Denied (One Night 2)

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.

‘I want to worship you,’ I breathe, reaching back with shaking hands and unhooking my bra, letting it drop down my arms and tumble to my feet. His eyes drop to my knickers and I do as I’m silently bid, removing them slowly. Now we’re both na**d and his desire mixed with mine is creating a heady cocktail that’s rife in the quiet air around us. I nod to the bath. It’s that or fall to my knees and beg him to indulge me with some Miller-style worshipping, but I need him to see I’m strong, that I can help him.

Licking his lips is his last-ditch attempt to make me fold. I struggle terribly but manage to sustain my strength, nodding to the bath again. His mouth doesn’t smile, but his eyes do. He climbs the steps and settles in the bubbly water.

‘Would you do me the honour of joining me?’ he asks quietly.

I answer by taking the steps unhurriedly, using the time to weigh up my best position, settling on behind him. A c**k of my head tells him to shift forward, which he does with a very slight pucker of his brow, allowing space behind him for me to sink into. I spread my thighs, slide my hands over his shoulders, and pull him back to my chest. His dark, wet waves tickle the side of my cheek and his body is a little heavy, despite the water lightening him, but I’m coiled around him, breathing him into me, giving him my thing.

‘This feels so nice.’ His voice is soft and low. Peaceful.

I hum my agreement, encasing his shoulders with my arms, undoubtedly restricting his movement, yet there are no complaints. He answers my constriction by relaxing his head back and feeling out my lower legs that are linked and resting on his stomach.