‘I concur.’ He gets his lips as close to mine as they can be without touching. ‘But you haven’t told me what you want.’
‘You.’ I don’t hesitate.
‘You have me already. Tell me what you want me to do to you.’ He’s just as speedy with his counter, making my cheeks flush as I grasp his intention. He wants instructions? ‘Come on, Livy. Think of it as a method statement to support our assessing and mitigating of risks.’ There’s an element of mocking to his tone, which both deepens my blush and sparks a bit of sass. So on a long, confidence-boosting inhale of oxygen, I locate that sass and mentally grab it with both hands, ensuring it can’t disappear on me.
‘Enter me.’
‘With what?’ he deadpans.
‘Your fingers,’ I breathe, seeing instantly that he doesn’t just want instructions. He wants exact, step-by-step commands.
‘Ooh, I see.’ He conceals his amusement well, glancing down at his hand hovering between my thighs. ‘Hadn’t I ought to check your’ – he pouts and thinks for a second – ‘condition?’
Damn him! I’m growing aggravated, my own fingers prepared to do the job if he doesn’t get on with it. ‘Miller, please.’ I immerse myself in darkness, closing my eyes in desolation. I’m bursting at the seams with need, the heaviness between my thighs pushing deep and starting to throb eagerly.
‘Focus, Livy.’ He pushes my thighs apart again when I attempt to close them to suppress the pulsing.
‘You make it too hard!’ I shout on a futile thrash of my body. Two big palms press into my shoulders, holding me still, and I open my lids to come nose to nose with a triumphant glimmer in deep, satisfied blues. My hand instinctively reaches up and grabs his hair, giving it a bold yank in frustration.
It has zero effect. He prises my fingers from his dark waves and places my hand on my tummy, giving it a little warning squeeze on a serious face. ‘I love your sass,’ he whispers, ghosting his lips across mine, flirting, and though I know I won’t get blessed with a heart-stopping kiss, my body responds and lifts in a vain attempt to catch them anyway.
‘You want to taste me?’ he mumbles, only allowing a slight friction of our mouths, denying me the full-on contact. ‘Do you want to swallow me up and lose yourself in me for ever?’
‘Yes!’ My frustration grows as he continues to refuse me the contact I’m demanding.
‘Do you remember who can sate this unyielding need?’
‘You,’ I moan as I squirm beneath the brief contact of his fingers at my entrance.
He pulls away from me quickly, his sanctimonious expression morphing into something else. I’m not sure what. But I can only compare it to glory. He looks like he’s struck gold. To anyone else, his face is expressionless, blank . . . untelling, but to me it’s spelling a million words of happiness. Miller Hart is happy. He’s content. And I know for sure that that has never happened in the history of Miller. ‘I don’t just want to be the man who can give you mind-blowing orgasms.’
My pleasure and musing is interrupted by his statement, and I immediately notice the glory in his eyes has fallen away. I’m a trifle confused. ‘You always say it,’ I argue quietly, my fizzing settling under his uncertainty. I’ve vowed to make him feel like more than a walking, talking pleasure machine, yet he seems to be happy with the praise he’s rewarded with when we’re intimate. He demands it, working me up into a frenzy and basking in the begging he draws. He deserves it, by God, he needs a medal, but I never considered for a moment that I might be making him feel used. He likes me pleading for his touch. It makes him feel wanted. Needed.
Everything dies within me when I consider the horrific thought of him pinning the same statement to every woman he’s taken. Does he deliver such compelling words to them? Probably. It’s his job. Does he make them feel as amazing as he makes me feel? I know he does.
Miller is brooding when in the heat of the moment, and he’s flaming hot when armed with a belt and a four-poster bed. ‘Do you express this much passion to every woman you’ve ever taken?’ My question shocks me, especially since I only planned on considering it silently. My subconscious wants an answer.
‘Everything you get from me is natural instinct, Olivia Taylor. I’ve never been fascinated before. I’ve never given all of me before. You get all of me. Every f**ked-up little piece. And I pray every second of every day that you’ll never give up on me, even if I do.’ He pushes his lips gently to mine and leaves them lingering for what seems like for ever, injecting me with strength, intensifying my love. ‘Keep me in this beautiful light place with you.’ He releases me and hits me with pleading eyes. ‘Don’t let me fall back into darkness, I beg you.’
I absorb his words, immobilised under his clear blue gaze. Hearing him reaffirm his feelings, express himself so well, should hold my contentment firm. But I heard the negative line in his statement. Even if I do.
I’m too aware of Miller’s recent actions. The right words from the wrong people could send him spiralling back into that dark place and only my strength can pull him back.
‘Stroke me,’ I order softly, ‘with your fingers.’ I take his hand and guide it to the apex of my thighs. ‘Then enter me and thrust gently.’
He nods in wordless acknowledgment and braces his hand on the counter as his touch finds me. My breath catches. ‘Let me taste you,’ he whispers, bringing our faces closer together.