Promised
Page 48

He watches me, his lips slightly parted and sweat trailing his temples. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asks me, shifting his hands to my thighs. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’
‘I’m thinking that you only have thirteen hours left.’ I undertake a perfect, overly firm grind as I speak. I’m being cunning, but I’ve lost all of my inhibitions.
His eyes narrow on a slight pout, and then the bastard jolts upwards, knocking my cockiness completely off-kilter. ‘You’ve been here an hour, maximum. I have fifteen hours.’
‘Dinner was two hours.’ I groan, my head becoming heavy, but I’m still relentlessly working him. That luscious warmth is spreading over every inch of my skin, telling me I’m on my way.
‘Dinner doesn’t count.’ He transfers a hand to my hair, combing through with his fingers and finding my nape under the wild, damp strands. ‘I couldn’t touch you during dinner.’
‘You’re making up rules now!’ I blurt. ‘Miller!’
‘Are you going to come, Livy?’
‘Yes! Please don’t say you’re not ready,’ I beg, my legs squeezing against his sides.
‘Fuck, I’m always ready for you.’ He sits up and heads straight for my neck, latching on with his mouth, kissing and biting. ‘Let it go.’
I do. Every muscle constricts and I yell, my head falling back and dangling freely while I shudder around him, my mind a complete fuzz of jumbled thoughts.
‘Jesus!’ he shouts, surprising me, even through my numb, blissed-out state. ‘Livy, you’re pulsing around me.’ He guides my non-responsive body on him. I’m useless, except for the relentless muscles gripping greedily onto Miller inside me.
He cl**axes with a loud groan and an uncontrolled buck of his hips. I’m just swaying in his hold, relying on him to hold me up. ‘You do serious things to me, Olivia Taylor. Serious, serious things. Let me see your face.’ He helps me pull my limp head up, but I don’t stay upright for long, my chest falling forward and forcing him back to the headboard. He doesn’t complain. He lets me burrow into his neck and leaves me to catch my breath. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks with slight amusement in his tone.
I can’t speak, so I nod, my hands stroking down his biceps as he drags his palms all over my back. The only sound is strained breaths, mostly emanating from me. But it’s comfortable. It feels right.
‘Are you thirsty?’
I shake my head no and burrow deeper, content to remain exactly where I am, grateful for his acceptance of me.
‘Have you lost your voice?’
I nod, but then I feel him jerking underneath me. He’s laughing and I desperately want to see it, so I spring to life, scrambling from his chest and quickly getting his face in my field of vision. It’s straight, and his eyes are wide with shock.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, all concerned, scanning my face.
I gather all of the air in my lungs and use it to form a sentence. ‘You were laughing at me.’
‘I wasn’t laughing at you.’ He’s all defensive, clearly thinking that I’m insulted, but I’m not. I’m delighted, but pissed off I missed it.
‘That’s not what I meant. I’ve never seen or heard you laugh.’
He looks uncomfortable all of a sudden. ‘Maybe that’s because there’s not much to laugh about.’
I feel my brows meet in the middle. I get the impression that Miller Hart doesn’t laugh very often. He barely smiles either. ‘You’re too serious,’ I say, sounding more accusatory than the simple observation that it was meant to be.
‘Life is serious.’
‘Don’t you laugh in the pub with your friends?’ I ask, trying to imagine Miller drinking a pint in a spit and sawdust pub. I can’t see it.
‘I don’t frequent pubs.’ He almost looks offended by my question.
‘What about friends?’ I press, finding it hard to imagine Miller laughing and joking with anyone full stop, with or without a pub added to the mix.
‘I believe we may be getting personal,’ He snubs me completely, making me choke. After everything I’ve shared?
‘You pressured me into sharing something very personal, and I told you. When someone asks you a question, it’s polite to answer.’
‘No, it’s my prerogative to—’
I cut him off with a dramatic roll of my eyes and fail to halt my mischievous hand from slipping up to his armpit. He watches me suspiciously, his eyes following my hand until I’m tickling him there.
He doesn’t even flinch, just raises his eyebrows cockily. ‘Afraid not.’ He’s straight-faced but smug, making me more persistent, so I walk my fingers across his collarbone to his stubbled chin and attack him with wriggling fingers, but still nothing. He shrugs. ‘I’m not ticklish.’
‘Everyone’s ticklish somewhere.’
‘Not me.’
My eyes narrow and my fingers creep down to his stomach, giving a little dig in the hard, muscled area of his abdomen. He remains impassive and unaffected by my tactics. I sigh. ‘Feet?’ He shakes his head slowly, making me sigh deeper. ‘I wish you’d express yourself more.’ I crawl back up his body and settle to his side, propping my head up on a bent elbow as he shifts to mirror me.
‘I think that I express myself just fine.’ His hand reaches over, taking a lock of my blond, and he starts twirling it between his fingers. ‘I love your hair,’ he muses, watching his slow-playing fingers.
‘It’s unruly and unmanageable.’
‘It’s perfect. Don’t ever cut it off.’ His hand slides around my nape and tugs me closer so there are just a few inches between our faces. My eyes are torn, not knowing whether to focus on his eyes or his lips.
They choose his lips. ‘I love your mouth,’ I confess, inching forward and resting mine over his. My bravery is increasing, my ability to express myself with this expressionless man becoming easy.
‘My mouth loves your body,’ he mumbles, pulling me in further.
‘My body loves your hands,’ I counter, falling into the relaxed movement of his tongue.
‘My hands love how you feel under their touch.’
I hum as he glides those hands to my stomach, onto my hip and down my thigh. The smoothness of his palms defies his masculinity. They’re clean, soft and have no rough calluses, hinting to a life free of manual labour. He’s always in suits, always impeccably turned out, and his manners are faultless – even with his moody arrogance. Everything about Miller is mystifying, but incredibly enticing, and the invisible pull that’s constantly yanking me towards him is confounding and aggravating, but impossible to resist. And in this moment, when he’s worshipping me, feeling me and taking me so tenderly, I conclude that Miller Hart does express himself. He’s expressing himself right now. He does it like this. He may not laugh or smile much, or give me any facial expressions when we’re talking to tell me what he’s thinking, but his whole physical being tells me his emotional state. And I don’t think I’m mistaking it for feelings, not just fascination.
I’m a little annoyed when he breaks our kiss and pulls away, gazing at me quietly before turning me away from him and pulling me back against his chest. ‘Get some sleep, sweet girl,’ he whispers, burying his nose in my wild blond.