Promised
Page 86

‘Would you like me to get you another drink?’ I ask, for the first time thinking that perhaps Miller drinks too much. Or has that just been since he met me?
‘I don’t need a drink, Livy.’ His tone has taken on a throaty edge, and his eyes have landed on me with a bang. ‘I think you know what I need.’
My blood reheats under his primal stare, my whole sexual being becoming aware and responsive. God help me when he touches me. ‘De-stressing,’ I whisper, looking up through my lashes as he stalks slowly towards me.
‘You’re like therapy to me.’ He reaches me and swoops down, kissing me with purpose and meaning, moaning and mumbling into my mouth as his tongue works mine fluidly. My mind immediately scrambles. ‘I love kissing you.’
We’re in his office. I don’t want to be in his office. I want to be in his bed. ‘Take me home.’
‘It’ll take too long. I need de-stressing now.’
‘Please.’ I rest my hands on his shoulders and pull away. ‘You make me feel stressed when you’re all uptight.’
He sighs deeply and drops his head, letting loose the wayward curl. It calls for me to push it back from his forehead, so I do, taking the chance while I’m in the vicinity of his hair to feel all of it. I feel privileged that this complex man has designated me the role of de-stressing him, and I’ll relish doing it whenever need be, but I can see there are ways in which he can do this for himself.
‘I apologise,’ he murmurs. ‘Your request has been noted.’
‘Thank you. Take me to your bed.’
‘As you wish.’ He looks down at his suit, scowling at the few creases as he tries to smooth them out. He gives up on an exasperated sigh and cocks his head when he catches me smiling.
‘What’s so amusing?’
‘Nothing.’ I shrug nonchalantly and set about smoothing myself down. It’s a terribly sarcastic act, but when I glance up and see that Miller has pulled an ironing board from a concealed cupboard in the wall and is busy setting it up, my amusement soon abates. ‘You’re not?’
He pauses and casts his eyes over to my bulging ones. ‘What?’
‘You’re going to iron your suit?’
‘It’s all creased.’ He’s horrified that I’m clearly stunned by this. ‘Someone distracted me before, so I’m going to look like a sack of potatoes in my picture.’
‘What about bed?’ I sigh, seeing a long stretch ahead while I wait for Miller to perfect on perfect.
‘As soon as I’m done.’ He turns and takes an iron out.
‘Miller . . .’ I halt when I detect the very subtle jumping of his shoulders, and totally intrigued, I pace quickly over and round him, finding the biggest boyish grin I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing. My mouth drops open. I’m stunned and can’t even remember what I was going to say.
‘Your face!’ he laughs, folding the board and putting it back. Miller Hart, Mr Serious, my confounding, complex creature, is winding me up? Playing a joke? I think I might pass out.
‘It’s not even that funny,’ I mutter, pushing the cupboard door shut in a childish act of stroppiness.
‘I beg to differ,’ he laughs, straightening and knocking me sideways with that cheeky grin again. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.
‘Beg all you like,’ I retort, then yelp when he picks me up and spins me around. ‘Miller!’
‘I’m not going to iron my suit because getting you into my bed is of paramount importance.’
‘More important than ironing your suit back to perfection?’ I ask, threading my fingers through his waves. ‘And more important than fixing your hair?’
‘Considerably.’ He drops me to my feet. ‘Ready?’
‘I was looking forward to you taking me for dinner.’
‘Dinner or bed?’ He scoffs. ‘Now you’re just being silly.’
I smile. ‘What would one have to do to skip the club’s waiting list?’
His eyes lose a little sparkle when they narrow, his lips straightening. He’s trying not to laugh. ‘One would need to know a member.’
‘I know the owner,’ I declare confidently, but very quickly remember his comment to Miss Low. Will he say the same to me? I know Miller, but does he agree?
He nods thoughtfully and paces over to his desk, opening the drawer and pulling something out. Whatever it is gets swiped, bleeped, and scanned on a section of the flat-screen monitors before they disappear into the depths of white desk.
‘Here.’ He hands me a transparent credit card with one word engraved in small block capital letters through the centre.
ICE
Turning it over, I see a silver strip, but that’s all – nothing else. No details of the club or the member. I look up suspiciously. ‘This is a fake, isn’t it?’
He laughs lightly and leads me out of the room and back up to the main club, but he doesn’t take his usual hold of my neck, instead draping his strong arm over my petite shoulders and hugging me into him. ‘It’s very real, Olivia.’
Chapter 22
As soon as he’s carried me up the stairs to his apartment and let us in, he runs a bath and strips us both down before cradling me in his arms, carrying me up the steps, and lowering us into the hot, bubbly water. It’s not his bed, but I don’t argue. I’m wrapped in his arms where I’m happiest. It’s more than good enough.
I sigh, completely content, while he devotes our bath time to smothering me in his body, feeling me everywhere and squeezing me tightly. He’s humming that soft tune. It’s becoming very familiar to me now. I know when he’s going to draw breath and when the tone changes, and I know when a small pause is approaching, when he’s sure to take the brief silence as an opportunity to press his lips to the top of my head.
My cheek is resting on his wet chest as I slowly circle his nipple with my fingertip and stare across the vast expanse of his skin. Relaxed and tranquil go nowhere near to describing how I’m feeling. It’s these moments when I feel like I’m experiencing the real Miller Hart, not the man who’s hiding behind fine three-piece suits and an impassive face. The serious Miller Hart, the man disguised as a gentleman, hides his inside beauty from the world, leaving it facing a man who seems hell-bent on repelling any friendliness he encounters or confusing people with his impeccable manners, which are always delivered with such aloofness, they snuff the fact that he is, in fact, well mannered.
‘Tell me about your family.’ I break the silence with my quiet question, almost certain he’ll brush my enquiry aside.
‘I don’t have any,’ he whispers simply and softly, kissing the top of my head again as my brow wrinkles into his chest.
‘None at all?’ I try not to sound disbelieving, but I fail. I haven’t a family, so to speak, just my nan, but the value of at least one family member is . . . well, invaluable.
‘Just me,’ he confirms, leaving me silently sympathetic and pondering the loneliness his admission signifies.
‘Just you?’
‘It doesn’t matter what way you say it, Livy. It’ll still just be me.’
‘You’ve got no one?’