Promised

‘Does it hurt?’ His hands slide around my front and cup my br**sts.

‘A little.’

‘Take your time, Livy. Give your body time to accept me.’

‘It does accept you,’ I object. Every modicum of me accepts him. My mind, my body, my heart . . .

‘We have all the time in the world. Don’t rush it.’ He circles my ni**les and bites into my shoulder. My legs start to tremble, my muscles objecting to my held position, so I lower a little more, holding my breath and letting the back of my head fall onto his shoulder. One hand leaves my breast, dragging up my chest and onto my throat, his whole palm covering it.

‘How are you keeping so still?’ I push the words through controlled breaths, wanting to release my leg muscles and take him to the hilt, but I’m wary of the pain it’ll cause.

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ He turns his face into my cheek and bites down before kissing it gently. ‘Trust me, it’s taking everything out of me. Down a bit more?’

I nod and drop a fraction further. ‘Oh God.’ I grit my teeth, the persistent stabbing pain making my head heavy, my face turning into his neck and hiding.

‘Get past this and we’re in a whole new world of pleasure.’

‘Why does it hurt so much?’

‘I don’t want to sound self-assured, but . . .’ He gasps and starts to shake. ‘Fucking hell, Livy.’

‘Miller!’ I hold my breath and release the muscles in my legs, falling straight onto his lap on a shocked yelp. ‘Shit!’

‘Are you okay?’ he shouts. ‘Jesus, Livy, tell me you’re okay.’

I’ve broken out in a sweat, and I’m still shaking, despite my relaxed body. It’s beyond my control. ‘I’m okay.’ I nuzzle into his neck some more.

‘Am I hurting you?’

‘Yes . . . no!’ I pull away from him and delve my hands into my hair in despair. ‘Just give me a moment!’

‘How long is a moment?’ he spits.

I grit my teeth and push up from my knees, only a very small way, before dropping down, less controlled than I planned. He barks. I yelp. ‘Miller, I can’t!’ I feel utterly defeated by the mixture of pleasure and pain. I want to grab hold of the heaviness in my groin and take it to the next level, but my legs haven’t got the strength required to take me there. ‘I can’t do it.’ I fall back against his chest, my arms falling limply to my sides, my breathing laboured from doing hardly anything.

‘Shhhh,’ he soothes me. ‘Do you want me to take care of it?’

‘Please.’ I feel useless, feeble.

‘I don’t think I’ve worked hard enough to break you in, Olivia Taylor.’ He executes a slow, firm rotation of his groin into my bum, keeping deep but not instigating the sharpness that’s causing me discomfort.

‘Hmmm.’

‘Better?’ he asks, resting his palms on my hips. I nod my acceptance on a sigh, letting him keep us completely close and connected while he grinds continuously, around and around, over and over. ‘How does that feel?’

‘Perfect,’ I breathe.

‘Can you lift a little bit?’

I don’t answer, lifting myself a fraction, feeling him slip slightly from my passage. ‘You’re so patient with me,’ I murmur, wondering whether he’s this attentive with every woman he’s slept with.

‘You make me appreciate sex, Livy.’ I feel him rise slightly, too, his hands drifting from my h*ps to my br**sts, then onto my shoulders and down my arms where he holds my hands. Lacing his fingers through mine, he lifts my useless limbs and takes them behind his head and holds them there. He thrusts forward gently, pulls back and inches forward once more. ‘Let me taste you.’

I turn my head and find his eyes. It’s been too long since I’ve seen them. ‘Thank you.’ I don’t know why I’ve said that, but I feel the profound need to voice my gratitude.

‘Why are you thanking me?’ His eyes twinkle curiously as he maintains the steady flow of his body into mine. It’s divine, all tenderness long forgotten, being replaced with pure, beautiful pleasure.

‘I don’t know,’ I admit quietly.

‘I do.’ He sounds confident, following up his assured words with a confident kiss, hard but slow, demanding but oh so giving. ‘You’ve never felt like this.’ His h*ps dip and roll up at an excruciatingly accurate angle, pulling a low, pleasure-filled moan from deep within me. ‘And neither have I.’ He pecks my lips. ‘So I need to thank you, too.’

I’m starting to shake. ‘Oh God!’ I sound panicked, desperate.

‘Keep your hands in my hair,’ he orders tenderly, letting his own hands fall to my br**sts. He massages them gently and circles his thumbs over the very tips of my ni**les, hurling me beyond pleasure.

I’m losing control of my muscles, my entire body giving in to wild shakes, and I’m purring, pulling his head closer to locate his lips. ‘Let me taste you.’ I mimic his words, plunging my tongue into his mouth, rolling, retreating and pushing back in, while he tortures my body with his delicate rhythm, so careful and attentive.

‘Do I taste as good as you?’ he asks.

‘Better.’

‘I very much doubt that,’ he claims. ‘I need you to focus, Livy.’ He groans and separates our mouths, his hair damp from sweat and dripping down his face. ‘I’m going to lower you so we can both finish, okay?’ I nod my acceptance, and he kisses me as he takes my hands from his head and pushes me down so I’m on all fours. ‘Comfortable?’

‘Yes.’ I shift my arms, feeling no reluctance or vulnerability at being so exposed. I’m at complete ease, and when he repositions himself, widening his stance and taking a gentle hold of my hips, my blissed-out mind just blisses out more. I take a deep breath as he lazily withdraws, then let it all rush back out when he plunges forward. ‘Ohhhhhhhhhhh . . .

One hand leaves my hip and his fingers walk up my spine, each connection of his fingertips on my skin singeing my flesh. When he reaches my neck, he flattens his palm and strokes his way down until he’s at my bottom, rubbing soft, wide circles. ‘Jesus, Livy, I’m in awe of such perfection.’

My legs may have been relieved from holding my weight, but my arms are now shaking in their place. ‘Miller.’ I resist collapsing to my front and try to rein in the uncontrollable spasms.

He jerks forward on a curse, and then reaches under my stomach, feeling down until his fingers are slipping across my throbbing flesh. I cry out, my head dropping, my hair pooling on the bed beneath me. ‘You need a little help.’ His throat sounds sore, his voice like gravel. ‘Let it take hold.’ He slips his fingers back and forth over my cl*t as his h*ps advance and retreat, and his spare hand finds my breast, his grip compressing gently. I’m in sensory overload, helpless to what my body’s striving to find.

Explosion.

Release.

And it comes fast, my bottom flying back on a choked cry, my arms finally giving out.

‘Oh Jesus!’ he cries, tugging me onto him and grinding deeply. He sighs and holds us connected while he thrusts the remnants of our pleasure away, mumbling confused words quietly.

I don’t think I’m quite with it. My mind is a pleasure-induced fuzz, not allowing me to think straight, and my body is totally replete. It’s morning. I’ll never survive his endurance all day. I let him grind into me lazily, him groaning, me trying to stabilise my pleasure-fuelled gasps.

‘Come here, sweet girl,’ he murmurs, pulling at my body impatiently.

‘I can’t move,’ I breathe, going limp.

‘Yes, for me, you can move.’ He doesn’t leave me be, instead becoming more impatient, so I heave my exhausted body up and turn to him, letting him lift me and position my thighs on either side of his lap. His head cocks to the side a little as he runs his eyes down my torso, his hands skating slowly up and down my sides. ‘I’ve been desperate to touch you all night.’

‘You could’ve felt me.’

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘You misunderstand.’

‘How?’ I don’t pass up this opportunity to touch his hair, twisting a lock between my fingers.

‘Touch you, not feel you.’ He looks up at me and I frown, not quite fathoming the difference. ‘Feeling you gives me untold pleasure, Livy.’ Dipping, he kisses the centre of my chest. ‘But touching you, touching your soul. That’s beyond the realms of pleasure.’ His eyes make a slow blink as he returns them to mine, and it’s in this moment that I realise he doesn’t do it on purpose. His slow movements are part of this man disguised as a gentleman. This is him. ‘It’s like something powerful happens,’ he whispers. ‘And the pleasure of making love to you is just a little bonus.’

‘I’m still frightened,’ I admit. Even more so with every hopeful word he says to me.

‘I’m a little terrified of you, too.’ He brings his hand between our chests and rubs feathery circles around my nipple.

Dropping my eyes, I watch his movements. ‘I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of what you can do to me.’

‘I can make you feel like no other, like you have me,’ he murmurs. ‘Take you to pleasure-filled places beyond your imagination, places that you have taken me.’ Dipping his head, he takes my breast between his teeth and grazes the tip of my nipple, encouraging my head to fall back and my lungs to drain of air. ‘That’s what I can do to you, Olivia Taylor. And it’s what you do for me.’

‘You already have.’ My voice is unrecognisable, fuelled with lust, bursting with desire.

He’s suddenly moving, carrying me forward and placing me on my back, his body covering me completely and my arms settling over his shoulders. I’m looking up at him, my eyes spoilt for places to settle – his wet hair falling onto his face, his stubble darkening his jaw, but it’s the pull of his glistening eyes that captures mine. Whenever he catches my attention with that gaze, I’m hypnotised . . . helpless. I’m his.

‘You look good in my bed,’ he declares quietly. ‘Messy, but good.’

‘I look a mess?’ I ask, injured, thinking he should’ve let me take the shower I wanted.

‘No, you misunderstand.’ He frowns, clearly frustrated by my misinterpretation of his words, but I heard all too well what he just said. ‘My bed looks messy. You look gorgeous.’

My lips start twitching as I realise his issue. I bet he sleeps deathly still, the covers folded neatly at his waist, whereas I’m a fidget in my sleep, and I know this because of the state of my own bed in the mornings – a bit like Miller’s bed is right now. ‘Would you like me to make your bed?’ I ask seriously, hoping the answer is no because, quite frankly, the thought scares me. I’ve seen the precision of the fancy cushions and the silk runner across the centre. I expect he keeps a ruler in the drawer of his bedside cabinet to measure the exact distance from the headboard to the sheets and from the pillows to the runner.

He knows I’m teasing, despite my success in keeping a straight face and even voice. His thoughtful look confirms it. ‘As you wish.’ He kisses my startled face and pushes his na**d body from the bed, standing to the side and removing the condom before taking his perfection to the bathroom to dispose of it.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut. My bedmaking efforts will never come up to scratch. Shifting to the edge of his bed, I stand and stare blankly at the mess of sheets, wondering where to start. The pillows. I should start with the pillows. Grabbing one of the four plump rectangles, I arrange it neatly, then set another by its side before placing the remaining two on top of each, running my palms over the surfaces to smooth the cotton. Happy with the result, I take two corners of the quilt and fling my arms skyward, flapping the sheet into a perfect square that floats gently down to the bed. I’m pleased with myself, it looks tidy, but I know it’s not tidy enough, so I set on a journey around the bed, pulling at corners and ironing out the crinkles with my palms. Then I open the lid of the giant chest and begin placing the cushions, trying my hardest to remember the exact positioning from when I was last here. When I’m satisfied with my display, I slide the silk throw across the centre and tweak the edges into place.