Promised (One Night #1)

Promised (One Night #1) Page 16

My head shakes adamantly, my brain focused only on the sensation of his finger inside me. He’s not moving, yet I’m still pulsing incessantly around him, but then I feel his lips on the side of my mouth and my face turns towards the source of the heat, opening up to him, my thighs spreading wider, invitingly. I hum. It’s low and broken, a clear sign of my pleasure, but I want him to know. I want him to hear how I feel.

‘I love that sound,’ he whispers, withdrawing his finger and slowly thrusting forward with two. I whimper. ‘There it is again.’

‘It’s good,’ I tell him quietly against his lips. ‘Really good.’

‘We’ll agree on that one.’ His lips leave my mouth and start trailing down between my modest br**sts and onto my stomach, his fingers still pushing forward and pulling away neatly, carefully. ‘It would’ve been a crime if you had declined this, Livy.’

‘I know!’ I gasp, my stomach curling and knotting, my body movements becoming erratic.

‘To think I could’ve missed out on this.’ His fingers are suddenly gone and he’s moving fast.

‘Oh!’ My upper body flies up when he separates my folds and skims my clitoris with a light dash of his tongue. ‘Ohhhhhhh,’ I fall back to the bed, my palms covering my face, my legs shifting around him.

He nestles further into me, the hotness of his mouth completely encasing me and sucking gently. I recognise the signs now. I recognise the heaviness in my groin, the regular heartbeat in my clitoris and the need to tense everywhere. I’m going to cl**ax again. ‘Miller!’ I cry, my hands finding my hair and gripping hard.

He releases me from his mouth and strokes a wickedly firm trail with his tongue, right up the centre of my cleft. ‘Good?’

‘Yes!’

He’s suddenly on his knees and his hands slide underneath me, his palms cupping my bum, and with one pull the whole of my lower body is raised from the bed. ‘Get your legs over my shoulders,’ he demands, helping me shift them until they’re draped over his body. He holds me with ease and pulls me forward until I’m held to his lips. ‘You taste incredible.’ His mouth starts a torturous dance across my sensitive lips, plunging into my centre and sucking on my clitoris. ‘Exquisite, Livy.’

I can’t acknowledge that. I’ve been tossed into sensory excess, my body struggling to deal with the onslaught of pleasure. This is unknown territory. This is beyond any stretch of my imagination. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience.

My calves push into his back, pulling him closer, and his hands slide all over me, stroking and massaging me softly. I rip my eyes open and look up at him in his knelt position, holding me to his mouth, his blues pointing down at me. That look shoves me over the edge. My back bows and my fists slam into the mattress on either side of me. I want to scream.

‘Let it go, Livy,’ he mumbles against my flesh. And I do.

I stop trying to suppress the pressure in my lungs and let it all out on a loud scream of his name, my thighs tensing around his face, my head thrown back. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God!’ I pant, trying to think clearly. It’s no good. Nothing can get past the wall of shock as my body goes lax and my mind goes blank. I’ve lost control of everything. My mind. My body. My heart. He’s hijacking every part of me. I’m at his mercy. And I like it.

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 na**d 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 na**d 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.