I can’t acknowledge that. I’ve been tossed into sensory excess, my body struggling to deal with the onslaught of pleasure. This is unknown territory. This is beyond any stretch of my imagination. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience.
My calves push into his back, pulling him closer, and his hands slide all over me, stroking and massaging me softly. I rip my eyes open and look up at him in his knelt position, holding me to his mouth, his blues pointing down at me. That look shoves me over the edge. My back bows and my fists slam into the mattress on either side of me. I want to scream.
‘Let it go, Livy,’ he mumbles against my flesh. And I do.
I stop trying to suppress the pressure in my lungs and let it all out on a loud scream of his name, my thighs tensing around his face, my head thrown back. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God!’ I pant, trying to think clearly. It’s no good. Nothing can get past the wall of shock as my body goes lax and my mind goes blank. I’ve lost control of everything. My mind. My body. My heart. He’s hijacking every part of me. I’m at his mercy. And I like it.
I’m eased back down to the bed, and I do nothing to help as he positions me on my side and lies behind me, pulling me into the hardness of his chest. ‘What about you?’ I breathe, feeling him hard against my back.
‘I’ll let you recover first. I could be a while. Let’s just cuddle.’
‘Oh,’ I whisper, wondering how long a while is. ‘You want to cuddle?’ I never in a million years expected cuddling to be included in my twenty-four hours.
‘Cuddling’s my thing with you, Olivia Taylor. I just want to hold you. Close your eyes and enjoy the silence.’ He gathers my masses of honey hair and pulls it out of his way so he can access my back, then he starts a hypnotising, slow routine of lazy kisses over my skin. It makes my eyes heavier, finding immense comfort from the attention and his warmth coating every part of my back as he gives me his thing.
It makes me realise that I’ve existed in solitary.
Chapter 8
I come to in a dusky darkness, completely naked and completely disorientated. It takes me a few moments to gather my bearings and when I do, I smile. I feel relaxed. I feel at peace. I feel sated and comfortable, but when I roll onto my side, he’s not there.
I sit up and gaze around his bedroom. Should I look for him? Should I stay put and wait for him to return? What should I do? I have just enough time for a trip to the bathroom, ensuring I leave everything exactly how I found it, before the door opens and Miller appears. He has his black shorts on again, and his semi-naked perfection attacks my sleepy eyes, making me blink repeatedly just to ensure I’m not dreaming. He looks at me standing and fidgeting, a sheet wrapped around me and my hair probably resembling a bird’s nest.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, walking forward. His hair looks adorable, the dark waves wild and messy, and that lock sitting perfectly in place on his forehead.
‘Yes.’ I pull the sheet in tighter, thinking maybe I should’ve got dressed.
‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ He takes the sheet and wrestles it from my grip until he’s holding a corner in each hand and opening it, exposing my naked body to shimmering blue eyes. His lips don’t smile, but his eyes do. He moves into the sheet and drapes the ends over his shoulders so we’re both enclosed in white cotton. ‘How do you feel?’
I smile. ‘Good.’ I feel more than good, but I won’t admit it to him. I know why I’m here and it’s searing painfully on my conscience and morality each time I think about it. So I simply won’t.
‘Just good?’
I shrug. What does he want? A thousand-word essay on my current state of mind and state of body? I could probably write ten thousand words. ‘Really good.’
His hands slide around to my bottom and squeeze. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Not for oysters,’ I blurt on a shudder.
He removes himself from the confines of the sheet and wraps me back up with the utmost care. ‘No, not for oysters,’ he agrees, pecking my lips lightly. ‘I’ll feed you something else.’ His hand finds the nape of my neck over my hair, and then turns me away from him, leading me from the room.
‘I should get dressed,’ I say, not attempting to stop him, but wanting him to know that I’m not entirely comfortable with a sheet of cotton covering my modesty.
‘No, we’ll eat, then bathe.’
‘Together?’
‘Yes, together.’ He doesn’t give my concerned tone the attention it deserves. I can shower or bathe myself. I don’t need him to worship me to that extent.