Promised
Page 66

‘I didn’t mean to.’ I stagger, prompting Miller to grab my upper arm to steady me.
‘You need to be more careful,’ he warns, and he’s right. I realise that, even through my drunkenness. So I prevent my drunken insolence from resurfacing.
As we walk down the corridor and back up the stairs to the main club, I feel my stupid drinking binge really take hold. People are a wish-wash of blurred, slowed movements and the loud music is a bombardment of pain on my ears. I wobble on my heels, feeling Miller look down at me.
‘Livy, are you okay?’
I nod, my head not quite doing what I’m telling it to, making my movement more of a limp roll on my neck. Then I bump into a wall. ‘I feel . . . My mouth is suddenly producing far too much saliva, my stomach turning violently.
‘Oh shit, Livy!’ He scoops me up and charges for his office again, but he’s not quick enough. I throw up all over the corridor . . . and Miller. ‘Bollocks!’ he curses.
I retch some more as he gets me into his office. ‘I feel sick,’ I mumble.
‘What the hell have you had?’ he asks, negotiating my floppy body onto the toilet in his bathroom.
‘Tequila,’ I giggle. ‘But not properly. I forgot the salt and lemon so we had to do it again. Oh!’ I slip from the toilet seat and land on my backside. ‘Ouch!’
‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ he grumbles, picking me up and holding me in place, my head lolling while he tries to remove his sick-splattered waistcoat and shirt. ‘Livy, how many shots did you have?’
‘Two,’ I answer, my bottom dropping to meet the toilet seat again. ‘And I helped myself to more champagne,’ I slur, ‘but I didn’t use the glass with cherry-red lipstick on. She wants an association in more than business, you stupid man.’
‘What’s got into you?’
I pull my heavy head up and try to focus, finding a bare, smooth, masterpiece of a chest at eye level. ‘You, Miller Hart.’ I rest my hands on his pecs and take my time caressing him. I might be stinking drunk, but I can still appreciate what I’m feeling, and it feels good. ‘You’ve got into me.’ I lift my eyes with some effort, finding his are dropped, watching me feeling him. ‘You’ve worked your way into me and I can’t shake you out.’
He slowly crouches in front of me and strokes my cheek before sliding his hand around the back of my neck and pulling my face close to his. ‘I wish you weren’t so pissed right now.’
‘So do I,’ I admit. There’s no way I’ll handle him in a drunken stupor. And I wouldn’t want to. I want to remember every intimate moment, even this one. ‘If I forget the look on your face right now, or the words you said to me on your desk, promise me you’ll remind me.’
He smiles.
‘And that!’ I blurt. ‘Promise me you’ll smile at me like that the next time I see you.’ His smiles are rare and beautiful, and I hate him for giving me one now, when I’m not likely to remember.
He groans, and I think he closes his eyes. Or did I close mine? I’m not even sure. ‘Olivia Taylor, when you wake up in the morning, I’m going to be catching up on what you’ve deprived me of this evening.’
‘You’ve deprived yourself,’ I retort. ‘But remind me first,’ I mumble as he pulls me in for his thing. ‘Smile at me.’
‘Olivia Taylor, if I have you, then I’ll be smiling for the rest of my life.’
Chapter 18
My brain feels warped, and in my darkness I wonder what year it is. It may have been a long time, but I know exactly how I’m going to feel when I open my eyes. My mouth is dry, my body clammy, and the dull thump in my head is likely to transform into a full-on carnival of relentless bongo drums when I lift my head from the pillow.
Deciding my best option is more sleep, I roll over to find a cool spot and burrow back down into my pillow, sighing happily at my new, comfortable position. The sweet sound of a low, peaceful hum is soothing and distinguishable.
Miller.
I don’t bolt upright because my body won’t allow it, but I do open my lids, discovering shockingly blue smiling eyes. I frown and drop my eyes to his mouth. Yes, he’s smiling, and it’s like sunlight bashing its way through grey clouds and making everything just perfect. Bright. Real. But what’s he so delighted about, and how did I end up here?
‘Have I done something funny?’ I croak. My throat is rough and parched.
‘No, not funny.’
‘Then why are you smiling so hard?’
‘Because you made me promise that I would,’ he says, planting a light kiss on my nose. ‘If I ever make you a promise, Livy, I’ll keep it.’ He pulls me over to his side of the bed and goes about giving me his thing, positioning me beneath him and squeezing me tightly, sinking his face into my neck. ‘I’ll never do anything less than worship you,’ he whispers. ‘I’m never going to be a drunken fumble, Livy. Every time I take you, you’ll remember it. Each and every moment will be etched on that beautiful mind of yours for ever.’ He kisses my neck sweetly and squeezes a little tighter. ‘Every kiss. Every touch. Every word. Because that’s how it is for me.’
My breath catches in the back of my throat, his words sending a deep warmth to my very centre, pure happiness shining through my fuzziness. But my eyebrows meet in the middle. I feel like he’s privy to a one-way, secret conversation.
‘It’s a good job I keep my promises.’ He emerges and studies my face closely. ‘You disappointed me last night.’
His light accusation stimulates a blurry memory of me . . . and another man . . . and lots of alcohol. ‘It was your fault,’ I retort quietly.
His brow wrinkles in surprise. ‘I don’t remember demanding that you let another man taste you.’
‘I didn’t let him, and I don’t remember agreeing to you bringing me here.’
‘I don’t expect you to remember a lot.’ He leans down and bites my nose. ‘You threw up all over me and my new club; you fell over, more than once; and I had to stop the car twice for you to be sick. And you still managed to vomit in my Mercedes.’ He kisses my nose while I concentrate on cringing, mortified. ‘You then decorated the floor in the lobby of my apartment block and the floor of my kitchen.’
‘Sorry,’ I whisper. I must have sent him into a tailspin with his cleaning habits.
‘You’re forgiven.’ He sits up and pulls me onto his lap. ‘My pure, sweet girl turned into the devil last night.’
Another memory is jolted. My Livy. ‘Your fault,’ I repeat, because there’s nothing else I can claim, apart from it being my fault, which it is, partly.
‘So you keep saying.’ He stands and places me on my unstable feet. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’
I try to focus on him, annoyed my clouded, post-drunken vision isn’t allowing me to absorb him all. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ll give you the bad news.’ He gathers my hair and rests it neatly down my back. ‘You had one dress and you’ve vomited all over it, so you have no clothes.’
I look down, finding I’m completely nude, not even knickers, and I doubt the vomit reached those.