Unveiled, Page 32

  Show me.’

  I can’t refuse him. I know he partly survives on the comfort and strength they offer him. Now he really needs that comfort and strength, so I reveal my sapphires to his piercing blues. He’s braced on his forearms, watching me carefully as he delivers lazy drives into me. My hips begin to move with him, turning those drives into grinding rotations. The friction is divine and constant, our groins locked together, circling around and around. I begin to pant. ‘Please.’

  ‘What do you want?’ he asks calmly. I don’t know how he does it. It’s infuriating. I can feel my body losing control as my pleasure builds.

  ‘I need to come again,’ I admit, loving that his cock actually swells in response to my confession. ‘I want you to make me scream your name.’

  His eyes sparkle wildly, his erection answering again with another expansion. My hips are on autopilot now, which is good because all I can concentrate on is the delicious fire crackling between my thighs.

  ‘No screaming today,’ he says, dropping his mouth to mine. ‘Today you’ll moan into my mouth and I’m going to swallow every second of it.’ He notches up a gear with his rotating hips, flinging me back to the brink. I’m going at his mouth too roughly, but I make the most of it because I know what’s coming.

  ‘Savour me, Livy,’ he orders gently, instantly reining me in. My hands drift down his strong arms and feel their way across to his bum. I moan happily and stroke over the firmness for a short while, then grab on. He’s moaning now, too, our collective sounds clashing between our mouths as they duel gently. ‘Here it comes.’ His tongue speeds up, encouraging me to follow, which I do, my muscles hardening under him. I can feel all of the signs in him. He’s breathless, tense, and vibrating against me. ‘Oh shit, Olivia.’ He bites my lip, then resumes his passionate, hungry kiss. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yes!’ I yelp, working hard to capture the peak. It’s nearly there. It’s . . .

  ‘I’m going!’ he shouts into my mouth. ‘Come with me, Olivia!’

  ‘Miller!’

  ‘Fuck, yes!’ He circles deeply one last time, then withdraws and pushes forward slowly on a broken groan, hurling me skyward. My spine snaps into a violent arch as I crumble into helplessness beneath him, my eyes closing and my head falling to the side in an exhausted heap.

  Wet warmth coats my insides and Miller collapses onto me, panting erratically into my neck. In my post-climax haze, I’m vaguely aware of him softening within me.

  And there we drift off together, still connected and blanketed in each other.

  My legs are bent and my thighs parted. My arms are pinned above my head as I feel him shifting above me. I open my eyes sleepily after my brief snooze to find Miller gazing down at me with parted lips, his blues sparkling like diamonds. His arm moves above my head to join his other so that my face is fringed by two lean biceps, but he doesn’t pin me down; he just rests his arms over mine.

  I whimper when he lifts, letting his erection fall into position before slowly pushing himself into me on a quiet hitch of breath. I shift under him to meet his advance and sigh as he begins an unhurried pace, working himself in and out of me.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispers as his mouth falls down to mine. Once again, all woes are drowned out by his worshipping and my aching for him. I soak up the pleasure of him deep inside me and match his languid tongue strokes with my own. He pulls back and rests his forehead against mine as he continues his slow, silent drives. ‘You’ll be all I see the whole time.’ He circles his hips on a delicious deep grind.

  I moan.

  ‘Tell me you know that.’

  ‘I do,’ I breathe.

  He picks up his pace slightly, working in and out on smooth, delicious hits, his damp forehead rocking against mine as he puffs short, harsh breaths. He starts to shake over me. I’m there, too.

  ‘Let me taste you, Olivia.’

  I let him have me and kiss him to release, joining him as he tenses and stills above me on a constricted moan, his shakes increasing. The violent shudder that rides through my body has me crying into his mouth, and I pull my arms through his and hold him close to me as we continue kissing, soft and slow, lovingly, long past our float down.

  That was his goodbye.

  ‘Now we can do this your way,’ he says quietly against my neck, and takes another inhale of my hair, topping up on my scent.

  Having a silent stern word with myself, telling my disturbed mind repeatedly that I can do this, I shift beneath him, forcing him to lift. Our damp skin peels apart slowly and the loss of his softening length inside me rips away at my breaking heart. But I need to be strong. I can’t show any signs of hesitance or pain, which is tremendously difficult when I’m very hesitant and I’m in agony at the thought of what he’s being pushed to do. He looks down at me, and I can tell there’s doubt lingering on the edges of his mind, too, so I force a small smile and lift my lips to kiss him chastely. ‘Let’s take a shower.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He reluctantly detaches himself from me on a deep inhale and helps me to my feet, but prevents me from making my way to the bathroom. ‘One moment.’

  I stand silently while he makes a long, drawn-out affair of messing with my hair, arranging it just so over my shoulders, and frowning when a new shorter layer refuses to stay where he’s placed it. His beautiful face, all bunched in slight annoyance, brings a glimmer of a smile to my face. ‘It’ll grow back,’ I placate him.

  His eyes flick to mine and he surrenders the lock of hair. ‘I wish you’d never cut it, Olivia.’

  My heart sinks. ‘You don’t like it anymore?’

  He shakes his head, frustrated, and takes my neck to lead me into the bathroom. ‘I love it. I just hate remembering what drove you to cut it in the first place. I hate that you did that to yourself.’

  We arrive in the bathroom and he flicks the shower on before collecting towels and gesturing for me to enter the cubicle. I want to tell Miller how much I hate everything he’s done to himself, too, but at the risk of lowering the delicate mood further, I hold my tongue and accept his comment. This time together is precious and the memories we’re making now will help me through the night. I don’t want any disagreements to tarnish this. So I follow through on his silent order and step into the shower, immediately collecting the shower gel from the shelf and squeezing some into my palm.

  ‘I want to wash you,’ he says, taking the bottle from my hand.

  I don’t stand for it. I need this. ‘No,’ I retort softly, reclaiming it. ‘We do this my way.’ I rid myself of the bottle and rub my palms together, working up a lather. Then I spend an age scanning every fine piece of him, trying to figure out the best place to start. It’s all calling to me, each perfect bit of him willing me to place my hands there.

  ‘Earth to Olivia,’ he whispers, stepping forward, taking my wrists in his grip. ‘How about here?’ He places my hands on his shoulders delicately. ‘We’re not leaving this shower until you’ve felt every part of me.’

  I drop my eyes, searching deep in my soul for the lost strength I need to let him walk away from me once I’m done readying him. It’s slipping away fast with every word spoken and every touch exchanged.

  ‘Stay with me,’ he murmurs, resting his palms over mine. He begins guiding a gentle caress of my hands across his skin, and I watch his chest expand as my eyes climb the planes of his muscles until I’m at deep pools of blue pain. ‘Feel me, Olivia. Everywhere.’

  I bite back a sob, fighting back tears that are demanding to be freed from my welling eyes. But I find it. That strength I need to get me through this – to get us both through this – is found amid the desolation and I step forward, close to his body, and begin massaging my palms gently into his shoulders.

  ‘Good,’ he sighs, allowing his heavy eyes to close and his head to drop back a little. He’s exhausted. I know he is. Emotionally. Physically. Everything is being taken out of him. I find myself even closer when he rests his hands on my waist and tugs forward a little. �
�Better.’

  I concentrate on Miller and him alone, not allowing anything else to break down my barriers – no thoughts, no worries . . . nothing. My hands glide lazily everywhere, from his shoulders to his pecs, his stomach, his sharp V, down to his thighs, knees, shins, feet. Then I work my way slowly back up again before turning him to do his back. My face contorts on a wince when I’m confronted by his ravaged flesh. I work fast and gently, then turn the hideous sight away from me so he’s facing me again. The water raining down is the only sound. Miller is my only focus. Yet as I find myself at his neck, rubbing the water there to wash away the soap, I see his eyes still closed and I wonder if I am his only focus. I don’t want to consider that maybe he’s thinking about the night ahead, about how he’s going to see through his plan, how far he needs to go with the Russian woman, how he’s going to rid the world of Charlie. But I know that if he was thinking of me, he would be looking at me. And like he’s heard my thoughts, his blue eyes slowly appear and he blinks that wonderful lazy blink. I can’t quite disguise my sadness quickly enough.

  ‘I love you,’ he declares softly, out of nowhere. He can see. There’s no fooling him. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’ Moving forward, he encourages my backward steps until my back meets the tiles and I’m swathed in wet, hot skin. ‘Tell me you understand.’

  ‘I do.’ My voice is low, and though I’m certain of it, I don’t sound it. ‘I do,’ I repeat, attempting to inject some sureness into my tone. I fail on every level.

  ‘She won’t get the opportunity to taste me.’

  I inwardly shiver, desperate not to let my mind venture there, and nod, reaching for the shampoo. I ignore the worried eyes that I know are currently studying me and set about washing his waves. I’m still slow and soft in my caring for him, but now there’s determination behind my tenderness in the form of a consistent mental pep talk. My mind is a whirlwind of silent encouraging words, and I’m going to make sure they continue to play in the background for the entire time he’s gone.

  Miller is like a statue, only moving when I prompt him with a nudge or a flick of my eyes to his. He can read me through my eyes. He responds to my every thought. He owns my body, mind, and soul. Nothing can change that.

  I shut the shower off and step out to collect a towel, drying Miller off and wrapping it around his waist before seeing to myself. I can see with perfect clarity how hard he’s finding it to refrain from seizing control and taking care of me.

  Opening the cupboard above the sink, I pick out a can of deodorant and hold it up to him. He smiles a little and lifts his arm, giving me access to spray him. Then I move onto his other before putting it neatly away. Next, his wardrobe. Claiming Miller’s hand, I pull him through the bedroom, still repeating my mental mantra of positive thoughts.

  But the sight when I enter his wardrobe makes them falter and my feet skid to a stop. I drop Miller’s hand and run my eyes over the three walls of rails on a slightly gaping mouth. ‘You really did replace all of your suits?’ I ask in disbelief, swinging around to face him.

  He doesn’t retreat, nor does he look in the slight bit embarrassed. ‘Of course,’ he says, like I’m utterly daft for thinking he wouldn’t. He must have spent a small fortune! ‘Which would you have me wear?’

  I watch as he casts a hand around the room slowly, and my eyes follow it until I’m faced with a sea of expensive material again. ‘I don’t know,’ I admit, feeling a bit overwhelmed. My fiddling fingers find my ring and start spinning it wildly as I wander the length of each wall, wondering what to put him in. My decision is made easy when I spot a dark navy pinstriped suit. I reach up to feel the material. It’s so smooth. Luxurious. His eyes will pop even more. ‘This one.’ I unhook the hanger and whirl around to face him. ‘I love this one.’ Because he needs to look perfect when I let him leave me to kill someone. I shake my head, trying to shake my errant thoughts away.

  ‘You should.’ He approaches and relieves me of the suit. ‘It’s a three-thousand-pound suit.’

  ‘How much?’ I gasp, horrified. ‘Three thousand pounds?’

  ‘Correct.’ He’s completely unfazed. ‘You get what you pay for.’

  I muscle in and reclaim the suit, hooking it over the wardrobe runner. Then I fetch some boxers and kneel, holding them open for him to step into with one foot, and then the other.

  I work the material up his thighs, being sure to brush my hands across his skin as I do. I definitely don’t imagine him flinching each time my touch skims him, and I definitely hear his constant quiet hitches of breath. I just want myself on every piece of him. ‘There,’ I say, arranging the waist of his boxers just so. I stand back and stare. I shouldn’t, but Miller’s physique against the crisp white boxer shorts is impossible to ignore. Impossible not to appreciate. Impossible to keep my hands off. Impossible for anyone to keep their hands off.

  She won’t be tasting him. My mind is playing tug-of-war, going between the two horrors playing in my mind. Both are unbearable to think about. I’m looking at his ripped torso, seeing stunning, inviting flesh, but I’m also seeing power. Strength. He looked deadly in that footage. There were no cut muscles, no visible signs of danger, only the air of malice behind his empty eyes. Now he has the strength to back up that deadly temper.

  Stop!

  I fly around and grab his trousers, wanting to reach into my head and snatch that thought right out. ‘These,’ I blurt abruptly, yanking the button open and crouching at his feet again.

  My anxious motions are ignored. Because he knows what I’m thinking. I clench my eyes shut and only re-open them when I hear him shift and feel his trousers move in my hand. He’s not going to say anything, and I’m eternally grateful.

  Focus. Focus. Focus.

  It seems to take me forever to work his trousers up his legs and when I reach his waist, I leave them hanging open, my thumbs tucked into the waist, resting on his skin. My heart is thrumming a consistent, hard beat in my chest, but I can feel my emotion squeezing at my aching muscle. It’s going to give soon. My heart is literally breaking.

  ‘Shirt,’ I say under my breath, like I’m prompting myself with what should come next. ‘We need a shirt.’ I reluctantly remove my hands from his body and confront the rails of expensive dress shirts. I don’t bother flicking through, instead just taking down one of the dozens of bright white ones and unbuttoning it with care, being sure not to create any creases. His breath kisses my cheeks as I hold it and he threads his arms through. He’s silent and co-operative, letting me do my thing at my own pace. I secure the buttons slowly, hiding away the perfection of his chest, until I reach his neck. His chin lifts slightly to make my task easier, the bruise on his neck screaming loud and proud, before I work his cuffs, ignoring my unreasonable mind wondering how he’ll cope with blood on his fine threads. Will there be blood?

  My eyes clench shut briefly as I fight to halt my train of thought.

  Next is his tie. There are so many, and after perusing the rainbow of silk for a few moments, I settle on a silver-grey silk one to match the stripe in his suit. But when I turn towards him again, the difficulty of my next task hits me. I’ll never knot it to Miller’s high standard. I begin toying with the material as I look up at him, finding lazy blues watching me closely, and I expect that’s exactly how he’s been looking at me the whole time I’ve been in my own little world dressing him.

  ‘You’d better take over.’ I admit defeat and hold the tie out to him, but he pushes my hand away and moves in fast, picking me up by my hips and sitting me on the counter.

  A chaste kiss is placed on my lips before he lifts the collar of his shirt. ‘You do it.’

  ‘Me?’ I’m wary and it’s obvious. ‘I’ll screw it all up.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ My hands are taken to the back of his neck. ‘I want you to fix my tie.’

  Nervous and surprised, I smooth the silver silk around his neck and let the two sides cascade down his front. My hands are hesitant. They are also shaking, but
a few deep breaths and a quiet word with myself pulls me around and I start the meticulous task of knotting a tie around Miller Hart’s neck – something I know for sure that no one has ever had the privilege of doing in the history of Miller Hart.

  I faff and fiddle forever, but I don’t care. I feel a ridiculous amount of pressure and despite it being really quite silly, I can’t seem to locate the rationality to be unbothered. I’m really bothered. I pat the knot a hundred times, my head cocking from side to side, checking it out at every angle. To my naked eye, it looks pretty perfect. To Miller’s, it’ll look like a train wreck.

  ‘Done,’ I declare, finally dropping my busy hands into my lap, but not moving my eyes from the kinda perfect tie. I don’t want to see the concern on his face.

  ‘Perfect,’ he whispers, taking my hands in his and bringing them to his lips. His unusual descriptive, especially when referring to another’s handiwork, throws me.

  I brave looking up at him, feeling his hot breath heating my knuckles. ‘You haven’t checked.’

  ‘I don’t need to.’

  I frown, flicking my eyes back down to the tie. ‘It’s not Miller-perfect, though.’ I’m dumbfounded. Where are his twitching hands, itching to put it right?

  ‘No.’ Miller kisses each hand and puts them neatly back in my lap. Then he reaches for his collar and pulls it down, rather haphazardly. ‘It’s Olivia-perfect.’

  I’m quickly looking at him again. His eyes are twinkling a little. ‘But Olivia-perfect isn’t actually perfect.’

  A beautiful smile joins his sparkling eyes and centres my off-kilter world. ‘You’re wrong.’ His answer to that makes me withdraw in surprise, though I don’t argue. ‘Waistcoat?’

  ‘Right,’ I exhale the word slowly and slink down from the unit, watching him as I pad over to the rails again.

  He keeps his smile in place. ‘Chop-chop.’

  I’m scowling now and blindly reaching for the waistcoat after a brief glance tells me where it is. I can’t rip my inquisitive eyes away from him. ‘Here.’ I hold it out.

  ‘We do this your way,’ he reminds me, striding over and holding one arm out. ‘I like you looking after me.’