve not wasted too much of my twenty-four hours sleeping.
‘Eleven o’clock.’ He opens the mirrored door of the huge double fridge and starts shifting things aside and placing things on the counter next to him. ‘I was allowing you two hours’ sleep, then I was going to poke you.’ He places a bottle of champagne on the side and turns to face me. ‘You came round just in time.’
I smile, pulling my sheet in, thinking how much nicer it would’ve been to wake up to those eyes glistening down at me. ‘Do you mind if I get dressed?’ I ask.
His head cocks to the side, his eyes slightly narrowed. ‘Are you not comfortable in your skin?’
‘Yes,’ I answer confidently, although I’ve never found myself asking that question before now. I know that I’m a little on the slender side, Nan reminds me daily, but am I really comfortable? Because the way I’m holding the sheet to me would indicate otherwise.
‘Good.’ He turns back toward the fridge. ‘Then that’s settled.’ A glass bowl appears, piled high with big, juicy strawberries, and then he opens a cupboard which reveals row after row of precisely placed champagne flutes. He grabs two and places them in front of me, then the bowl of strawberries – all washed and hulled – before he’s in another cupboard pulling down a cooling bucket and loading it with ice from the dispenser on the front of the fridge. The bucket gets placed in front of me, the champagne nestled into the ice, and then he’s at the hob, putting on an oven mitt. I watch in fascination as he moves around the kitchen with complete ease, every motion precise and neat, and all done so very carefully. Nothing that he moves or puts down stays in the same position for very long. It gets turned a fraction or repositioned before he’s happy and continuing with something else.
Right now he’s walking towards me, holding a metal pan which is billowing steam from the glass bowl that’s resting on the rim. ‘Would you please pass me that trivet?’
I look in the direction of his pointed finger and get up as quickly as the sheet covering me will allow, retrieving the metal pan stand and placing it next to the bowl of strawberries, champagne and glass flutes. ‘There,’ I say, taking my seat again and watching as he shifts the stand a few millimetres to the right before easing the hot pan onto it. I crane my neck over the pan and spy a deep puddle of melted chocolate. ‘That looks delicious.’
He’s next to me now, pulling a chair near and resting his backside on the seat. ‘It tastes delicious, too.’
‘Can I dip?’ I ask, getting my finger ready to plunge.
‘Your finger?’
‘Yes.’ I look to him, finding dark, raised, disapproving eyebrows.
‘It’ll be too warm.’ He grabs the champagne and starts peeling away the foil. ‘And that’s why we have strawberries, anyway.’
His frowning face and abrupt words make me feel childlike. ‘So I can dip a strawberry, but not my finger?’ I see him look at me out of the corner of his eye while he works the cork.
‘I guess so.’ He brushes off my sarcasm and pours the champagne, but not before neatly placing the rubbish that he’s just accumulated into a tidy little pile on a small plate.
He passes me a glass, and I start shaking my head. ‘No, thank you.’
His gasp is barely contained. ‘Livy, this is Dom Pérignon Vintage 2003. You don’t say no to that. Take it.’ He thrusts it forward, and I pull back.
‘I don’t want it, but thank you.’
The look of shock morphs into thoughtfulness. ‘You don’t want this particular drink or any drink?’
‘Water would be good, please.’ I’m not going into this. ‘I appreciate what you’ve done with the strawberries and champagne, but I’d rather have some water, if you don’t mind.’
He’s clearly stunned by my refusal to drink the expensive liquid, but he doesn’t push it, and I’m grateful. ‘As you wish.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile as he leaves me to replace the champagne with water.
‘Tell me you like strawberries,’ he pleads, fetching a bottle of Evian and joining me again.
‘I love strawberries.’
‘That’s a relief.’ He unscrews the lid and pours my water into the other flute. ‘Humour me,’ he says when he catches sight of my furrowed brow. I accept the drink and watch as he takes his time selecting a strawberry before he dips
it in the bowl and swirls carefully, coating the ripe fruit with dark chocolate. ‘Open.’ He clasps the seat of my chair with his spare hand and drags me closer so I’m snugly fit between his thighs. His bare chest is slightly distracting.
My jaw loosens automatically, mainly because I’m gaping at his close beauty, and he holds my eyes as he brings the fruit to my mouth until I feel it skimming my lip. My mouth closes around it and my teeth sink in, biting a small piece from its plump flesh. ‘Hmmm,’ I hum happily and reach up to catch a trail of strawberry juice on my chin, but my wrist is seized before I get to wipe it away.
‘Allow me,’ he whispers, edging further into me, his lips homing in on my chin and slowly licking away the juice before he slips the remaining piece past his lips. My chewing has slowed right down, matching the precise motions of his mouth. He swallows. ‘Good?’
My mouth is full, so I nod – knowing Miller’s compulsion for manners – and hold my finger up to indicate a second as I chew quickly. I lick my lips and lean towards the bowl again. ‘You need to feed me another.’
His eyes twinkle as he selects another strawberry and dips and swirls again. ‘It would be even better with champagne,’ he muses, flicking his eyes to mine.
I ignore him and place my water on the table. ‘What chocolate is that?’
‘Ah.’ He brings the strawberry to my mouth, but this time he brushes the runny chocolate across my bottom lip, and my tongue instantly leaves my mouth to clear it up. ‘No.’ He shakes his head and slides his palm around my neck, pulling me in. ‘I get to do that,’ he whispers in my face, moving in.
I don’t fight him off. I let him clean up the mess that he’s made and take the opportunity to rest my palms on his thighs, on either side of my knees. I smooth across the dark hairs of his legs, enjoying the feel of him, while he finishes up at my mouth, kissing the corner of my lips, the centre, and then the other corner.
‘What chocolate is it?’ I repeat quietly, wanting to forget all sweet-tasting things and taste Miller instead.
‘Green and Black’s.’ He offers me the strawberry and I take it, holding it between my teeth. ‘It has to be a minimum of eighty per cent cocoa.’ The strawberry that I’m holding is preventing me from asking why, so I frown instead, prompting him to go on. ‘The bitterness of the chocolate coupled with the sweetness of the strawberry is what makes it so special. Add champagne and you have a perfect combination. And the strawberries simply have to be British.’ He leans in and bites the strawberry that’s wedged between my teeth and juice explodes between us.
I don’t care about the juice all over my chin, or that my mouth is full. ‘Why?’
He finishes chewing and swallows. ‘Because they’re the sweetest you can buy.’ He slips his hands under my thighs and lifts, pulling me forward so I’m astride him on the chair. He takes excruciatingly long to clean me up. It makes my skin heat and my breath catch constantly in my throat as I try to contain the urge to pounce on him. The sheet is yanked away, exposing my full nakedness to him. ‘Bath time.’
‘You don’t need to bathe me,’ I object, wondering how far he’ll take this worshipping business. I’m feeling extremely special, but I can wash myself.
He takes my hands and rests them on his shoulders, then gathers the masses of honey locks framing my face. ‘I absolutely do need to bathe you, Livy.’
‘Why?’
He stands, holding my bum cheeks, and takes me to the mirrored fridge. I’m placed on my feet and turned away from him so my front is facing the mirror. I’m staring at myself. I feel uncomfortable, especially when I flick my eyes to Miller behind me and see his gaze journeying the length of my body. My eyes fall to the floor, but quickly snap up again when his chest is pressed against me and I feel his hard length pressed into my lower back – hot and moist. His shorts are gone.
‘Feeling better?’ he asks, holding my eyes in the mirror and reaching around to gently cup my breast.
I nod, when I really mean to say no. He intimidates me on every level, but it’s all very addictive.
He moulds my breast gently. ‘Mouth-watering,’ he whispers, his lips moving slowly. ‘Perfectly plump.’ He tweaks my nipple lightly and kisses my ear. ‘And incredibly tasty.’
My eyes close and I lean back onto him, but my blissful state is interrupted when I’m lightly pushed forward and pressed against the cold mirror of the fridge, my modest boobs squished to the glass and my face turning in to rest my cheek on the cool surface.
‘Don’t move.’ He disappears from behind me, but is back within a few seconds, his knee pushing between my thighs and spreading them before he takes my hands, one at a time, and lifts them, flattening my palms on the mirror above my head. I’m spreadeagled against the front of the fridge, pushed up to the glass, and I can only just see him in my peripheral vision. He’s holding the bowl of chocolate, and before I can even stop to consider his next move, he tips the whole contents across my shoulders, the warm chocolate making my shoulders jump up in shock, the sensation of it trickling down my back, over my bottom, and down my legs, making me pray for help. It’s going to take time to lick all that away, and I’ve had his tongue on me before. I’ll never make it through without screaming or turning to devour him. I start to tremble.
I hear the bowl being placed on the worktop behind me, and I also definitely hear the drag of glass on marble, indicating the repositioning of it. He’s just tipped melted chocolate all over me and now he’s worried about the positioning of a bowl?
Lifting my face from the mirror, I look for him in the reflection, finding him approaching me. His penis is solid and bouncing freely as he paces, and he has a foil packet in his hand. I gulp and rest my forehead against the glass, mentally preparing myself for the sweet torture that I’m about to endure.
‘See? Now I really do need to bathe you.’ The warmth of his palms lands on the outside of my thighs and skate over my hips, my waist, my ribs – until his hands are sitting on my shoulders, massaging me, his big hands slipping over the chocolate. My head rolls back, a moan rolls from my lips, and my stomach rolls in anticipation.
Gliding his touch down the column of my spine, his finger slips over the cheeks of my bum and to the top of my thighs, down, down, down, until he’s kneeling on the floor behind me and reaching up to stroke down my body once more. I’m on high alert. I’m docile, but aware – calm but frenzied . . . alive but fading.
‘Livy, I’m not sure twenty-four hours is going to be enough,’ he whispers, his fingertip circling my anklebone. My eyes close and I try to divert my mind from sending the words that I want to say to my mouth. It won’t help. He’s turned on, that’s all – caught up in the moment.
The tip of that damn finger burns a trail up the side of my lower leg until it’s at the back of my knee. My legs wobble.
‘Miller,’ I breathe, my palms sliding over the mirrored glass.
‘Hmmm,’ he hums, replacing his finger with his tongue, licking a wickedly teasing stroke up the back of my thigh and onto my bum. He bites down on my cheek, his teeth sinking into my flesh and sucking . . . hard.
‘Please.’ I’m begging. I’m doing what I swore I’d never resort to. ‘Please, please, please.’
‘Please, what?’ He’s on my back now, working up the centre of my spine, licking, sucking and biting as he makes his journey. ‘Tell me what you want.’
‘You,’ I pant. ‘I want you.’ I’m shameless, but that luscious heaviness is building again, heat racing through my veins, leaving no room for shyness.
‘As I want you.’
‘You can have me.’ I turn my head when he clasps my nape and twists his grip, finding clear eyes that could rival the bluest of tropical waters.
‘I don’t understand how something so beautiful can be so pure.’ His eyes skate all over my face, wonder gushing from the heat of his stare. ‘Thank you.’ He kisses me so delicately, his hands roaming everywhere, until they’re spreading chocolate up my arms and encasing my balled fists with his p
alms.
I know the answer to his question, but he’s not directly asked, so I should avoid enlightening him. That’s not what this is about. For him, it’s fulfilling his fascination. For me, it’s about remedying a problem that I’ve inflicted on myself – I have to keep telling myself that.
‘Turn around so I can see you,’ he says against my lips, helping me swivel. When my chocolate-drenched back is pushed up against the fridge, slipping and sliding, he steps back and gives me an all-over visual assessment. I’m not shy because I’m too busy absorbing the mountain of chocolate-covered perfection before me – wide shoulders, tight hips and strong thighs . . . a thick, long column protruding from his groin. My mouth waters, my eyes fixed on that one area, despite the copious amounts of other hard perfection for my eyes to feast on. I want to taste him.
My eyes shoot to his when he steps forward, seeing a straight face, as usual, giving nothing away. ‘Where is that mind wandering to?’ he asks, reaching down and taking a firm grip of his cock, pulling my eyes downward and my breath backward. I choke on a gasp.
Now I’m nervous, and my lack of response is a clear sign of this. Stupidly, I don’t want to disappoint him. I’m sure he’ll have had plenty of sweet lips wrapped around him, but I bet they all knew what they were doing. ‘I’m . . . can . . . it’s . . .’ I stutter and stammer all over the place, prompting him to relieve me of my awkwardness by burying his face under my neck and pushing up until my head’s forced back and I’m looking up at the ceiling.
‘You need to loosen up some more. I thought we were getting somewhere.’
‘We are.’
He drops me, leaving me weak and wobbly while he rips open the condom and makes quick work of rolling it on. I don’t like it. I feel like it’s a crime for him to be covering his beauty. ‘I really wish we could do this flesh on flesh,’ he muses, glancing up at me. ‘But I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I knocked you up, would I?’
No, he wouldn’t, but whatever’s gentlemanly about keeping me as a sex toy for a day? Or telling me that I’ll get the best fuck of my life? He’s contradicted that promise. There has been nothing close to fucking since I arrived. He’s been a gentleman through and through – a caring, attentive, considerate lover.
One Night: Promised Page 11