Denied

  table is laid Miller-perfect. I could have wandered into the Ritz by mistake. ‘It’s . . . perfect,’ I breathe.

  ‘It’s not perfect at all,’ he says quietly, inching past me. He sets his drink down, tweaks its position, then lights the candles running up the centre of the table. Moving across the kitchen, he puts his iPhone in the docking station before playing with a few buttons. I just stare at him as Ellie Goulding’s ‘Explosions’ seeps from the speakers and he slowly turns to face me. ‘It’s still not perfect,’ he says, wandering slowly over. He lifts his hand hesitantly and looks to me for permission. I nod, letting him gently take my hand, and follow his steps across the kitchen. The chair at one end is pulled out and he releases me, indicating for me to take a seat. I follow his request and let him tuck me neatly under. ‘Now it’s perfect,’ he whispers in my ear, stealing a nip of my lobe and throwing me into desire desolation. I’m tense everywhere, and he knows it. After ensuring I get a few unbearably gratifying moments of his heated breath in my ear, he takes his time ripping his bended body from my seated frame. ‘Wine?’ he asks.

  I close my eyes briefly to gather some abandoned strength. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Being free from alcohol won’t sate your desire for me, Olivia.’

  He places a cloth napkin across my lap before taking the chair at the other end. He’s right, of course, but avoiding alcohol might help me think clearer.

  ‘The distance is acceptable?’ he asks, indicating between us with a sway of his hand.

  No, it’s not; he seems so far away, but it would be foolish to tell him so. Not that I need to tell him a thing. He knows very well. I nod and scan the table before me, my usual nerves present whenever I’m presented with a table set by Miller. ‘What are you feeding me?’

  He restrains a grin and pours some red wine into one of the larger wine glasses. ‘I can’t feed you anything from over here.’

  I bite my lip and resist the urge to fiddle with the fork at my place setting, knowing I’ll never replace it accurately.

  ‘Do you like me feeding you?’ he asks, pulling my eyes from the perfect table to his perfect face.

  ‘You know the answer to that question.’ Images of strawberries and puddles of dark chocolate jump all over my mind.

  ‘I do,’ he agrees. ‘And I don’t need to tell you how much I enjoy nourishing you.’

  I nod in silent acknowledgment, remembering the satisfaction on his face.

  ‘And worshipping you.’

  I squirm in my chair, fighting off the throb threatening to attack me between my thighs. No matter what persona he takes on, he has me every time. ‘We’re supposed to be talking,’ I point out, eager to steer away from thoughts of worshipping, strawberries dipped in warm chocolate, and Miller’s general magnetism.

  ‘We are talking.’

  ‘Why are you so terrified of elevators?’ I go for the jugular but feel immediately guilty when his face drops just a tiny bit. He quickly gathers himself, though.

  ‘I have a phobia of enclosed spaces.’ He swirls his wine thoughtfully while he watches me. ‘Which is why you’ll never convince me to hide in a closet.’

  My guilt is increased by his confession and my unwitting demand in my bedroom that time. ‘I didn’t know,’ I whisper, also reminded of his terrified face when I refused to get out of the elevator. I’d worked it out as I fled the hotel and I used it against him.

  ‘Of course you didn’t. I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Where does it stem from?’

  His shoulders jump up a little and he looks away, evading my eyes. ‘I don’t know. Many people have phobias of certain things with no explanation.’

  ‘You have an explanation, though, don’t you?’ I press.

  He won’t look at me.

  ‘It’s polite to look at me when I’m talking to you, and it’s polite to answer someone when they ask you a question.’

  Blue eyes filled with irritation slowly find mine. ‘Overthinking, Olivia. I have a phobia of enclosed spaces, and that line of conversation will finish right there.’

  ‘What about your freakish tidiness?’

  ‘I have an appreciation for my possessions. That doesn’t make me a freak.’

  ‘You have more than that,’ I reply. ‘You have obsessive-compulsive disorder.’

  Miller’s mouth drops open a little. ‘Because I like things a certain way, I have a disorder?’

  I exhale a wary breath and stop my elbows from hitting the table just in time. He won’t acknowledge his freakish obsessiveness, and it’s clear I’m getting nothing on the claustrophobia front, either. But these are trivial issues in the grand scheme of things. There are more important things to address. ‘The newspaper. Why was the title changed?’

  ‘I realise how that looks, but it was for your benefit.’

  ‘How?’

  His lips fix in a straight line. ‘To protect you. Trust me.’

  ‘Trust you?’ I fight off the urge to laugh in his face. ‘I trusted you with everything! How long have you been London’s most notorious male escort?’ The words feel like acid burning my tongue as I spit them from my mouth.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like some wine?’ He lifts the bottle from the table and looks at me hopefully. It’s a pathetic attempt to avoid my question.

  ‘No, thank you. An answer would be nice, though.’

  ‘How about some appetisers?’ He stands and strides over to the fridge, without waiting for my answer. I can’t eat with my stomach in such knots and my brain a fuzz of unanswered questions, and I doubt my appetite will appear once I finally squeeze the answers from him.

  He opens the huge mirrored fridge and pulls out a platter of something. Then he shuts the door but doesn’t return to the table, instead messing with whatever’s on the tray, poking and shifting things around. He’s trying to buy time, and when he glances cautiously up to the mirror, he catches me watching him in the reflection. He knows I know his game.

  ‘You said you’re ready to answer my questions,’ I remind him, keeping my determined stare on him in the mirror.

  His eyes drop to the tray briefly, and then he slowly turns on a deep breath and makes his way back to the table, pushing that dark lock of hair off his forehead en route. I nearly choke when the platter is placed with utter accuracy, revealing a pile of oysters.

  ‘Help yourself.’ He gestures to the silver dish, then sits.

  I ignore his offer, annoyed by his choice for starters, and ask my question once again. ‘How long?’

  Lifting his plate, he takes three oysters and sets them neatly down. ‘I’ve been an escort for ten years,’ he says, choosing not to look at me as he delivers his answer.

  I want to gasp in shock, but I resist, instead taking my water to moisten my suddenly parched mouth. ‘Why notorious?’

  ‘Because I’m unforgiving.’

  Now I do gasp, and I hate myself for it. This shouldn’t be news to me. I’ve experienced him being unforgiving.

  He sees me struggling but continues. ‘Because in the bedroom, I’m wicked, unloving, unfeeling, and unbothered by it. The women can’t get enough of me and the men can’t work out why that is.’

  ‘They pay for you—’

  ‘To be the best fuck of their life,’ he finishes for me. ‘And they pay obscene amounts for the privilege.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’ I shake my head, my eyes darting all over his flawless table. ‘You don’t let them kiss you or touch you.’

  ‘When I’m naked, no. When we’re intimate, no. I’m a perfect gentleman on dates, Olivia. They can feel me over my clothes, work themselves up and enjoy my attention. But that’s as far as their control goes. I’m the perfect mix of man for them. Arrogant . . . attentive . . . talented.’

  I inwardly wince. ‘Do you get anything from it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he admits. ‘I’m in full control in the bedroom and I come every time.’

  I flinch at his earnest words, looking away, feeling sick and wo
unded. ‘Right.’

  ‘Show me that face,’ he demands harshly, and my head lifts automatically, finding soft eyes replacing the hard ice. ‘But nothing will ever come close to the pleasure I gain from worshipping you.’

  ‘I’m struggling to see that man now,’ I say, making the softness of his expression drift into misery. ‘I so wish you’d never made me one of them.’

  ‘Never more than me,’ he whispers, slumping back in his chair. ‘Tell me there’s hope.’

  All I can see is Miller in that hotel room. My desire and need for him are still there, but our short conversation has brought the harsh reality of his life crashing down around me. I’m not equipped with enough strength to deal with him. If I let him in again, then I’m facing a lifetime of torture and possibly regret. Nothing will make me forget the unforgiving lover. All I’ll see when he takes me is a red mist of misery. My life has been difficult enough as it is. I can’t make it harder.

  ‘I asked you a question,’ he says quietly. The tone of his voice tells me he’s slipping into that clipped, arrogant mode, probably because he can see my sudden despondency, and with a flick of my eyes to his, I see that arrogance, too. He won’t go down easily.

  ‘The woman in Madrid?’

  ‘I didn’t sleep with her.’

  ‘Then why did you go?’

  ‘Prior obligation.’ He’s impassive and sharp, yet strangely I believe him. But it’s not making any of this easier to deal with.

  ‘May I use your loo?’ I ask, standing from the table, his gaze rising with me.

  ‘Once you’ve answered my question. Is there hope?’

  ‘I don’t have an answer yet,’ I lie, placing my napkin on my chair.

  ‘Might you have once you’ve visited the bathroom?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t overthink, Olivia.’

  ‘I’d say that was impossible after what you’ve presented me with, wouldn’t you agree?’ I’m being yanked in two directions, wanting to listen to William because I know he’s definitely right and wanting to trust my heart because maybe, just maybe, I can help Miller. But a definitely should always win over a maybe. The confliction is too much. It’s tearing me apart.

  He watches me carefully. Nervously. ‘You’re leaving, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve asked my questions. I never said I’d stay once you answered them. And I never said I’d like or accept the answers.’ The definitely wins. William wins. I leave the kitchen hastily to escape the intensity that he’s exuding.

  ‘Olivia!’

  Swinging the front door open, I dash from his apartment, knowing he’ll never allow me to leave without a fight. My troubled mind only just allows me to register my safest route from his building. I head straight for the lift. My heart is thumping chaotically, my breathing panicked and frenzied as I bash the call button.

  ‘Olivia, don’t get in that lift, please!’ His charging footsteps have me repeatedly smacking the metal button and cursing while I wait for what seems like decades for the doors to slide open. ‘Fuck! Olivia!’

  I dive in, smack the button for the ground floor, and push myself up against the far wall. I’m being cruel, but desperation is overriding any guilt I’m feeling for using this weakness against him.

  I knew he’d make it in time, but I still jump when his arm appears and crashes against the doors, pulling them open. His brow is a sheen of sweat, his eyes wide with fear. ‘Get out!’ he yells, his broad shoulders heaving.

  I shake my head. ‘No.’

  His jaw looks set to shatter from tenseness. ‘Get out of the fucking lift!’

  I keep quiet, pushing myself further into the wall. He’s fuming mad, frighteningly so.

  ‘How could you do this?’ he pants, yanking the door open when it tries to close again. ‘How?’

  ‘I can’t be with you, Miller.’ My voice is barely audible over his laboured breathing and my clattering heart.

  ‘Livy, I beg you, don’t do this to me again.’ He’s beginning to shake, his eyes darting continuously from me to the inside of the elevator.

  ‘I can’t forget that man.’ I reach out and press the button again.

  ‘Fuck!’ He releases the doors and they start to close. ‘I refuse to give up, Olivia.’ Blue eyes glaze over, his expression straightening. ‘I won’t lose.’

  ‘You’ve already lost,’ I murmur as his face disappears.

  Chapter Eleven

  I don’t know how I’ve ended up here. Probably to reinforce my decision. Seeing the four-poster bed, the regal room, and the images of me restrained is helping steel my resolve. But it’s also magnifying the pain. I’m standing in the middle of the hotel room, gazing around, torturing myself further and praying for some strength to see me through. Run away. Disappear for ever. I can see no other way. My skin is prickling and cold. My eyes are sore with tears. The plans I started to make so many times need to be completed and fulfilled now. I need to go away for a while, put space between us and hope the saying ‘out of sight, out of mind’ is true. For both of us.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ The question filters through the rush of blood that’s distorting my hearing, dragging me back into the chilly room.

  ‘To help convince myself that I’m doing the right thing.’

  ‘Does it feel right?’

  ‘No,’ I admit. Nothing feels right. It’s all so very wrong. I hear the door click shut, snapping me from my daydream, and I swing around to find a mess of a man, his hair wild, his suit crumpled. But his blue eyes are relieved.

  ‘I won’t lose,’ he says, resting his hands in his pocket. ‘I can’t lose, Olivia.’

  Tears begin to trickle down my cheeks as I stand before him, defeated.

  Conquered.

  His back hits the door, his own eyes glazing over as his body sags into the wood. The sight of Miller Hart fighting to prevent his tears from falling rips my heart from my chest and makes my knees buckle, sending my body folding to the floor. My chin hits my chest, and my hair tumbles over my shoulders. And I cry. The broken man before me has always made my eyes hurt, but this time it’s not with pleasure at his beauty. This time it’s seeing him looking so tormented. Desperate. Ruined.

  I’m engulfed by him in a nanosecond, his warm arms wrapped tightly around me, my face pushed into his chest. ‘Don’t cry,’ he whispers, pulling me onto his lap. ‘I need you to be strong for me.’

  I’m scooped up and carried to the bed. ‘It ends here,’ he says, laying me down gently and spreading his body over me, burying his face in my neck. I don’t fight. I let his body melt into mine, let his strength seep into me, holding onto him like my life depends on it. He does the same. Each of us is squeezing tightly, both of our hearts pounding a strong, steady thrum. I can hear the beats. We’re both coming back to life.

  His head lifts slowly until I’m staring into blue eyes filled with anguish. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He wipes my eyes. ‘I know I’ve run away, too, but I accept it now.’ He dips and kisses me gently, his soft lips wanted and terribly needed. ‘I need you to do the same.’ He sits up and pulls me onto his lap with ease, swamping me with his arms and kissing my face repeatedly. ‘What we have is beautiful, Olivia. I can’t give it up.’ He grasps my dress by the hem but doesn’t set about removing it. ‘May I?’

  I answer by pushing his suit jacket from his shoulders, and he drops my dress to allow me to rid him of it. I need his naked skin on mine.

  ‘Thank you,’ he breathes, removing my dress and casting it aside. His lips find mine and begin a delicate caress, his tongue tentative and soft as it slips into my mouth. My mind blanks, but my body responds instinctively. I accept his kiss, returning his soft, lazy pace, soaking up the emotion pouring from his entire being. His warm hands are all over me, touching and feeling everywhere, reminding me of the lack of skin beneath my palms. I start unbuttoning his waistcoat, then his shirt, until my hands are diving inside the material, feeling him everywhere for too short a time before I’m pushing the g
arments from his body, refusing to release his lips, not even to take in his perfect torso. Once his arms are free again, he unhooks the clasp of my bra and slowly pulls it from my body, exposing my tight, tingling nipples. He breaks our kiss, and I whimper in protest, reaching down to unfasten his trousers.

  That hypnotising mouth is parted, allowing breathy pants to escape, and his eyes are focused on my modest breasts. I pull at his trousers once they’re undone, impatient for him to be naked.

  He rips his eyes from my chest and looks up at me. ‘Taste me.’