Denied

His head drops in defeat.

And Miller Hart cries – massive, body-jerking sobs.

Nothing could cause me more pain. Years of holding his emotions in check are pouring out of him, and I can do nothing more than watch, my heart aching for him. My own agony has made way for the torture this confounding man is suffering. I want to hold him and comfort him, but my legs weigh a thousand tons and refuse to carry me to him. I’m useless. I try to speak his name, but achieve nothing but an agonised gasp.

A lifetime passes. I cry a lifetime’s worth of tears and so does Miller, except for him it’s probably literally. I’m beginning to wonder if he’ll ever stop when his injured hand lifts and roughly brushes over his stubbled cheeks, replacing the tears with smears of blood.

His head rises, revealing a blemished face and blue eyes rimmed in redness. But he won’t allow them to focus on me. He’s doing everything to avoid making eye contact with me. Agitated, he pushes himself from the floor and moves towards me, making me retreat, but he passes me, still avoiding my eyes, and makes for his bedroom. After tossing my weapon on the round table in the hallway, I finally convince my dead legs to move and follow him. He strips out of his jacket, waistcoat and shirt as he strides across his bedroom, heading for the bathroom. His clothes are being tossed aside, his bedroom floor scattered in garments that are being torn from his body. Halting at the foot of the doorway to his bathroom, he kicks his shoes and socks off and then yanks his trousers and boxers from his legs, leaving him naked, his back shimmering in sweat.

He doesn’t venture any further, standing silent in the doorway, his head lowered, his muscled arms outstretched to grip the door frame. Not knowing what to do but knowing I can’t bear to see him in this state any longer, I begin to approach him gingerly, until I’m close enough to smell his manly scent mixed with the clean sweat that’s dripping from his body.

‘Miller,’ I say quietly, lifting my hand and reaching for his shoulder, but when I tentatively rest my hand on his flesh, I have to resist yanking it back on a gasp. He’s boiling hot, but I don’t have to withstand the burning heat for too long. He hisses on a flinch, making me wince at his rejection, and paces to the shower, stepping in and turning it on.

He’s frantic in his task. After grabbing the sponge and loading it with shower gel, he carelessly tosses the bottle to the floor before scrubbing at his skin. I’m alarmed, not only by his uncharacteristic show of untidiness, but also by his urgency to clean his body, and so harshly. He’s scrubbing, working the sponge everywhere, rinsing and reloading with more shower gel. Steam is quickly engulfing the huge space, telling me the shower is far too hot, not that he seems affected. ‘Miller.’ I take a few paces, getting more and more concerned the steamier the room becomes. ‘Miller, please!’ I slap my palm on the glass to try and get his attention. His hair is sopping and hanging all over his face, hampering his vision, but he’s not deterred. There’s a mixture of terror and anger being injected into the desperate motions of the sponge flying across his body. He’s going to blister himself. ‘Miller, stop it!’ I try to enter the shower fully dressed, but jump out when the water makes contact with me. ‘Shit!’ It’s scorching hot. ‘Miller, turn the water off!’

‘I can’t stand it!’ he yells, scooping the shower gel from the floor and squeezing the bottle all over his chest. ‘They make my skin crawl! I can feel them through my clothes!’

My breath catches in my throat, his words registering loud and clear. But that’s the least of my worries. He’s going to injure himself terribly if I don’t get him out. ‘Miller, listen to me.’ I try for a calming tone, but my voice is anxious, and I cannot help it.

‘I have to be clean! I need to remove every trace of them from me.’

I need to get in and shut the shower off, but even from the outside the water is scalding me. ‘Turn the shower off!’ I shout, losing my composure. ‘Miller! Turn the f**king shower off!’ I’m ignored, and when his scrubbing moves from his chest to his arms, I see angry red welts materialising on his pecs. It kicks my scared arse into action and before I can consider the pain I’ll endure, I’m in the shower, feeling the wall for the controls. ‘Shit shit shit!’ I yell as I’m attacked by blisteringly hot water from every angle.

I push Miller’s body out of my way, snapping him from his insanity, and frantically turn the knob to halt the infliction of pain on both Miller and me. When the water dries up above us, I roll my back against the wall, exhausted, my skin stinging and sore, and wait for the steam to disperse, revealing Miller’s naked, motionless form. He’s expressionless. There is nothing on that heart-stopping face, not even a hint of discomfort after tolerating the boiling shower for far longer than I did.

I move towards him and reach up to gently stroke the wet strands of hair out of his face as I gather the depleted air that has been sucked from my lungs. ‘Don’t ever try to push me away again,’ I warn firmly. ‘I love you, Miller Hart. All of you.’

His tortured blue eyes drag slowly up my wet, slumped body and gaze longingly at me. ‘How?’ He asks the simple, reasonable question on a whisper. This man has tested my resilience to the absolute maximum. He’s tossed me from crippling despair to crippling pleasure. He’s made me reckless, stupid, blind . . . and he’s made me brave.

I can love him because he touches my soul.

‘I love you,’ I repeat, feeling no need to justify it to anyone, not even Miller. ‘I love you,’ I murmur. ‘I won’t go down without a fight. I’ll take anyone on and I’ll win against them all. Even you.’ My palm cups his nape and pulls his face to mine, watching as he scans my face with blank eyes. ‘I’m strong enough to love you.’ My lips push to his, instigating our reunion, and my tongue delicately enters his mouth, coaxing a moan before he pulls away.

‘I couldn’t do it,’ he says quietly. ‘I couldn’t do it to you, Livy.’ He lifts me to his body, my thighs curling around his hips, but I’m mindful of his tender skin, keeping my hands on his shoulders. I can’t stop my face from seeking the comfort of his neck, though. I lay my cheek on his shoulder and inhale him into me, feeling the solace he feeds me sink into my body through our contact. He couldn’t do it.

‘I want to worship you,’ I say into his neck, my hot breath colliding with his heated skin. The mixture of the two is almost intolerable. I need to remind him of what we have. I need to show him I can do this. That he can do this.

‘I do the worshipping.’

‘Not today.’ I unwrap myself from his body and lead him from the shower, taking him to his bed and pushing him down to the sheets. His tall body stretches across the mattress as he watches me arrange his limbs until I’m sure he’s comfortable. Then I kiss his impassive face and leave him to relax while I start running a bath. I ensure the water is only tepid and look through his ridiculously neat cupboard, making sure I don’t upset his perfect arrangement of bottles, tubes and pots until I find some bath soak. The horrific mess that I’ve left his wardrobe in is likely to make him disintegrate, but I’ll deal with that later. I’m not delusional enough to think that a picnic in the park and a kiss in the rain have eliminated Miller’s obsessive ways completely.

Leaving the bath running, I remove my sodden dress and wander back into the bedroom, then start to collect his discarded clothes, probably the only ones that he still has intact. I fold them neatly and place them in a pile on a dresser, glancing up when I feel blue eyes burning my na**d skin.

‘What?’ I ask, shifting under his close scrutiny.

‘I’m just thinking how lovely you look tidying my bedroom.’ He shifts onto his side and props his head on his bent arm. ‘Continue.’

The anguish dulls a little more, and I smile, making his blue orbs win a little sparkle back. It’s familiar and comforting. ‘Would you like a drink?’

He nods.

‘Any preference?’

He shakes his head.

I feel my forehead crease as I start to make my way from the room, glancing back over my shoulder, finding him following my path closely until he disappears from view. I’m hasty, rushing down the corridor and across the lounge, landing in front of the drinks cabinet.

I swipe up a short glass, certain it resembles the ones that I’ve seen Miller drinking from. Then I take on a really amateur tactic for picking Scotch, closing my eyes, waving my hand, and pointing at a bottle. Satisfied with my random selection, I pour the glass halfway, spilling some as I do. ‘Shit!’ I swear, clattering the bottle against the others when I put it back too clumsily.

Now I’m hopeless for a whole different reason. The charismatic – if a little messed up right now – man in the room down the hall has refinement down to a fine art. I haven’t.

I roll my eyes to myself and lift the glass to my lips, taking a big glug and immediately gagging at the taste. ‘Oh God!’ My lips smack together, my face screwing up as I hold the glass up and look at the dark liquid with disgust. ‘Vile,’ I mutter, swivelling and trekking back to Miller.

He’s still on his side, looking at the door when I enter. ‘Scotch.’ I hold the drink up and his eyes travel across to the glass before landing back on me with a bang. But he says nothing, maintaining his quiet state.

I wander over to the bed thoughtfully, holding his eyes, and extend my arm once I’ve reached him. His muscled arm lifts slowly and takes the glass. Then he blinks painfully lazily, making me cross my legs in my standing position to stop the pulsing from breaking out into a hard throb. Just the fact that these familiar traits are present is delightful, whether he’s doing it on purpose or not. My huge bag of intensity is back, his messed-up condition aside. I can see bright, hopeful light.

‘I’ve drawn a bath,’ I tell him, watching as he lifts the whisky to his lips and takes a languid sip. ‘It’s not too hot.’

He looks to the glass for a brief moment before making me melt with a slight tip of his wonderful mouth. ‘Come here.’ He flicks his head to follow up his demand, and I slip in beside him, letting him tuck me into his chest so he can sip his drink with one hand and stroke my hair with the other.

‘Your knuckles look sore,’ I say, loving being back in my comfort zone even if the events that have brought me here are killing us.

‘They’re fine.’ He pushes his lips to the top of my head and says no more. I can feel and hear him taking frequent sips of his drink, and while I’m happy tucked closely to his body, I’d like to look after him and try to gently coax an explanation from him.

I reluctantly pull myself away from the hard, warm security of his chest and take his hand. He frowns but lets me help him up and lead him to the bathroom, bringing his drink with him. The giant bath is full enough, so I flick the tap off, then signal for him to climb in. He’s quiet as he sets his drink down on a nearby counter, and I finally feel it appropriate to spend a few silent moments absorbing his nakedness while he’s turned away from me. The muscles of his back are sharp, defined by the spotlights shining down, and the cheeks of his smooth backside are solid, drifting into long, lean thighs, then perfectly formed calves. I ignore the scratch marks. This impeccably formed man is perfectly flawed. He’s damaged, more than me, and he believes he’s destined for hell. I need to know why he’s so adamant about his destiny. I want to be the one who changes his fate.

Miller turns and my gaze that was happily focused on his buns is now staring at something else firm and smooth and . . . ready. My eyes fly up to shimmering blues but a straight face. And I blush. Why do I blush? My cheeks are on fire as he regards me, my bare feet shifting as I’m bombarded by pure, raw, inexorable shots of heated desire. I’ve lost my poise completely. My earlier resolution is being beaten down by his intoxicating presence.