One Night: Denied (21 page)

‘Bad.’ He rests his hand in mine and studies our joining as I secure my grip and give a little tug, encouraging him to stand, which he does with too much effort.

‘The bad news is you’re going to have a bitch of a hangover.’ I mirror his tiny smile and start leading him to his bedroom. ‘The good news is I’ll be here to nurse you when you’re feeling sorry for yourself.’

‘You’ll let me worship you. That’ll make me feel better.’

I raise doubtful eyebrows over my shoulder as we enter his bedroom. ‘Will you be in any fit state?’

He drops his arse to the bed when I give him a little shove in the shoulder. ‘Don’t question my ability to satisfy you, sweet girl.’ His palms slide around to my bum and apply pressure, pulling me between his spread thighs. He’s looking up at me with a carnal stare that’s leading to one thing.

I shake my head. ‘I’m not sleeping with you when you’re drunk.’

‘I beg to differ,’ he counters, his hands working their way to my front and sliding under my top. His eyes are challenging me to stop him, and although I have just been flung into desire overload, I’m not budging. It takes every molecule of strength that I possess, but I locate it fast before I’m tossed into surrender mode. I don’t want to be worshipped by a drunken Miller. I remove his hands on another shake of my head.

‘Don’t deny me,’ he breathes, pulling me forward onto his lap and arranging my legs across him. I have no choice but to curl an arm around his shoulder, bringing me closer to his face. The alcohol fumes only increase my willpower.

‘Stop it,’ I warn, not prepared to fall victim to his tactics. ‘You’re in no fit state and if I kiss you, then I’ll probably end up as drunk as you are.’

‘I’m fine and perfectly capable.’ His hips push into my bottom. ‘I need destressing.’

He has a nerve! I’m the one who needs destressing, but if I’m honest with myself, then Miller taking me under the influence of alcohol makes me nervous. I know he fights to maintain control during our encounters and a belly full of whisky won’t aid him.

‘What?’ he asks, regarding me with suspicion, obviously perceiving my wandering thoughts. ‘Tell me.’

‘It’s nothing.’ I brush off his concern and attempt to remove my body from his lap. And get nowhere.

‘Olivia?’

‘Let me give you your
thing
.’

‘No, tell me what’s troubling that beautiful mind of yours.’ He’s insistent, firming up his hold of me. ‘I won’t ask again.’

‘You’re drunk,’ I blurt quietly, ashamed for doubting the care he takes with me. ‘Alcohol makes people lose reason and control.’ Now I’m cringing. Miller doesn’t need whisky to lose control and both scrapes with Gregory are evidence of that. And the hotel encounter . . .

I remain on his lap and let him process my worries while I twist my ring nervously around and around, wishing I could retract my words. He’s rigid beneath me, every hard plane of his body seeming to bruise my flesh. Then he takes hold of my face, squeezing my cheeks gently, and brings it to confront him. He looks remorseful, which increases my guilt
and
my shame. ‘My self-hatred claws at my dark soul daily.’ He seems to have rapidly gathered something close to soberness, maybe my omission feeding it. His blue eyes seem stronger and his mouth is now forming clear, exact words. ‘Never fear me, I beg you. I could be of no harm to you, Olivia.’ His sombre statement takes the edge off my despondency, but only a little. Miller fails to comprehend the destruction he can cause by hurting me emotionally. That’s what I fear the most. Losing him. I can recover from physical injuries in time, if unintentionally caught up in one of his psychotic outbursts, but no amount of time will fix the mental injuries he can inflict upon me. And that terrifies me.

‘It’s like you take leave of your senses,’ I begin cautiously, choosing my words wisely.

‘I do,’ he mutters, before nodding for me to continue.

‘I’m not frightened for me; I’m scared for your victim and
you
.’

‘My victim?’ He coughs. He’s not happy with my choice of word. ‘Livy, I don’t prey on innocent people. And please don’t worry about me.’

‘I
do
worry about you, Miller. You’ll be thrown into jail if someone presses charges and I don’t like seeing you hurt.’ I reach up and brush over a faint blemish on his bristly cheek.

‘That won’t happen,’ he sighs, pulling me into his chest and attempting to rub some comfort into me. Weirdly, it works, and I melt into his relaxed body, matching his tired sigh. He sounds confident. Too confident. ‘Gorgeous girl, I’ve said it once before and on this occasion I have no problem repeating myself.’ He falls to his back, taking me with him, and tussles with me until I’m cuddled into his side and he has access to my face. Feathery kisses trail from one cheek to the other and back again. ‘The only thing in this world that can cause me pain is currently being held in my arms.’ He lifts my chin so my lips are level with his and the lingering stench of whisky invades my nose. I find it easy to disregard. He’s gazing at me like I’m the only thing that exists in his world, those eyes easing my remaining anxiety from this long day. His lips move in and I brace myself, my hand slipping onto his chest to feel him. ‘May I?’ he whispers, pausing mere millimetres from my mouth.

‘You’re asking?’

‘I’m aware that I smell like a distillery,’ he murmurs, making me smile. ‘And I’m sure I won’t taste much better.’

‘I beg to differ.’ All of my reluctance to let him have me in these circumstances diminishes under his tenderness, and I close the small gap between us, our mouths clashing more forcefully than I intended. I don’t care. Disinclination has been hijacked by an urgent need to reinstate my serenity and Miller’s recently relaxing disposition. I can taste the whisky, but Miller’s essence dominates the alcohol, drowning my senses with pure yearning. It’s making me light-headed. The only instructions I can find in my suddenly lust-filled mind are ones telling me to let him worship me. That
that
will chase away my woes.
That
will make the world right again. That will calm him. Our passion collides and everything else is of no importance. It’s perfect in these moments, but hard to hold on to when faced with endless resistance.

Miller rolls to his back, keeping our mouths fused, and locks one palm on my nape and his other under my bottom, ensuring I’m secure in his clutch. ‘Savoured,’ he mumbles against my lips, that one familiar word making me see past my consuming desperation for him and follow his demand to slow things down. My fear was unwarranted. I’m the one being told to rein it in, Miller appearing to have full control and lucidity, despite the obscene amount of whisky that must have passed his lips. ‘Better,’ he praises, moulding at my neck. ‘So much better.’

‘Hmmm.’ I’m not prepared to release him to speak my agreement, choosing to hum it instead. I feel his lips spread into a smile through our kiss and that
does
make me pull away, and pull away fast. Catching a glimpse of one of Miller’s rare smiles will send me delirious with happiness. I’m sitting up fast, wiping my hair from my eyes, and when my view is clear, I see it. It’s something else, a no-holds-barred, megawatt smile that sends me giddy. He’s always devastating, even when he looks downright miserable, but right now he’s surpassed perfect. He’s ruffled, tatty and messy, but utterly beautiful, and when I should be returning his smile, matching his ease and cherishing the rare sight, I start crying instead. All of the crap that today has dealt me seems to come collectively together and pour from my eyes in silent, uncontrollable sobs. I feel silly, overwrought and weak, and in an attempt to hide it, I bury my face in my palms and blindly remove my body from his.

The only sound in the peaceful air encompassing us is my shallow sobs as Miller silently shifts, seeming to take for ever to find my shuddering body – probably because his usually stealthy movements are hampered by too much alcohol. But he eventually makes it to me and embraces me, sighing heavily into my neck and delicately rubbing calming circles into my back. ‘Don’t cry,’ he whispers, his voice like sandpaper, rough and low. ‘We’ll survive. Please don’t cry.’ His tenderness and barely spoken understanding only escalates my emotions, making clinging to him tightly my only purpose.

‘Why can’t people leave us alone?’ I ask, my words disjointed.

‘I don’t know,’ he admits. ‘Come here.’ He collects my hands from the back of his neck and holds them between us, fiddling with my ring unconsciously as he watches me fight my tears away. ‘I wish I could be perfect for you.’

His admission cripples me. ‘You
are
perfect,’ I argue, however wrong I know I am deep down. There’s nothing perfect about Miller Hart, except for his visual appeal and incessant obsession to have everything surrounding him precise. ‘You’re perfect to me.’

‘I appreciate your unrelenting belief, especially since I’m drunk right now and have shamed myself in front of your grandmother.’ He shakes his head on a frustrated exhale and reaches for his head, holding it for a few moments as if the consequences of his actions have just registered, or maybe a hangover has.

‘She was pissy,’ I tell him, seeing no reason to try and make him feel better. He’ll need to face her wrath eventually.

‘I gathered that when she manhandled me up the garden path.’

‘You deserved it.’

‘I concur,’ he accepts willingly. ‘I’ll call her. No, I’ll visit.’ His lips straighten and he appears to think hard about something before refocusing his attention on me. ‘Do you think I can win her over by offering a bite of my buns?’

My lips press together as he raises his eyebrows, looking for a serious answer. Then he loses the battle to maintain his serious face, his twitching lip lifting a smidgen. ‘Ha!’ I laugh, shocked by his comedy streak, all sadness sucked up by humour. I lose control. My head falls back and I fall apart, shoulders jumping, stomach aching, and tears now springing from amusement, which is so much more appealing than the despair of a few moments ago.

‘Much better,’ I hear Miller conclude, gathering me into his arms and striding across his room to the bathroom. I’m not sure if the staggers and sways are a result of his drunkenness or my persistent jerks in his arms. He places me with accuracy onto the vanity unit and leaves me to collect my hysteria while he unbuttons his waistcoat, regarding me with a dash of humour on his heart-stopping face.

‘I’m sorry,’ I chuckle, concentrating on breathing deeply to dampen down the shakes.

‘Don’t be. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than seeing you so happy.’ He shrugs out of his waistcoat and I’m stupidly delighted when I see him fold it neatly before slipping it deftly into the washing basket. ‘Well, something else does, but your happiness comes a close second.’ He starts on his shirt, the first button revealing a sliver of taut, tempting flesh.

I stop laughing immediately. ‘You should laugh more. It—’

‘Makes me less intimidating,’ he finishes for me. ‘Yes, you’ve told me. But I think I—’

‘Express yourself just fine.’ I reach forward and assist his fumbling fingers with the tiny buttons, then help him slide the white cotton from his shoulders. ‘Perfect,’ I sigh, sitting back to relish my stunning view, watching with lusty eyes as every muscle of his super-perfect torso undulates while he folds his shirt. He places it skilfully in the washing basket and he’s back before me, arms draped limply at his sides, chin dropped, eyes heavy. I soak up his concentrated stare and lift my hands to catch a feel of the harsh stubble that’s darkening his face. I’m allowed to take my time feeling him, my fingers tracing the planes of his jaw, drifting up to the corners of his eyes, and tenderly smoothing over his lids when they close for me. I cherish every part of him with my eyes and touch until I’m working my fingertips down his arms and onto his hands. ‘Let me fix this,’ I say, turning over his hand, revealing knuckles reddened with blood and a little blemishing.

His eyes open and fall to my fingers threading through his, and his hand flexes in my hold, but he doesn’t wince or hiss with pain. ‘In the shower.’ He shakes me away and takes the hem of my top, working it up my body, forcing me to lift my arms so he can rid me of the material. Then my bra is slowly removed, exposing my modest breasts that feel swollen and heavy under his appreciative, if a little drunken, gaze. My nipples harden to pebbles, tingling sweetly as the pad of his thumb brushes gently over each in turn. ‘Perfect,’ he says, leaning in and planting a chaste kiss on my parted lips. ‘Jump down.’

I follow through on his soft order and slide from the counter to my feet, kicking my Converse off and taking the initiative to begin on his trousers while he, too, removes his shoes. There’s no rush, each of us happy to take our time undressing the other until we’re both naked. I watch him collect a foil packet from the cupboard, his fingers fiddling clumsily as he slides the condom out, so I step forward and take it from him. I feel comfortable as I sheathe him, feeling his blues burning into my face, and once I’m done, he’s swiftly lifting me to his body with ease. My limbs respond on impulse and coil around him. We’re nothing but skin on skin, heart on heart, need on need. He keeps us to the side of the shower spray while it warms up, and once he’s happy that it’s at a comfortable temperature, he takes us under and stands silently holding me while water rains down and washes away the dirt, the tension, the doubt, the pain.

‘Are you comfortable?’ he asks.

‘Perfect.’ It’s the only word I can think to use. I smile into his shoulder and pull back, getting his perfect face, all wet and dazzling, into my sight. ‘Can I stay with you tonight?’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you.’ I show my appreciation by nibbling at his rough chin.

‘It wasn’t really up for discussion,’ he informs me, taking me to the wall and encouraging me to rest my back against it. ‘Too cold?’

I suck in a shocked breath as the coolness of the mosaic tiles spreads across my back. ‘A little.’ He goes to peel me away but I stiffen, stopping him. ‘No, I’m used to it now.’

He eyes me doubtfully but doesn’t challenge my little white lie. ‘You’re all slippery and wet,’ he muses, widening his stance and moving his palms to the rear of my thighs. His intentions are clear and longed for, and my hitching breath tells him so. ‘I want to slide myself into your core and bathe in the fulfilment that you reward me with.’