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.