“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 out 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 reopen 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 cooperative, 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 load 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-gray silk one to match the stripe in his suit. But when I turn toward 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.