‘For me you can. Show me your face.’ His command is harsh and delivered on an upward bolt of his hips.
I yelp at the sudden deep penetration and fly upright again. ‘How?’ I cry out, frustrated and delighted all at once. He’s holding me in that place – the one between torture and otherworldly pleasure.
‘Because I can.’ He flips me onto my back and re-enters me on a shout of satisfaction. His pace is increasing, and so is the force. Our lovemaking has become harder in recent weeks. It’s like a light has switched on and Miller’s realised that taking me with a little more aggression and force doesn’t make our intimacies any less worshipful. He’s still making love to me. I can touch him and kiss him, and he reciprocates, responds, says continuous loving words as if reassuring himself and me that he’s in full control. It’s unnecessary. I trust him with my body as much as I now trust him with my love.
My wrists are seized and held firmly above my head, and he braces himself on his toned forearms, blinding me with the acres of cut muscle on his torso. His teeth are clenched, but I can still detect that mild beam of victory. He’s happy. He’s delighted by my clear desperation for him. But he’s equally desperate for me. My hips rise and begin to meet his firm pumping, our centres clashing as he withdraws and sinks back in, over and over.
‘You’re clenching around me, sweet girl,’ he pants, his wayward curl bouncing on his forehead with each collision of our bodies. Every nerve ending I possess begins to twitch at the onslaught of pressure accumulating at my core. I’m trying desperately to fight it back, anything to prolong the stunning sight of him above me, dripping wet, his face etched in a pleasure so intense it could be confused with pain.
‘Miller!’ I shout, frenzied, my head beginning to shake but my eyes still holding his. ‘Please!’
‘Please what? You need to come?’
‘Yes!’ I gasp, and then suck in air when he pelts forward, pushing me up the bed. ‘No!’ I don’t know what I want to do. I need release, but I need to stay in this faraway place of raw abandon.
Miller groans, allowing his chin to drop to his chest and his fierce grasp to release my wrists, prompting them to shoot to his shoulders. My short nails dig in. Hard. ‘Fuck!’ he roars, his pace picking up further. This is the hardest he’s taken me, but there’s no room amid my earth-shaking pleasure to be concerned by it. He’s not hurting me, although I suspect I am him. My fingers are instantly aching.
I let off my own little round of expletives, absorbing every pound until he abruptly stops. I feel him swell within me, and then he rears back slowly and pushes forward smooth and slow on a groan. It sends us both tumbling into an abyss of indescribable, wonderful sensations.
I’m taken out by the intensity of my climax, and Miller collapsing to my chest with no concern for his weight atop me tells me he is, too. We’re both gasping, both still pulsing and both completely wiped out. That was powerful, frantic lovemaking that I think may have transformed into fucking, and when I feel hands begin to caress me and a mouth creeping up my cheek, searching for my lips, I know Miller is registering this, too.
‘Tell me I didn’t hurt you.’ He dedicates a few moments to worshipping my mouth, taking it gently, delicately nibbling at my lips each time he pulls away. His hands are everywhere, stroking, skimming, tracing.
My eyes close on a satisfied sigh and I absorb all his slow attention as I smile and muster some waning strength to cuddle him and squeeze some reassurance into him. ‘You didn’t hurt me.’
He’s heavy, resting all over me, but I have no desire to alleviate the weight. We’re connected . . . everywhere.
I draw a deep breath. ‘I love you, Miller Hart.’
He slowly rises until he’s gazing down at me, eyes sparkling, his beautiful mouth tipping at each corner. ‘I accept your love.’
I try in vain to narrow my eyes on him in irritation, but just wind up mirroring his amusement. It’s impossible not to when his rare smiles are being dished out so willingly and so often these days. ‘You’re such a smart-arse.’
‘And you, Olivia Taylor, are such a divine blessing.’
‘Or possession.’
‘Same thing,’ he whispers. ‘In my world, anyway.’ Each of my eyelids is kissed sweetly before he lifts his hips and slips out of me, sitting back on his heels. Contentment heats my veins and peace spirals in my mind as he pulls me up to his lap and directs my legs around his back. The sheets are a pile of messy material surrounding us and he isn’t in the least bit bothered.
‘The bed’s an awful mess,’ I say with a teasing smile as he arranges my hair over my shoulders and slides his palms down my arms until he has my hands.
‘My compulsion to have you in bed with me far outweighs any compulsion to have the sheets tidy.’
My smile stretches into a massive grin. ‘Why, Mr Hart, did you just admit to a compulsion?’
His head cocks and I flex one of my hands until he releases it, then take my time pushing back his stray wave from his damp forehead.
‘You might be on to something there,’ he replies, totally composed and with no humour in his tone.
My hand falters in his waves and I watch him closely, searching for that cute dimple. It’s nowhere in sight and I look questioningly at him, trying to figure out if he’s finally admitting that he suffers terribly from OCD.
‘Might,’ he adds, remaining poker-faced.
I gasp and jab him in the shoulder, forcing the sweetest sounding chuckle to slip from his mouth. The sight and sound of Miller displaying amusement never fails to mesmerise me. It’s without question the most beautiful thing in the world – not just my world but the whole world. It has to be.